I was in Vancouver at the Granville Market on Monday with friends deciding what to prepare for dinner. We stood in front of the fresh pasta stall admiring the choices.

“I love gnocchi,” said Julie.

“Me too,” agreed Les.

“But it’s not the 29th!” I said.

Huh? In Argentina, from Iguazu Falls to Tierra del Fuego, the 29th of every month is gnocchi day. Gnocchi night, actually. It’s a tradition that goes back generations and provides insight into both economic and cultural realities.

These pillowy dumplings are somewhat of a novelty and delicacy in North America. But in Argentina, just like in Italy, they are a poor man’s dinner. And the 29th of the month is man’s poorest night of the month….. with his monthly paycheque expected on the 30th, his wife stretches her resources as far as she can to come up with a nourishing meal for her family. Boil some potatoes and other root veggies, mash then with flour and an egg, roll them into dough that’s sliced, top with a simple sauce y listo. Gnocchis, or ñoquis as they are spelled down south, are so simple to make.

Italian food competes heartily with beef as the premiere cuisine of Argentina. When Italian immigrants poured into the country at the turn of the 20th century, they brought their pizza dough recipes, their skills as ironworkers, and their own version of Spanish which has become the Italian-accented Argentine castellano. Just about any local restaurant offers pasta, cannellonis and pizzas beside the slocks of carne.

On the 29th, the person’s whose turn it is to prepare the gnocchis places a $5 peso bill under the plate of one unexpecting diner. That diner must provide the next month’s gnocchi. This time it was Susanna’s turn.

On the 29th of October, way back in 2001, we visited our friend Susanna’s place just outside Bariloche. It’s one of those amazing Bariloche homes with twisted walls, cozy nooks, huge windows and plenty of hippy-vibe.

Susanna had stood in line at the local fresh pasta shop, boiled the potatoes and yams, and, when we arrived, instructed us to get busy. Jorge mashed the veggies and Max rolled the dough. I was in charge of rolling the slices of gnocchi with a fork to give them that special frill before popping them into the boiling salted water. A salsa de tomates bubbled on the stove. A few bottles of Cabernet were shared. Cristian, my brother in law, provided his youthful brawn and grated the parmesano.

We sat around the tiny wooden table on rickety wooden chairs and talked of everything but money. That’s the point. And after we’d discovered the $5 under Cristian’s plate, and made him promise he wouldn’t spend it on beer, we all put $5 under our plate just for good luck. Yummy good luck.