Let's talk about food. It's one of the main ways that we get to know and appreciate a different culture. It's an important topic.
In Ayacucho, you can be as 'native,' or as 'continental' as you want. This is a very old University town (the Universidad de Huamanga dates from 1677) and there are some sophisticated folks here with discriminating palates. We had some of the best gnocchi and pasta primavera we've had anywhere at Via Via, a gourmet restaurant on a second floor overlooking the Plaza. We sat on the veranda and enjoyed pisco sours as we watched the world of Ayacucho go by just below and savored our dinner. During another visit to Via Via, I considered being more adventurous in the beverage department and scanned the drink menu. There were some interesting choices with Quechua names. In the end, it was a toss-up between the Uchuraccay, the Achikyay, or the Zoetekezattekes – which, according to the menu, seemed to contain a bit of every liquor behind the bar. I ordered the Achikyay because it was the easiest to pronounce, and enjoyed yet another delicious pisco-based drink while we waited expectantly for another excellent dinner.
There are also some very good restaurants ringing the courtyard of the Centro Cultural de San Cristobal, along one of the broad pedestrian-only streets near the Plaza; a couple of these places do some outstanding vegetarian pizza and other pasta dishes. And they serve good house wines by the glass. We've eaten there several times, and enjoyed watching a local dance group practicing for a performance in the broad courtyard. The slogan at one of these courtyard restaurants reads, "Café Hecho Arte" (Coffee Made Art), and they serve a rich and hearty cup of brew, along with a good selection of pies and other sweets for that mid-morning treat. Tanta's is another good place for morning coffee. It's in a quiet courtyard and a good place to enjoy your morning paper. And there's Escafe, where the apple turnovers and chocolate cake are excellent. The name of course, is a play on Nescafe and references an old joke from the advent of instant coffee: "Nescafe no es café."
Not surprisingly, in a country where potatoes were first discovered and domesticated, most menus feature potatoes in some form or other. I don't know what it is about the papas fritas they serve here with many meals, but there's a definite taste difference. They're substantive and very delicious, unlike the McSpuds that have come to be accepted as food in the US simply because they're easy to pack and ship and come in a consistent size. A plate of small blue boiled potatoes is commonly offered as a side dish when visiting a Peruvian home. You pick one up, peel it with your fingers, and dip it into a sauce. It's quite good.
We asked Betsi, our host's Quechua-speaking cook, what the Quechua word is for potato, but she tells us they call them papas because there's not a Quechua word just for "potatoes." She further explains that there's a different Quechua word for each different type of potato. According to Lonely Planet, there are more than 4,000 types of potatoes native to Perú – but who's counting? And anyway, that's a lot of Quechua words to learn. We'll stick with "papas." We remember having read somewhere that Eskimos have a different word for each type of snow, but no word just for "snow." I guess if you're surrounded by something all the time – whether it's snow or potatoes – you really need to differentiate.
'Chifa' restaurants are big throughout Perú, and here in the highlands as well. A sign reading Chifa by a restaurant door means: Chinese Food. And it's very good. There's the usual fare you'd find at many Chinese restaurants, but there's also a Peruvian flare to the food, with such things as arroz chaufa – fried rice with local spices – on the menu. We've stopped several times to eat at Chete's Chifa place just off the Plaza. Chete is an engaging guy of Chinese heritage. He explained that his name comes from being the seventh child in the family, and 'siete' just somehow morfed into Chete. We order "Pollo con Verduras" and get a pile of food that's almost more than you can eat.
A common item on almost any menu throughout Peru is coca tea. The Incas, and many other tribes before them, going back at least 5,000 years, cultivated the coca plant and chewed the leaves for their anesthetic quality. It's a medicinal plant that's been used in the Andes for centuries for relief from toothaches, exhaustion, and to relieve pain during surgeries. Historically, one of its main uses was by hacienda owners who passed out a daily ration for each worker to chew so they'd keep working instead of thinking about the hunger gnawing at their bodies. According to some reports, it's a practice still in use today.
We were traveling in La Paz, Bolivia, a decade ago during the height of the Drug War, and I saw a little Bolivian lady in traditional clothing sitting on a downtown sidewalk by a large basket filled with coca leaves for sale. And any supermarket in the country sold boxes of coca tea bags. The same is true here in Perú, and probably in any Andean country. A box of coca tea looks like any Lipton Tea box, but it says "Mate de Coca" on the front. You steep it for 2-3 minutes and enjoy a refreshing lift, just like most tea provides. The box touts its digestive qualities and as an aid in altitude sickness. It tastes like any green tea, and goes well with cookies as a midmorning snack.
