Peruse

[EATTV]

PERU ON MY LIPS NOW

“Iquitos, mierda. I’m was still only in Iquitos. Every time I think I’m going to wake up back in the jungle. When I was in Lima it was even worse… I’d wake up and there’d be nothing. I’d hardly said a word to my Executive Producer when I told the crew to pack the gear and update their yellow fever and malaria. Later on we’d need something for the altitude, but I’m climbing ahead of myself.

Before we left all I could think of was Ceviche and we’d found that in Lima in spades. White fleshed fish with chunky red onions, camote sweet potato, firecracker aji chilies and spices found nowhere else. The juice is called leche de tigre-tiger’s milk. The Peruvians know it as a cure for sleepwalking, hangovers and an aphrodisiac. Some of the best damn citrus acid cooked Corvina in Peru but I was craving something more. We were on a mission from Todd…English that is. Restaurateur, charter member of the clean plate club and travel junkie, I’m looking for a spark. Something very old and new at the same time. It’s out there in the places where light filters into the deep rain forest, in the villages where sauces of poverty sustain a people as old as the clay and river which provide for them. A place that you can’t get to from here. No roads. Air strips on no maps and the mighty Amazon and its tributaries. I’d been here a day now, waiting for the mission to begin. The Spanish colonial remnants and modern intrusions of moto taxis and billboards close me in here. For lunch I’d eaten a rodent of unusual size, a Paka and some Piranha with the local brew Cusqueña lager but while they were tasty and the company of the local futbollers was welcome, my culinary spirit was craving something more. Finally I get what I want. At nightfall we reach Nauta by bus and my shadow precedes me in the sparse sodium vapor streetlights. In the dark ahead I sense the river. The glowing wild eyes of the ferryman pilot me to the Aqua our floating home as we follow the Pingha to the place where the river runs black and the dolphins are pink. I was going to the best place in the world and I didn’t even know it yet. I wanted a mission and I got it. Brought up to me like room service.”

Pedro Miguel Schiaffino knew he’d be a Chef since the age of 12. The son of a butcher, art collector and purveyor of fine spirits he is the charming Don of the Lima limelight. His restaurant, Malabar, the name picked from Benjamin Moore paint chip colors, is one of the best rooms and menus in a city with no shortage of places to be seen and make the scene. Astrid & Gaston, Raphael, Tanta and La Gloria all rock but Pedro Miguel is a young eclectic culinary Turk turning out dishes like Brule’ tuna cubes marinated in ‘cocona sauce’, black clam risotto, and sashimi style diver scallops with chichi de jora and lime marinade. He exemplifies the fusion of Spanish, Criollo, and Japanese influences that are the face and palette of Peru today and the rest of the world by the time you read this. I’m excited to be going in the heart of the Amazon basin with such a companion and even as I write this I am hungry again.

