Way down in old Buenos Aires, travelers craving luxury might rendezvous at Cabaña Las Lilas, a famed beefhouse in this beefiest of cities.
If you were to order a steak, as is required by law there, you would be served a succulent slab. Perched atop the steaming hunk, you would find a charming little fellow.
See him there?
While we don't understand the purpose of the wee signpost—do they suppose you might have forgotten what you ordered or where you ordered it?—we can't but admire the cow's spirit.
"It is I!" he seems to declare. "I am here and you will eat me!"
Here, in this temple dedicated to the indelible, edible memory of the once-alive, he has found his proper place at last. Here, he is sophistication itself. No more the merely cute, now he is memorialized!
"Estoy jugoso," he squeaks. I am juicy.
Even left behind, indigestible, floating in a cloud of his, um, juice, he has made the journey worthwhile.
Yes, little dead cow. You are very, very juicy indeed.
(Thanks to Dr. Marie Fromage for the first photo, to Dr. ddanzig for the second, and to Dr. Mixirica and her Buenos Aires flickr set for the third.)