Nine Electrifying Hours in Bogotá’s Ultimate Party Venue

When I consult a diplomat friend, known for handling crises in Bogotá, about where to dine in Colombia, his top recommendation is Andrés Carne de Res, renowned for both its exceptional empanadas and its non-stop, boozy revelry.

Upon mentioning my trip to Bogotá to the co-owner of a trendy New York food empire, he instantly inquires if I plan to visit Andrés Carne de Res, despite the city's array of avant-garde dining options.

A pastry chef from one of New York’s premier Mexican restaurants suggests not a long tasting-menu experience like Leo, but rather Andrés Carne de Res for its famous ‘arepas and dancing’ when I ask for Colombian recommendations.

At 3:45 p.m. on a Saturday, I leave my hotel, joining three friends and four dogs, to head to Chía, a suburb 45 minutes north of Bogotá, with Andrés Carne de Res as our destination.

Originally a modest roadside grill started by Andrés Jaramillo in 1982, it has since evolved into something far grander. We're talking 500 staff members, a supervised kids' area, at least three dance floors (actually five), an employee cafeteria larger than a mid-sized barbecue joint in Texas, a 25-foot rock-climbing wall that could turn risky after a few drinks, a coal-fired kitchen the size of a Boeing 747, a DJ booth stocked with 17,000 CDs (though they sometimes switch to Spotify), roving performers with confetti, a late-night outdoor kitchen for hangover soup, a doggy daycare, a stand for hiring designated drivers, a menu featuring every major Colombian dish, a bowl of free strawberries by the entrance, and no fewer than six hammocks by the parking lot.

What’s the deal with the hammocks?

According to my photographer, it's so intoxicated patrons have a place to crash and recover. Essentially, it doubles as an outdoor motel.

At 4:55 p.m., we drop off the dogs at Parque Paraíso Perruno.

By 5 p.m., we’re inside the 2.76-square-mile venue, which has room for 3,300 guests. We’re set to spend the next nine hours here.

To be honest, this isn’t really my kind of place.

At 5:20 p.m., I find myself on a wooden bench next to a spinning bicycle wheel on the wall, enjoying an arepa de choclo. Also called a cachapa, it resembles a yellow pancake with the sweetness of breakfast cereal and a texture slightly firmer than Jell-O. Moments later, a waiter brings over an arepa de maíz — a corn-flour arepa topped with fresh cheese, offering the toasty, inviting aroma of freshly popped popcorn. Shortly after, I’m indulging in a torreja de maíz, which is even sweeter than the previous two and falls apart like a moist fruitcake.

At 5:30 p.m., on a brief two-minute walk to the restroom, I notice that the main dance floor is still mostly occupied by families and children.

There’s no universal guide to where a visitor should dine during a short trip. Generally, the approach is to recommend spots that showcase the best a city has to offer — places they wouldn’t find at home. In New York, that might mean a historic steakhouse, a traditional Sichuan restaurant, and perhaps a trendy Korean spot. But no matter the city, a clubstaurant — those enormous venues with a doorman, dubious food, an unknown DJ, vodka-Red Bulls, bottle service, long lines to get in, and even longer lines for coat check — would never make the list.

In Bogotá, the game changes. Here, you're directed to Carne de Res, where the menu boasts meat, Red Bull, and Monster Energy — truly a clubstaurant experience.

As a critic, I’ve long scrutinized North American clubstaurants, which tend to homogenize diverse cultures into a single, overblown, and often uninspired theme. Take Tao, for instance, which distills East Asian cultures into a never-ending English-speaking party with mediocre sushi. Or Señor Frog’s, where the alcohol-soaked spring break vibe of Cancun is paired with burrito bowls and mole based on the chain’s so-called “original family recipe.”

What sets Carne de Res apart? Unlike those that dilute or misrepresent other cultures, it champions its own with authenticity. The restaurant is a masterclass in imaginative storytelling, spread across 11 dining rooms and three buildings, connected by two streets. Many of these spaces are alive with tuba players and costumed performers, all beneath a canopy of colorful Christmas lights and heart-shaped lanterns. Latin America’s 50 Best List describes it as “Alice-in-Wonderland meets Moulin Rouge.” I’d liken it to a Belle Epoque Paris Metro station reimagined by someone with a penchant for steampunk and psychedelic experiences. If I had to sum it up, I’d say — to borrow a phrase — that it’s quintessentially Andrés.

At 8:20 p.m., we’re moved to a new table. The area we vacate quickly transforms into a dance floor packed tighter than a mosh pit. As the party intensifies, we continue to savor Carne de Res’s remarkable Colombian fare, which shines in its traditional, hearty, and freshly-juiced splendor.

By 8:45 p.m., Red Bull seems to have vanished from the scene. Instead, I’m savoring a more soothing choice: ajiaco, a hearty chicken and potato stew served in a rustic bowl. When the richness becomes too much, a few giant capers add a refreshing tang. Equally satisfying is the cuchuco de trigo, a renowned wheat-and-bean soup from the Colombian altiplano. It's clear, comforting, and enriched with tender beans and a generous helping of gelatinous pork rump that makes your lips stick together for a moment.

The menu features no fewer than 17 other soups.

Contemporary Bogotá menus share similarities with those in global cities like Paris or New York. Many young chefs, often back from international stints, present curated collections of share plates that blend global influences with local ingredients. And burrata? It’s practically ubiquitous.