We take a walk to get some things and run into a loquacious fellow on a bridge over the Rio Seco, a dry wash near our place. There's a water bottle half-full of clear liquid sitting on the concrete bridge railing beside him. In one hand he has a small plastic shot glass, also full of clear liquid, and the other hand is full of coca leaves. He offers me some, but I laugh and decline. I ask him if that's a bottle of 'flor de caña' (a cheap rum sold locally by the gallon – or barrel, for big fiestas), available at many hole-in-the-wall caña shops where you bring you own bottle to fill. He laughs and says, "¡Sí!" as he chews a cocoa leaf and downs another shot. We talk a bit while he has himself a good time. He's a part-time bartender on cruise ships in the Med, and he's back in Ayacucho to enjoy himself on the cheap. It's a beautiful day on the bridge with a good view looking out over the rooftops of the city, and it's a fine place to enjoy the fruits of one's labor.
We run into several more people who are very curious about us, and who engage us in conversation on our way through the mercado. Gringos are refreshingly rare here, especially if you're more than a few blocks from the Plaza. We're constantly getting into conversations in our ramblings through the mercados and shops lining the back streets. They often ask (in Spanish, of course), "Where are you from?" And when we answer "Mexico." the eyebrows raise. But we explain that we're actually U.S. retirees living south of the border, and they understand why we answer them in Spanish. It's a good avenue in to the community. We mention that we're doing volunteer work for Finca Peru and a surprising number of these small entrepreneurs turn out to be clients of Finca Peru. It's good to see the program has such a broad reach.
There are numerous good little restaurants that serve a wide variety of local foods. Just pick a table and pull up a chair. You can start off with a platter of anticuchos (marinated roasted beef heart slices) for an appetizer with a nice bottle of Ocucaje or Tabernero dry red wine from the Ica area. Follow up with a main dish of cau cau (diced chicken and potatoes in an ají sauce with rice), mondongo (cow's stomach), an alpaca steak, escabeche de pollo (chicken with vegetables in a garlic-vinegar sauce), or Peru's world-famous lomo saltado (sliced marinated tenderloin). Or if you want something stuffed, try the "causa rellena," (stuffed mashed potatoes) "palta rellena" (stuffed avocado), or rocoto rellena (stuffed hot peppers). Then again, you might go for the cuy platter with choclos (corn on the cob) and papas fritas. Finish up with a leche asada (custard), or a Suspiro Limeño (a "Lima Sigh," a rich and complex desert served in a wine glass) for a fine end to a wonderful evening in the Andes.
OK, this is a good time to talk about "cuy." They're an important part of Andean culture. They're easily kept and easily grown, and don't require lots of space for the protein delivered. Cuy is, well, guinea pig.
In Perú, guinea pigs are raised as food, not as pets. Sure, there might be a few cute ones running on endless wheels in some well-to-do kid's room in Lima, but in the highlands few animals are considered pets. Each serves a purpose. When life is tough, sentimentality is a luxury. And cuy is a common item on many restaurant menus.
On an earlier trip to Arequipa, in southern Perú, we frequented a very good restaurant not far from our hotel. During one visit, the waiter invited me to see a grassy spot behind the restaurant where the cuys were kept in little wire-fenced areas. He invited me to pick out the cuy I'd like for dinner. It was a specialty of the house. I didn't have the nerve to try it, so I smiled nervously, and declined his offer.
When Carolyn was in Ayacucho in the Peace Corps during the early sixties, she successfully evaded trying cuy – until it came time to leave the country, and a family of artisans she'd worked with invited her to dinner as a "thank you" for her help. As they placed "dinner" in front of her, she knew the jig was up. There lay a fried cuy, little teeth, and feet, and all. It was an expensive gesture for a poor family. She graciously 'enjoyed' her dinner, and the occasion left a lasting impression on her.
But this time, we had a big problem. Aquiles, our host, is proud of all things Huamanga (the district where Ayacucho is located), and has his own small cuy operation that he started in order to help empower some of the people living in nearby Quinua. There was no way we were not going to eat some cuy on this trip. We had discussed it well beforehand, and I'd resigned myself to it – although it was an experience I'd happily do without. There was still a flicker of hope I'd somehow be able to avoid it, but that was not to be.
Soon after our arrival (far too soon, actually) we were treated to lunch at one of Aquiles' favorite restaurants. The menu had already been decided – by Aquiles. We sat at the table and waited somewhat nervously. And suddenly there it was, steaming hot and draped across the plate – a cuy, cleaned, skinned, and deep-fried. Little teeth and feet and all. I mustered as much gusto as I could fake under the circumstances, and tore into the little devil.
Analytically speaking, cuy does not taste like chicken. It's a little darker and a bit more oily, like duck, squirrel, or rabbit. I caught myself wondering, OK, what's the big deal, anyway? We eat all kinds of other animals, don't we? Alright, we don't eat too many rodents, I'll grant you that. But it's not like you're eating a rat or something. Cuys eat alfalfa, just like cows – and we sure eat lots of cows. And while I'm not really looking forward to dining on cuy again soon, I have to admit it didn't taste too bad. It tastes kind of like cat.