The Food Issue

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.

Photo Montage. It's the best I can do tonight.

It all happened. And it all came together in the most perfect, unforgettable way possible. I've just arrived back in Cuzco, after a two day tour through the Sacred Valley, with Machu Picchu as the cherry on top. A few stats at the end of two days: over 22 miles of walking, over 150 flights of stairs climbed, over six thousand calories burned. So...I'm tired. Adding photos of the most mind-numbingly awesome weekend ever, then going to bed.

The bus, on the way to the Sacred Valley. And we're not talking no Greyhound. Like South Africa, the favored method of transport in most Peruvian cities is the combi bus, which operates somewhere in that gray area between private taxi and scheduled bus. Six soles (about $2) and the hour-long ride can be yours.

The salt pans at Maras. After arriving at Urubamba, a small town within driving distance of all the Sacred Valley sites, we secured our new best friend, Peter, as our cab driver. Our first stop were these outrageous salt licks, which have been in constant use for hundreds of years. Because there are no access roads besides the foot-wide precipices between each pan (many of these paths also contain an elaborate drainage system that sends just the right amount of water to each shallow pool), workers still carry the salt up the mountain in sacks on their shoulders. They do it a lot, too, since each lick produces over 100kg of salt per day. Incredible.

Maybe the best 15 minutes of the trip. On our way toward the highway, we stumbled across a Saturday street party, which included Peruvians from all the surrounding towns. The highlight of the event was the Tug of War Tournament, which pitted women from different towns against each other. Each team, occupying staked out spaces around a basketball court as if the Sharks and Jets were on their way, had its own colors. The largest, and most intimidating gang, was the Pink Ladies of Urubamba. They sent their six strongest ladies, average age about 65, into the ring. No one else approached, until the ragtag crew from Yucay ran in. I'll let you see the video someday, if you're good.

The terraces at Moray really don't photograph well unless there are people inside, to give you an idea...oh wait. There are people there. Well, that's how effing big it is. While the space looks like a big amphitheater, historians noted that each section within each bowl had its own microclimate -- it's really warm in one area, really cool in the next, windy in another, et cetera. They now think the site was used as a botanical laboratory, where they could experiment by growing different crops in different conditions.

The view from the fortresses at Ollantaytambo, where Manco Inca made his big stand against the invading Spanish. I don't have a good picture here, since Patricia brought the fancy camera, but will eventually be able to show you the steep walls on all sides of the plateau. Imagine Spanish conquistadors charging up the cliff faces, arrows and lances puncturing their fancy uni's, and saying "forget this, ese. I'm outta here. Paz afuera." I don't know why these conquistadors became Mexican in my mind, but it was a crazy colonial time.

Our train trip, which barely happened. As we arrived at Ollaytaytambo, we checked in with the ticket counter, which informed us that all the tickets had sold out. But with a little determination, perseverance, and ass-kissing, we managed to score two last-minute tickets on PeruRail, the finest monopoly the government could privately contract. Since there are no roads in or out of the closest city, Aguas Calientes, the train was a must. Here's us making the most of our time. Notice the Advil next the pencil, which are still being popped pretty regularly to cope with the altitude headaches.

Annnnd...we're here. This picture is my first good look at a Wonder of the World, taken at 6:41am. We'd been awake since 4:30. But with only a few dozen other people who made it up the hill that early, we were treated to some pretty baller scenery, and with some gentle mist and low-hanging clouds to add to the ambience.

Don't worry, I'm not going to show you all the ruins. But here's an example -- the Temple of the Sun. See that circular room? See the trapezoidal window? On June 21st (the winter solstice in South America), the sun peeks up over the mountain, through a huge stone structure on the horizon, through the window, and onto a ceremonial stone that still resides in the middle of the room. And crazy enough, this stuff still happens. Those Incas. What will they dream up next.

There I am. In one of the most magical places in the world, on one of the most magical weekends of my life.

Finally had some guinea pig. Good travel.

I've rapidly latched onto Patricia's inside joke with her sister, whenever they vacation together. If one makes a solid move, like taking a screenshot of gelato translation, or asking a waiter how he spices his own meal before loading up yourself, the other uses the best new compliment you can get: "good travel."

Today was a day of smart decisions -- many good travels. First off, I ate some guinea pig at Gaston Acurio's local restaurant. But I think I'll soon blog about my food adventures, so I'll let that marinate for awhile. Back to the day.