We stop in towns and small villages of the local Cocoma people and are struck by their abject poverty. It’s just serious business here in the unforgiving heat of the upper Amazon and Ucayali rivers. Not so many old faces. Clearly no child labor laws. The markets feature the double skinned armored catfish and little girls sit among the entrails and lacerate the boney whole fish to make them edible...ready for sale. Clear plastic bag cylinders of colored spices, oils, and ready to go soup and stew mixes hang on lines above tables of potatoes, wide leaf cilantro or culantro, aji chilies, and purple potatoes. Wild rice and yucca are cultivated as staples. We trek into the rain forest and gather camu camu fruits (with 40 times more vitamin C than kiwi), fragrant garlic tasting leaves, small tomatillo like berries, wild citrus fruits, and colossal fresh water snails. Tropical rainforests cover only about 7% of the earth, they house almost half of the world's plant, animal and insect life. A quarter of today's pharmaceuticals are derived from tropical rainforest plants, and according to the American National Cancer Institute, 70% of the plants useful in cancer treatment are found in our disappearing rain forests. Scored rubber trees are the evidence of the rubber boom that made then abandoned an important economic factor here. A real prize was the tender heart of a special young palm that when unraveled became a perfect jungle fettucine that Pedro Miguel laid out on a banana leaf. A stylin’ amigo. I am struck by the subsistence living of the small hamlets like Hatum Posa we encounter. A mother grills fish and plantains over charcoal and lots of kids look on in the open stilt house where in the wet season this is waterfront property. With no privacy it is clear that all the seasons of life from conception to death occur in full vision of the whole clan. A fermented yucca beer is offered up in the genuine hospitality of this place. Shotgun shells litter the deep jungle here and Capucin monkeys are shadows in the canopy. They know better and we rarely see wildlife up close as the predators and the prey of this place in Peru coexist.
The M/V Aqua is a new ship on this old river. With the ultra modern look of something designed by Gehry she boasts 12 staterooms with big panorama windows where the jungle moves by in an endless strip. Dinners are complete from a tight galley below and fine Peruvian, Chilean, and Argentine wines are flights on this cruise. All the baked goods are made onboard and I must give the baker kudos. The Puinahua river is in our wake and seasonal fisherfolk ply the waters of the smaller Sapote river in wooden canoes with longtail motors that make it possible in the shallow bits during this the dry season. I buy a prize Tiger catfish from a proud fisherman. Fish pens used since time before time here, hold the catch for these people who will be sustained by the small profit in Peruvian soles they will receive. The method is gill netting and one husband and wife show me how it’s done. Along the bank their camp is a tarp strung between trees and an open fire cooks a one pot supper. The catch is giant paicha, armored catfish, oscar, and other species alien to me. Then came the rain of the dry season and sky cried onto the hungry clay. The fisher folk retreat under their meager shelters and we return to the Aqua. Consado.

Yanayacu lake is a 90 minute skiff ride up the Pacaya. Storks that have lofted on the thermals from a continent away are everywhere. White egrets, macaws, parrots, and turtles mug for the camera. My guide Yusil who is stout and strong as a Kapok tree is leading to the place where the river runs black and pink dolphins gently break the ebony glass and chase the schools of small fish for lunch. Yusil and I dive in and my director reminds me no peeing in the pool lest tiny parasites follow the stream back up inside me and clamp on. I wonder if farting would be a problem. Think I’ll hold that thought and pass on passing. Meanwhile small fish are biting. “Small fish are biting me”. Now my guys ask if I have any cuts or did I shave? Maybe could’ve mentioned that before? The water feels good under the Peruvian Sun but the pink Flippers don’t come any closer. Mini locke-nessies. We make the 90 minute trip back. (Blackberry is not a jungle fruit and I’ll have to wait a few days before I can work on the other world matters.)

Iquitos again. Pedro Miguel recommends the Belen market there highly. We jump in a motobike taxi that reminds me of the tuk tuks of Thailand. We precariously negotiate the morning rush of this town built by the rubber Barons of the late 1800s. The Belen Market is everything Pedro Miguel said and more. Color, humanity, scent, and story. Hawkers cry out their wares and desayuno is gulped down in bowls of flavor like sopa de pollo. A beggar woman has planted herself in a major intersection and sings a haunting chant as she holds her child. A man is hand rolling cigarettes faster than the eye can follow. Fruits and veg, salted fish and fresh have made their way here from the Amazon along with us. Butchers and beef, paca, venison, turtle and turtle eggs, alpaca and more I could only guess at. A flight above the hustle and bustle a tile floor cover with blood and guts I can’t define leads to a walk in refrigerated room where an unnatural fog reveals alligators and giant tiger cats and the huge Paica (Arapiana Gigas..+6feet) all dressed out for some other world thanksgiving dinner that won’t be beat. OK I’m hungry. We sit down at a plywood table, pull up a bench and enjoy one last Amazonian breakfast of Piranha, roasted sweet plantains and a chili cocona salsa that ads a kick along with a banana leaf wrapped package of that tender hearts of palm ribbon. The market that goes on for many square blocks swirls around us and a woman with a monkey shot full of holes cradles the carcase like a baby then mocks a macabre waltz. This is real. Same as it ever was. Not bizarre. Not unreserved. Real food caught and cultivated by real people who live to close the very good earth and big waters of the Amazon. Pedro Miguel and I part ways and agree to meet at his Malabar in Lima in a few days. Before then the Andes are waiting. My guys grab cameras and altitude medication and we fly.

