The best Empanads recipe

I got this empanada recipe from someone’s grandmother in Argentina. She didn’t write anything down, didn’t measure a thing, and didn’t believe recipes should be explained twice. She cooked by feel, by memory, and by a quiet confidence that comes from making the same dish for most of your life.

The filling started with beef, cut by hand, never minced. Then onions — more than I expected — cooked slowly until they turned soft and sweet. Garlic, cumin, paprika, salt, pepper. Nothing fancy. Nothing rushed.

And then she added the hard-boiled eggs.

Chopped. Folded gently into the meat. Not as a topping, not as decoration, but as part of the filling itself. That’s when the empanadas stopped being just good and started being right. The egg softens the beef, balances the spices, and makes the whole thing feel complete. Quietly. Without asking for attention.

She let the filling cool completely before assembling. Hot filling, she said, breaks empanadas and trust. The dough was folded by hand, sealed imperfectly, each one slightly different. Uniform empanadas, apparently, are a warning sign.

They were baked that day, though frying was clearly also acceptable depending on mood, hunger, and honesty. We ate them standing, burning our fingers slightly, agreeing without discussion that nothing needed changing.

I’ve made them the same way ever since. No measurements. No shortcuts. Always with egg in the filling.

Some recipes are written down.
The good ones are passed on.