Despite a late night of schedule-making (more on that later), an early morning start was key. It got us to Cuzco's cathedral with plenty of time to spare for our tour guide, Gorky. Yes, like the Russian political activist. He didn't explain, and we didn't ask. What he did do is show us the most famous painting in Cuzco, which appears next to the altar. In it, Jesus is clearly celebrating the Last Supper, although a few things are different. Instead of fruit, there's a stack of potatoes. Instead of bread, there's a guinea pig, feet obediently up in the air. And clutching a sack of silver is Judas...whose face looks suspiciously like the feared conquistador, Francisco Pizarro. Even the affable Gorky couldn't find a nice thing to say about Pizarro: "he's...not a very good person," he admitted reluctantly.

Our next good travel was grabbing a cab to Saqsaywaman, which lies only half a kilometer away, but over 1,000 feet above the Plaza. And with two of us, cabs costs are cut in half! Good travel. After serving as a stand-in tour guide, and after sliding down some big rock formations like slides, and after getting unnecessarily close to some alpacas and their shaggier cousins, huanacas, we were able to quickly walk down the path back home.

While we saw a few more sites -- the slightly smaller yet far prettier church on the Plaza, the Qorikancha museum of precolonial artifacts -- the best find of the day was an outdoor basketball arena, tucked away in a courtyard and complete with stone bleachers and soccer-style bench covers. In the afternoon, some basic after-school coaching was going on -- boys and girls, having a total blast. But our best travel of the day was returning to the courts after a bizarre Peruvian dance show (here's a link, but it doesn't include the dance where dudes act like alpacas mating), was sticking our head back in the stadium at night. A game was going on. We found seats next to a woman anxiously watching by herself. I asked who she was rooting for.

"The blue team is winning," she said, glancing at the scoreboard, which read 14-3. "But I cheer for the yellow."

The yellow, it turned out, were a local club team that included her sister, a 25 year-old Cuzqueno. She was currently riding the bench, watching her team get annihilated by a much taller, more skilled team of university students.

According to Patricia, a former basketball player, they were very decent. "Great passing, good vision," she said. "But will someone please teach these girls to shoot." It was true. The girls could juke each other into the popcorn machine, but would then throw the ball at the basket in manners reminiscent of chest passes or discus throwers. Before she could go down to center court and offer the coaches her services, our neighbor grabbed our arm.

"There she is," she said excitedly. "Numero quince." Number fifteen was Paula, our friend's younger sister. She barked into her phone. "Que tal? Donde estas?" she demanded. Paula strode on the court, the arena silent except for her one fan. "Vamanos, Pau!" it rang.

We joined in the cheers -- a rebound here, a nice defensive read there. "Nice rotation. Up to the high post," Patricia observed as Paula moved up to the top of the key. Suddenly, for the first time, someone passed Pau the ball. She turned, and shot.

Swish.

After a night of worry about the state of Peruvian shooting skills, Paula had put them to rest with a beautiful jumpshot. The ball rolled off her fingers, effortlessly, as it should. We freaked out -- screaming, fist pumping. When I say "we," I mean all three of us. The rest of the stadium was still bored with its 25-8 blowout. Good travel.

The trip begins. Finally.

It's happened. Both of us are in Cuzco, and it's better than we could have hoped -- hence not much time for blogging. But now that we have a moment to rest in our baller hotel (the slide show is exactly what it looks like, except it doesn't show our balcony and me reading a book on it), I can give some updates and stories.

First off, Patricia just arrived a few hours ago, three days later than expected. Because of this, we're probably canceling the Titicaca expedition, but it'll give us more time to explore Machu Picchu (can you say "sunrise hike" in Spanish? If you can, please email me) and the surrounding Inca areas.

So as I was awaiting the Wagon's arrival, I decided to put my knowledge of the Inca empire to good use. I've been studying up with the help of Kim MacQuarrie's epic historical saga, "Last Days of the Incas," in which he vividly describes the workings of the empire, the Spanish conquistadors, and the political maneuvering that eventually led to one of the world's great civilizations. That, and there's lots of good war stories.

So upon my arrival, I was expecting a pretty legendary place, and it totally lived up to the hype. No, it didn't just live up to the hype. It was magical. Seeing the Plaza de Armas, Cuzco's main square measuring 100 yards across, and realizing it used to be twice that size, filled with Incan merchants and military leaders, was pretty exhilarating. Watching the rainbow flag waving high above the square, symbolizing devotion to the sun (no, not gay rights) was a good reminder that Peruvians are still really into the Incas. Any tour guide I talked to would always describe Incan customs, recount a story of the Spanish destroying it, and then give a heavy sigh -- not to me, but to themselves. They took their history seriously. I wanted to discover some of it.

After checking myself into the cheapest hostel in town ($6 per night), I was ready. I have more to write, but I'm going to try to break these posts up for your sake. Read on if you like.