Now we are averaging about 4 hours of sleep. A big TV production no no, but as always so little time and so much to do. With just a few hours in Miraflores in Lima we manage a strategic strike on Astrid & Gaston where we sample 2 Ceviches and a fine dish of young kid with a perfect salty and crispy exterior. I’m getting used to the Pisco brandy a sort of refined grappa and the Merlot and Malbec just sing to us. We briefly catch up with Doug Rodriguez from Miami’s OLA and YUCA. Chefs that pass in the night. My director and I screen a cut of a show we shot in Africa and I’m snoring and awake simultaneously.

Now we ascend. Snowcapped peaks are below us. Cusco is actually higher in elevation than Machu Pichu where we are headed. The whole crew gets aerosol cans of pure 02 held in little Andean embroidered slings. Local Quechua woman sell us coca leaves and coca candy. We chew the leaves like a chaw but feel no rush. Not even a coffee lift but somehow between the pure oxygen, diamox acidifying our blood and the coca we plod on. Postcard scenes pass our lenses and our new guide Ayul takes us to a local Andean market in the Sacred Valley. Mutton and kid with a spicy peanut sauce (peanuts came from here in the beginning), potatoes in countless variety (Peru knows 2000 and 200 are common), chilies stuffed with local fresh cheese, and Chicha corn beer both plain and with strawberry and cinnamon is served tepid and is muy popular. Breads in fresh sweet round loaves and pastel dessert cakes are sold among traditional crafts. Looms are worked as they’ve been for thousands of years and pots of bright Andean dyes are like the big big box of crayolas on steroids. Cooking fires, revelry, laughter and daily life drift away behind as we squeeze in a quick lunch on the way to the train to the Inca ruins at Machu Pichu.

Late. We are late. The driver is racing along these mountain roads amid the giant snowcapped peaks that ring the Sacred Valley reveal our lunch date. A catered affair for just us is two small canopies. One with the table and the other a small kitchen. We wade thru a heard of sheep to our seats and eat another incredible high altitude meal of alapaca and chicken with all the fixins in this way beyond The Sound of Music setting. We’re late which is way too bad as I could’ve lingered here imbibing the wine and soaking up this billion dollar view. Sacred.

Our mini bus careens down the mountain passes dodging lighting bolts and pelted by more rain of the dry season. A town races by and I wonder what we’re missing there. Perhaps just one marinated skewer of anticuchos (beef hearts).

No tiempo amigos. We run for the train hustling up all the heavy gear and luggage and roll away down the track to Machu Picchu.

It happens to be the national holiday of Peru, which means we are not alone in our pilgrimage to the ancient Inca site. On this day in 1821 Peru wrestled its independence back from the Spanish who long ago came as conquistadors but never dominated the culture. The Quechua took what they found useful from the Spaniards, Portuguese, Africans, Chinese and Japanese and have amalgamated a Peru that is new compared to its pre-Colombian history. Thousands of years with no written language and no currency worked out just fine for the Inca who ruled the lowlands from their high Andean castles via a network of Llama pack trains that brought order and trade to this land. Today the people still remember the spirits or Apu of the mountains and the Shaman still plays a role. At the core is the respect of Pachamama or Mother Earth. Don’t mess. A good harvest, weather, disease, love and luck are all tied up in it. I paid a visit to one such holy man who built an offering of representations of life elements from liquor and candy and dirt and bark then packaged it up in wrapping paper like a birthday present and burnt on the bare earth of Pachamama. Couldn’t hurt.

We do it fact get lucky at Machu Picchu where our Peruvian government permits to make TV at the archeological wonder come thru thanks to the Apus and Michael Steven Owens the manger at Cusco’s La Casona who pulled few Peruvian strings to make it happen. We line up in the dark with the faithful and touristas and snake up the switchback road at 4am to the guardhouse. Some of the crew is got the pinch of coca between the cheek and gum which is a disgusting habit. “Gimme some.” We climb up a mile or so into the clouds and wait. Wait for the sun. Wait for the clouds. Wait for the Apus. Then is comes. The classic view of Machu Pichu and I get a chill as the majesty and magic of this place grown out of the granite emerges. It’s one of those wonders of the world like the Pyramids of Egypt or the Colosseum, legendary and impressive. The Incas knew the importance of food and sustainability long ago. Lessons we are relearning now at our peril. To survive they lived in concert with nature and adapted. Freeze drying was known to them. Granaries and store houses and irrigated terraces testify. The lowlands blossomed in ancient Peru because the Inca caused oasises of water to be built thru channels and when Pizarro came and brought the dim light of the old world he noted that “no one went hungry in this land”. Today, not quite so much. We walk among the alleys and houses and temples and plazas before the crowds overwhelm the place. Thanks Apus. Machu Picchu.