Carne de Res offers a menu that defies the concept of brevity. While some may claim the Cheesecake Factory boasts the world’s longest menu, they’re mistaken. At 76 pages, Carne de Res's menu nearly doubles that length, featuring 16 types of ceviches, 17 cheese platters, 20 varieties of plantains, an assortment of offal (including crispy beef intestines, sweetbreads, and kidneys), an extensive dessert list, a selection of rums, tequilas, and spirits that rival many liquor stores, and an array of tobacco products, from Marlboro Reds to vintage snuff and Lucky Strike cigarettes with daiquiri or mojito scents.

Exploring the food here could take years, but after four hours of sampling, it’s clear that the kitchen, under Marco Antonio Beltrán Rodríguez, has remarkably few flaws.

I observe as Beltrán Rodríguez extracts a hefty cloth pouch from the coals, cutting it open to unveil a beef tenderloin encrusted in a thick layer of salt. Dressed in a blue apron, he remains as composed as his 70 or so colleagues, who are handling the crowd of at least 500 guests with ease. The beef, infused with sweet oregano, is pure and clean in flavor, and pairs beautifully with a massive green plantain, flattened to the size of a small Frisbee.

There’s more to savor: a $100 tomahawk beef chop that competes with any $150 version in New York; a spicy shrimp ceviche with a perfect balance of tangy citrus and fiery tomato sauce; bite-sized pieces of pork belly fried to a jerky-like texture; and crispy potato-stuffed corn empanadas that, with a green chile sauce, rival the classic New York knish.

In his four-star review of Thomas Keller’s Per Se in 2004, Frank Bruni described marble potatoes that ‘burst like grapes’ in his mouth. For years, I yearned for such an experience, and I finally found it at Carne de Res. Here, rather than being part of a $300 tasting menu, these delicate fried whole potatoes, known as papas criollas, come in a salt-crusted basket. They are so light and snackable they could easily replace popcorn at the movies.

For dessert, indulge in a meringue cake filled with fresh guanábana cream. Its fragrance rivals that of my bowl of lulo juice, an Andean fruit that tastes like a creamy, aged popsicle. Both desserts provide the sweetness needed to energize us for the next five hours.

At 8:59 p.m., Andrés Jaramillo, the owner, takes the microphone and announces in a tone reminiscent of a slightly tipsy high school principal that it’s time for the kids to head home. He’s completely serious.

At 10:22 p.m., a three-piece band and two dancers treat me to a serenade and present me with a beauty pageant sash in the vibrant colors of the Colombian flag.

At 10:47 p.m., patrons are enjoying beers and cocktails on the street that divides Carne de Res into two sections. I’m seated next to Jaramillo, dressed in a white linen shirt and sporting a Patek Philippe watch that could probably clear all my student loans. A server hands him a single cigarette, which he lights with a matchbox featuring his own caricature on the cover.

At 11 p.m., the crowd has filled the street so completely that no vehicles can pass through.

At 11:03 p.m., the DJ drops a heavy bass line, energizing the atmosphere.

At 11:17 p.m., over 100 people are queued up to enter the restaurant, waiting under glowing windmills.

At 11:40 p.m., guests are wandering the grounds with open bottles of aguadiente, frequently sharing shots with strangers. At Carne de Res, the focus shifts from dining to drinking as the night progresses, and you might find yourself dozing off in a hammock by the end of the evening.

The high altitude plays a role in clouding one’s judgment. In Chía, at an elevation of 8,412 feet, the air is 26 percent thinner than at sea level. For some, two drinks may feel like three, a sensation that might not hit until your fourth drink, making it quite the predicament.

Most advice suggests drinking more water and fewer cocktails at high altitudes. However, at Carne de Res, the norm is quite the opposite. A friend orders me a Mandarino Smirnoff, a mix of freshly squeezed mandarin juice, ice, and vodka. It’s not just a screwdriver; this drink has a layered citrus aroma, a delicate sweetness, a hint of acidity, and a surprising smoothness despite the five ounces of vodka. Aguardiente, with its intense finish, serves as a more reliable pacing tool. My friends pour it frequently for us all, and we go through one flask after another.

Then, at 12:15 a.m., the call to dance comes, signaling the next phase of the night.

After Jaramillo's announcement to send minors home, one might expect Carne de Res to transform into a chaotic scene of drunken revelry, complete with grinding, shouting, and vaping. Yet, compared to typical club scenes, Carne de Res remains relatively subdued. In contrast to a recent New York club experience where a misstep nearly led to a confrontation over a Belvedere vodka, here navigating the crowd to the restroom, adorned with photos of scantily clad women, requires only a polite 'excuse me.'

At 1 a.m., we prepare to leave, a process that takes about 20 minutes. One friend arranges for our designated driver while another retrieves the dogs. No one is yet using the hammocks. I purchase two servings of beef-rib soup — the local remedy for hangovers — and notice an abandoned can of Monster, the only energy drink I come across all night.

At 1:10 a.m., I sit on an outdoor bench, sipping the beef-rib soup. The line for soup tickets has grown to at least 15 people. Two attendants ladle the hearty concoction into numerous metal cups at the counter. The soup is robust and meaty, just what you'd expect. I share a piece of short rib with one of the dogs named Clapton.

Around 1:20 a.m., after nearly nine hours at Andrés Carne de Res, I climb into a car with our designated driver, the same three friends who arrived with me, and, to my best knowledge, the same four dogs we left at the park. Leaving with the same group you came with at such an hour is as rare as hitting the jackpot by international going-out standards.

During the ride home, Clapton, the dog mentioned earlier, rests his paw on my foot.

At 2:15 a.m., I arrive back at my hotel. I remain in bed for as long as I spent at Carne de Res, which, without a doubt, is the only true clubstaurant of its kind.

As mentioned earlier, this type of restaurant is truly my scene.

Andrés Carne de Res, Calle 3, # 11A-56, Chía