Spend five minutes with the news and you'll see we need to worry about everything from Al-Qaeda to Somali pirates to restaurant wine lists with triple mark-ups. We've got to monitor cholesterol build-up, worry about our pets being poisoned by Chinese dog food and remain vigilant for salmonella in our peanut supply. Heavy wine bottles are under attack, screw caps may be reductive and lead glassware may cause us to glow in the dark. In fact, anywhere you want to look, there is something that will scare the hell out of you.

Jake Lorenzo is not an alarmist. I try to live my life without worrying about those things over which I have little control. Still, when this detective uncovers a threat to his countrymen, I feel the need to sound the alarm. I have just returned from two weeks in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Those people tried to kill me.

I know, I know. Argentina is a long way off, and you haven't heard anything troubling about the place … yet. Remember, that's what they used to say about Afghanistan, Iraq and Somalia, and those places don't even make wine. When it comes to Argentina, you just want to suck down those luscious Malbecs and not worry about the consequences, but Jake Lorenzo is giving fair warning. It's all subterfuge, a cover-up for an evil plot to end life as we know it.

Their leaders are hiding deep in the Andes Mountains, bunkered up in towns that we haven't yet seen splashed on our news screens. Towns with exotic names like Mendoza, Cafayate, Salta and Lujan de Cuyo. Don't think for a minute that they can't reach us. They are organized. They are determined, and they know where we live.

Buenos Aires is the control center for the plot against us. That's where the evildoers experiment and refine their nefarious plan. Under the guise of tourism they entice citizens from all over the United States into visiting their gorgeous city. They invite us to see the colorful buildings of El Caminito, stroll the modern Puerto Madero and wander through the vibrant Corrientes corridor of theaters, bookstores and coffee shops. They seduce us with romantic notions of tango while neglecting the fact that the dance derives from prostitutes and pimps.

This is how they are: insidious, clever, subtle in the ways of charm and very, very organized. Get into a cab and let the driver know you are from California and the response is always the same. "Schwarzenegger!" they'll say, with a proud gleam in their eye. I don't know about you, but this unnerves the hell out of Jake Lorenzo. Most of us couldn't name the president of Argentina, let alone the governor of one of their states; yet every taxi driver (and there are 38,000 of them in Buenos Aires alone) know to taunt us with one word, "Schwarzenegger." Who trains them? How do they manage to get to every last taxi driver?

When that driver lets you off in front of a great Italian restaurant, one like Amici Miei in San Telmo, for instance, you have no idea that the jaws of the trap have sprung and you'll never get free. You move into the colorful room, are greeted warmly and shown a table. You and your friends are handed menus and a wine list. You peruse the list, and this can't be true! They have the Lurton Torrontes for 40 pesos ($11), and that's in a restaurant.

You order a baby arugula salad with perfectly ripened summer pears, festooned with crispy almonds and crumbles of bleu cheese. It's divine and enough for the four of you to share. Then there is the house-cured carpaccio with greens, parmesan and a thick, gooey balsamic vinegar that delights your tongue with perfect saltiness and the flavor of extraordinary Argentine beef.

Looking at the wine list again, I spy a favorite: Preludio Malbec for 75 pesos ($20). I'm tempted to order two bottles; and before we get through the quattro formaggi pizza, the picture perfect Almatriciana pasta and the otherworldly truffle risotto, we have indeed polished off that second bottle. The food is so good, endorphins have kicked in. We order another dish, just to taste it, and without our knowing have cleaned every last morsel of oyster mushrooms in truffle cream sauce so well they really don't need to wash the plates.

Three hours later, we walk out of the restaurant having consumed three bottles of wine, six magnificent dishes (each portion of which was more than enough for four people) and two desserts. The entire bill for the four of us, including tax and tip, came to $92. There is no such thing as a free three-hour lunch, but lunch in Buenos Aires is as close as you will ever get.

Just remember. This is their plan.

For 11 straight days we went to restaurant after restaurant to eat amazing food presented with impeccable service and were then handed bills that made us weep for joy. Most wines are well under $25 per bottle in restaurants. In the stores those same wines ran $10 to $18, so we would drink them with empanadas or some of the delicious salumi, cheese and matambres available in the delis.

On our last day we took a taxi to the famed La Cabrera Parrilla in Palermo where we met another couple from California. The driver had just one word for us, "Schwarzenegger." We went inside to the warm, intimate, Old World charm of one of the greatest restaurants in Buenos Aires. We started with a Doña Paula Sauvignon Blanc to accompany the remarkable hearts of palm salad that included three whole avocados, two tomatoes, greens and a dozen large thick hearts of palm. It was more than enough for all six of us. We ordered Mollejas (sweetbreads) and received a huge platter full along with a large bowl of french fries. Crispy on the outside from the charcoal grill and mouthwateringly creamy inside, each of us ate our fill of Mollejas from the one order and washed it down with a lively Festivo Malbec from Michel Rolland's line of wines.

When we ordered the tira de asado (flanken beef ribs), our waiter congratulated us on ordering meat the Argentines like. Three large thin slabs of delicious grilled rib meat arrived, and we tore at the chewy, flavorful meat until all that was left were the small bones and gristle. The Alto Las Hormigas Malbec was a perfect accompaniment. We knew we were getting full but decided to order two steaks anyway. The bife de chorizo (sirloin) had to weigh at least a kilo, and the ojo de bife (rib eye) was so large that the waiter rode it to the table, dismounted and proclaimed, "Comen bien." We tried a lovely Lurton Reserve Malbec and finished with an elegant Cuvee de Los Andes. We were able to drain the wine but gave the Roberto Duran cry of "No más" with more than a pound of meat left on the table.

We finished with double espressos just so we'd have enough energy to push away from the table. This feast, in one of the top restaurants in Buenos Aires, cost us $42 per person. The service was excellent, the food divine. The wine was world class, and the price went beyond value.

Are you getting this? The Argentines are trying to kill us. For now, they experiment on the poor, unsuspecting tourist who finds his way into some restaurant in a neighborhood in Buenos Aires. But how long will it be before they are here, amongst us, in the homeland.

Jake Lorenzo has trained for this kind of eating and drinking for most of my life. I have more stamina than the average U.S. citizen, but even I felt the need to have my doctor check my cholesterol levels upon my return. He took one looked at my numbers, blanched the color of uncooked Mollejas and fainted on the floor. He better toughen up.

The Argentines are coming. The Argentines are coming. wbm