By Francesco Bianchini
Me and Cesar Vallejo
“Shall my muse sing—or rather declaim at the proper hour—the delights of spice and Peruvian ceviche?” wrote Juan de Arona, a nineteenth-century poet, in one of his verses. The muse, in this case, might be Camila, a young photographer sitting next to me on a Sunday morning flight from Arequipa to Lima in mid-June. She looks about thirty, maybe younger. There’s a quiet trace of Quechua heritage in her face, without the carved rigidity often associated with Andean features. She wears her long, dark hair pulled back with the ease of someone used to claiming freedom in everyday gestures. Her clothes are practical, slightly bohemian, with a taste for colors—golden yellow, deep burgundy, and violet—that I’ve seen in stunning pre-Columbian artifacts. Her eyes, warm and intense, meet mine early on with a gaze of curious benevolence. I learn, through small talk, that she is returning to the capital to work on an art project exploring the cultural roots of food. Ceviche (sometimes spelled with a “v” or a “b,” which are phonetically interchangeable in Spanish) is the dish she has chosen to represent the deep connection between cuisine and Peruvian identity, especially since it was added last year to UNESCO’s list of intangible cultural heritage.
The cat of many colors – Pre-Columbian palette
It’s more than just small talk between two people seated next to each other on a plane. Once Camila senses my interest, she opens her laptop to show me an itinerary stretching across the country, pulls a Nikon reflex camera out of her backpack, and starts scrolling through photos taken in Andean markets and during village festivals. I recognize and point to a few items: the handful of potato varieties I’ve learned to distinguish, some dishes I’ve already tasted. The rector of the University of Lima, where I’m teaching for a few weeks, invited me to have lunch every day at the restaurant run by a hotel and catering school. There the staff mission is to introduce me daily to a new dish: lomo saltado, ají de gallina, causa limeña, papas a la huancaína.
In Camila’s photos—taken in the piquanterías of Arequipa—I recognize the famous rocoto relleno, which I made a point of ordering in a couple of places. The most theatrical, though not the best, was on the terrace of a hotel on the Plaza de Armas. They’re small, spicy peppers stuffed with ground meat, a mix of spices, and coriander, all emerging from a molten lake of cheese and egg. They were served with thin sticks set on fire and planted in the peppers to represent the city surrounded by three volcanoes: at 2,400 meters above sea level, with a nighttime view of the seventeenth-century cathedral—damaged more than once by earthquakes—two of the three volcanoes silhouetted in the background, and me wrapped in an alpaca poncho because of the chill (8°C, though we’re still 1,800 kilometers south of the equator) on an evening close to the winter solstice.
At 2,400 meters above sea level – Plaza de Armas in Arequipa
As we fly above the Cordillera, bare and dusty from our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, with a few snow-capped peaks in the distance, Camila does a kind of Saint Vitus dance in her seat, swept up by that feverish excitement I’ve noticed in Peruvians when they get a chance to extol the wonders of their country. A small tattoo I can’t identify flickers in and out of sight beneath the sleeve of her multicolored pullover. She’s interested in traditions but with a modern, critical spirit. And yet, when she starts talking about ceviche, showing me black-and-white photos of the fish market at the port of Callao—faces tense in negotiation—or baskets of green limes and braids of ají amarillo at the San Camilo market in Arequipa, she gives the impression of a kind of inspired guerrillera of indigenous culture, into which she has poured all her passion. I learn that the basic ingredients of any classic Peruvian ceviche are pieces of raw fish and lime juice—which must be, Camila insists, exclusively limón de Piura, from the Chira valley, particularly from the port of Paita. In Peru, limón refers to the small, green, highly aromatic fruit of the Citrus aurantifolia species. That’s why, she explains with a knowing smile, ceviche eaten overseas bears little resemblance to the original. Although, she continues, in truth, limón is a relatively recent substitute for other citrus fruits, chosen for the shorter marination time it allows. It’s the natural evolution of an ancient dish, one that existed in the region we now call Peru long before the Spanish arrived. Red onion julienne, coriander, maize, and celery can be added. Preferably, the fish should be caught on the line rather than with nets, to avoid damaging the flesh. And ceviche is strictly a daytime dish—freshness of the fish is non-negotiable.
A day at the mercado San Camilo, Arequipa
The plane has begun its descent. “Take a good look at that blue sky,” says Camila, “because you won’t be seeing it again for days.” Lima la gris, she repeats the well-worn refrain I’ve already heard many times: panza de burro, donkey’s belly. And indeed, not long after, for a good half-hour we drop through a dense, soaked blanket of cloud, as if we were about to land at some underwater airport. Only a few hundred meters above the ground does the fog suddenly break, revealing the sea—lined with large ships—gray, just like the sky over the city. It’s Sunday, lunchtime (though in Lima there isn’t really a fixed time for meals—people eat all day in restaurants). The taxi drops me on the edge of Miraflores, in front of the restaurant La Mar, a seafood institution. The line at the entrance is daunting, but I’m alone and am seated immediately at the counter. From that spot—separated by a mound of crushed ice and beautifully displayed fresh fish—I watch in amazement as the chefs keep up with a torrent of orders while I nibble on crisps made from potatoes of varying hues and sip a pisco sour, the national cocktail made with grape brandy, egg white, and the ubiquitous green lime juice I’ve developed a troubling fondness for. I don’t usually like noisy places, but the deafening buzz at La Mar is part of the scene and reminds me of the more boisterous diners in New York. You can’t help checking what your neighbor ordered or exchanging a complicit glance with the chef. The wait is short because ceviche de pescado here is everyday fare, and it doesn’t take long to arrange fillets of corvina, grouper, sea bass, and gilthead bream on the plate, along with slices of sweet potato and boiled and toasted corn, all bathed in leche de tigre—the magical potion of fish stock, celery, garlic, onion, ginger, coriander, and lime juice.
Winter solstice in Lima la gris
In the last week of my stay, I find myself roped in by the director of the language center to give a demonstration of Italian cooking. Without giving it too much thought, I choose veal carpaccio, because the preparation is quick and the ingredients easy to find. On the appointed day, however, the student sent to the market calls to say he can’t find arugula. I’m not surprised: the university is in a rather run-down peripheral area of Lima, whereas if I’d thought ahead, I could have easily picked some up in Miraflores. What to substitute at the last minute? Watercress? In the kitchens of the hotel and catering school, the communication students, the director, a few trainees, the rector and some other dignitaries are all waiting. We begin: the veal is a beautiful cut of meat, which I now discover I have to slice myself with a knife completely unfit for the task, while the students zoom in with their cameras on the pitiful operation. Peppercorns are ready, as requested, but there isn’t a single pepper grinder in the entire kitchen. Salt and oil. Instead of lemon, I’ve decided to use that same green limón that has become the red thread of my immersion in local cuisine. I have to slice the tiny citrus fruits—round as ping-pong balls—and dramatically inhale their scent to satisfy the cameraman. Then comes the moment to scatter watercress over the glistening ribbons of meat dressed in oil and lime juice, and top it with a Parmesan that’s anything but Parmigiano-Reggiano. Only once it’s all done do I realize that in celebrating the glories of Italian cuisine, I’ve accidentally produced a hybrid version of something very close to a meat ceviche.
Best ceviche in town!
