Now that I'm back in the States, I have a moment to put Peru's food in perspective. What I've decided: it's really, really good.
Whether visiting a luxury restaurant or a cevicheria counter in a downtown market, Peruvians have an obsessive relationship with food. The indigenous ingredients are a point of national pride -- I was told by over a dozen people how many types of potatoes grew in the country; although the number fluctuated between 300 and 5,000.
Roadside Attractions
We found papas in nearly every dish we sampled, no matter what region we were visiting. Its simplest form was in potato soup, the best of which I snagged at a truck stop in Cuzco. Roadside stops dot the route leading out of the city, playing host to dozens of van drivers and tour leaders, all sitting down to slurp up a quick meal. Two plastic tables sat in front of a cinderblock house, where an old lady stood next to a knee-high pot, stirring her soup.
I meant to say, "is it alright if I sit for breakfast?" I'm pretty sure I said, "can I please eat?"
"Si, claro," she said with a smile. "Tenemos sopa de papas y meflurgagurk con piflurgagurk." She spoke really quickly, so the second half the sentence might be a bit off, but nevertheless I pulled up a stool next to a young shaggy dude with a toothpick. Teresa, the abuelita who had been renting this storefront for the past few years, poured some soup and explained its contents: potatoes seasoned with chilis and cilantro, along with the cream of more potatoes. The sopa was indicative of the Peruvian taste bud -- spiced, but not heavily so. As my neighbor with the toothpick packed up and left, an old guy quickly took his place. Other drivers took their soup in their cars, as nearby women with crochet needles called out to them.
Teresa was working overtime, but kept coming back, asking if I liked it. Responding enthusiastically, she quickly served up the second course -- fried alpaca with salad and, you guessed it, a boiled potato. After one bite and an "mmm" sound, she tossed another piece of alpaca on my plate. We continued chatting about life in Cuzco and the sights of the Sacred Valley, which despite its mind-boggling number of tourists, locals still refer to with reverence and appreciation. I finished the meal with a warm stomach, a full wallet, and a grandmotherly plea to bring my friends next time I was nearby.
Old School Meets Escuela Nueva
If boiled potatoes are the classic Peruano dish, then I'd like to see how Teresa felt about Fusiones, an upscale restaurant perched in the heart of Cuzco. Its eclectic mix of Japanese, European, and modern takes on classic Peruvian food sends the papa to new heights -- in the form of sweet potato ice cream. The concoction chills the chilliest icon, a succulent trout ceviche. Add a potato gnocchi with grilled alpaca meat, and you have perhaps the ultimate blending of old versus new, modern versus fine dining.
While Fusiones served up my favorite meal of the trip, it carries little of the international prestige of its neighbor, Chicha. The posh upstairs lounge in Plaza Regocijo owes its notoriety to two words: Gaston Acurio. The South American sensation, whose Lima rendition of Tanta served as my mouth-watering introduction to Lima, opened his first Cuzco venture in 2009, and served as our "treat yourself" dinner of 2012. While the menu features some items you might find in New York, such as grilled octopus and lamb ribs, we opted for some classy renditions of Peruano classics: a sopa de gallina with handmade chicken wontons, and the granddaddy of them all -- cuy.
Guinea pig, or cuy, which is way simpler to say, has been a part of the national consciousness for a long time -- I saw two different paintings in Peruvian churches that depicted Christ serving cuy at the Last Supper. Traditionally, it's served whole, with the head on, teeth in, under charred skin. My experience at Chicha was a bit less daunting, as the guinea pig came served only in the form of golden meat over a bed of onions and plum sauce. The taste was somewhere in the neighborhood of dark meat on a turkey, moist, rich, and fatty. Served with a glass of purple chicha, the ancient Inca corn beer of the gods, it was a meal worth drawing up on a cathedral wall.
The Lima Lunch
Patricia felt like she was going crazy. "I'm telling you," she said, "I've been to a zillion Peruvian places in the States where they roast a bunch of chickens on a spit and serve them with french fries. Why haven't we seen any?"
We'd been in Cuzco for a week, and had yet to encounter a single roast chicken. We'd seen plenty of land mammals on local farms, but hardly any birds. Certainly no french fries.
Enter Lima. As soon as we entered the city limits, Peruvian fast food places like Pardo's and Bembo's started springing up like daisies, displaying rack after rack of pollo a la brasa. The shocking thing about these chains was not how good the food was -- we expected succulent, juicy chicken, and that's what we got -- but how little it cost. For six soles (about $2.50) you can treat yo'self to a quarter of a chicken, crispy yellow potato fries, and a small salad. If you're not feeling fowl, go for a chicharron sandwich, piled high with thick slices of grilled pork. I'm telling you. If you're forced to be in Lima for more than a few days, get fat and while the time away here.