Just enough time to cook with Chef Davide of Café Inketerra. Quinoa crusted Pollo (tastes like chicken) and our first taste of Guinea Pig or Quwi (think vegetarian short eared rabbit) deep fried happen. The experience wouldn’t be complete without music and I sit in on guitar with a pan pipe Peruvian band. We rock out on Hey Jude and some original Peruvian songs. I’m not gonna lie to you. This is gonna be an awesome TV Show.

OK kids. Pack it up and put it on another little train that could and will chug back up to Cusco. Not just any train however. This is an Orient Expression of train travel and in the club car excellent mixologist David delivered perfect straight up vodka martinis and we discover The Capitan which is a Pisco brandy and sweet vermouth cocktail of which I am surprisingly a fan. A jazz duo is making it all a fiesta with Criollo renditions and our soundguy Steve gets in on the action on bongos. Lomo Saltado in the dining car with all the trimmings of fine service and we pull in nice and late to Cusco and La Casona. La Casona was once an Andean then Spanish hacienda and now boasts just ten plush rooms with a picture perfect interior courtyard. Yesteryear’s privilege at today’s prices and worth it. The Chef at La Casona, Juan Carlos was full of Peruvian pride with a face like a road map to the Andes and a talent for incorporating the bounty of Andean culture and modern cuisine. His tidy kitchen and attentive staff are eager for our visit and the sources and techniques are careful and clever. We dine on trout and quwi and a full course of Cusco hospitality. The hearty and the bullheaded continue on to The Monastery Hotel for a full on Pisco tasting. A Piscoing contest if you will. Empty stomach La Casona Manager Michael takes one for the team as his eyes cross and he pours into a cab but not before one more round at Ciccolina who had catered our Sacred Valley lunch just days and a lifetime ago. Now sleep a minute.

Last mountain Pass:
Cusco’s market is nothing to sneer at and Chef Juan wakes early (so unkind to a Chef) and guides us thru his town. The Quechua vendors are happy and welcoming. No hands out. Lot’s to see from fruits to meats to sweets. The locals line the food stalls eating their breakfasts of Andean champions and it’s all good. Sopa de Pollo, noodles, potatoes… especially with a heaping of aji chilies and culantro.

Adios to Juan and off to local outlying towns that each specialize in one food. First a town that bakes bread. A lifelike statue painted in color like some religious shrine depicts a woman and boy with round loaves of the Pan in the town Square. I get in on the needing and baking. The Baker swathes down the ancient oven with wet eucalyptus brooms and the decorated and raisoned breads rise to the occaision. I’m not gonna say yummy like a twit but it was wholesome and tasty no doubt. Town number two boasts the deep fried Pato or duck served with stuffed chilies and a frittata of pasta. Lots of carbs make life possible at high altitude. The local black beer gasps and pops like champagne as I use the kitchen skill of opening it with the back edge of a knife. POP, fizz, Pato. Now town three is what you’ve been expecting. Guinea pigs…everywhere. Golden roasted, heads on, stuffed with yuacatay herbs it is greasy and good. Will I put it on the menu soon? No. Pets or Food? Finalamente it’s the town of Chicharron. Not the name of the hamlet but its specialty. Deep fried pork and potatoes with pork rinds as an app. A beer, a way too sweet day glow yellow Inca Kola and a shot of an anise like liquor and it’s time to pack for flight. Me and the squadito will squeeze our heads back thru the guinea rabbit hole and make the trip back to New York from the Andes and the Amazon. A swirl of extremes and tastes and colors for the senses and the soul. It’s given me food for thought ,both Cloud Forrest and Mighty River which recede in our jet wash. Peru. Never dominated, she has conquered me. On the way we’ll finally sleep and dream.