Two Sundays ago (but now that I’ve taken so long to finally post this, it was about 4 weeks ago) I made a quick jaunt down to Lima to meet up with two friends from Seattle, Robert and Ian, who Kaeli and I recently met, through a mutual friend, after realizing we both had plans to climb in the Cordillera Blanca this summer.
I went down to Lima to complete a gear hand-off. With Robert and Ian set to depart Seattle at the beginning of July, we’d made arrangements a few essential items to make it to their carry-on luggage. My dad had graciously driven all the way up to Seattle from Portland to deliver my beloved laptop (which I’m absolutely thrilled to be using right now--on the second floor patio of a secret mountain lodge high in the Cordillera Blanca ). We were also forced to sell our 10lb behemoth Trango 2 tent, on account of excessive weight, to a Peruvian guiding agency last week in exchange for a smaller, lighter Black Diamond version of the same thing--the Stormtracker. After several fumbled orders from
basegear.com (don’t shop from them if you’re ever in a pinch), we opted instead to have the tent shipped overnight from Eastern Mountain Sports to Robert’s parents’ house in Boston. Kaeli’s computer battery had also been dead for several years (!), without which we had surprisingly difficult time picking up wireless signals, not to mention the entire thing shut off every time you jiggled the power cord. So we had a new one of those sent down, too.
Nothing critical, but it all made life a little more comfortable down here in Huaraz. I can finally edit my photos properly and get reliable access to internet, and Kaeli is rediscovering the freedom of portable, cordless computing.
I took the 11pm overnight Z-Buss down to Lima. They ran out of super-bed seats, so I went for the super economico half bed, which put me at the very front of the second floor, with a direct view out the windshield. For some inexplicable reason, my Peruvian neighbors and I opted not to close the front curtains, which one
should do to avoid being blinded by oncoming traffic… All I remember is waking up every half an hour to erratic swerving and blinding white lights. Jolted awake every 30 to 45 min, each time I was horrified by the sight of swiftly approaching, illuminated guardrails, behind which I saw nothing but eerie darkness. At the last possible moment, our 2-story bus would suddenly swerve, tilting an impossible degree onto its side, which flung limber bodies and floppy heads in the bus in the same direction. The Peruvians around me, of course, weren’t bothered--most were sound asleep.
Arriving in Lima at 6am on a Monday morning was a bit strange. Though the outskirts of the station were filled with taxis and aggressive taxi brokers to ferry passengers to the inner city, once I arrived in Miraflores (the relatively “hip, posh” part of town), there wasn’t a single soul in sight. Even the local, and awkwardly out-of-place, Starbucks didn’t open until 7:30. After breakfast of bread and yogurt at the local supermarket, I succumbed and found myself navigating the spanish menu and unbelievably high prices, feeling somewhat conscious stricken--Cafe con Leche, Cafe Americano. A cup of coffee here costs more than a Peruvian 2-course lunch, and nearly 1/6 as much as my bus ride (!). But, hey, I had just gotten back from a long climb on Shaqsha and was looking to isolate myself a bit and relax. Starbucks was the perfect place--just me, my German climbing novel, and that all-familiar, cookie-cutter Seattle coffee shop feeling.
Afterward, I met up with Robert at the South American Explorer’s clubhouse, where we spent awhile catching up and drinking free tea--one of the many great perks of their membership, might I add! We attempted to find some maps for his and Ian’s journey down the Urubamba River in the southern Peruvian jungle, but we didn’t find much. Switching our focus, instead, to culinary adventures, we made a list of potential “authentic Peruvian” eateries, including one that promised a luxury 13-course sampler menu for $50. Despite being insanely expensive by Peruvian standards, it was heralded, by one of the girls at the SAE anyway (and Lonely Planet), as some of the best and most famous local/fusion food in town. But as the afternoon adventure in the city continued on, our interest (and perceived wealth) had waned, so we settled on “Anticuchos de la Tia Grima,” also heralded as a “best.” In this case, however, the vibe seemed a bit more up our alley, and perhaps even more Peruvian: street-grilled cow hearts.
After a taxi ride and a 25-minute walk, we arrived upon the designated street corner but the food cart was nowhere in sight--just an impostor Anticucho restaurant located on an old street corner next to where the cart had once been (at least according to our reading of the map). Profiting from weary and unsuspecting tourists, perhaps? We almost stopped there, but the place just didn’t seem right, it was just dead and dark. “Arrive 30 minutes early to get a place in line,” the guidebook told us. There was no line--it wasn’t even a cart! We asked 4 other people for directions. Walked another 5 blocks. Asked for directions again. And then we ran into a two post-middle-aged Peruvian ladies in search of the same place. As we followed, this crazy man wandering in the middle street yelled something about anticuchos and directed us down the block. He later turned out to be the flagger--as in, he was the guy who directed traffic and told people where to park. We were astonished to see 50 people sitting in line on a sidewalk in front of a run-down auto repair shop. An 8ft long charcoal grill stood parked on the side of the street, meatless and cold. It was 7pm, opening time. A crowd of people were waiting patiently, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, Robert and I were dumbfounded. We couldn’t believe what we’d stumbled upon. As we made our place at the end of the line, we mused: Either it was a cult, or these really were some of the best Anticuchos in Lima!
A man dressed in a white chefs outfit made his way down the sidewalk taking orders. What seemed like a perfect cross-section of Lima was waiting for him: old little ladies, men in power suits, young couples, every day Peruvians, and then us, the dorky two gringo tourists who’d stumbled off the beaten path. The price was 11 Soles (about $4) for 3 skewers of Anticuchos, plus 2 Soles for a side of over-sized Peruvian corn on the cob. We ordered 3 of the first and 2 of the second. We’d heard from several people that Anticuchos were some of the best beef they’ve ever had, so we ordered
extra--duh!. Besides, 37 soles, plus 8 soles for our wait-in-line beer, was quite cheap compared to our proposed 13-course meal.
The scene that played out next was almost to good to be true. A small white van pulled up next to the grill. Inside we could see a tiny little old woman in the front passenger’s seat. She stepped out of the clunky, toy-looking van---I mean of the sort you can pick up and set on the sidewalk--in her official white chef hat and white coat. It was Tia Grima! Behind her was an entourage of apprentices and helpers, about 5 or 6 other cooks, all donning similar white coats. The lady of the hour had arrived.
We spent the next 30 min watching the magic unfold. Slowly, numbers were called, “catorce, quince… veinte!”. Throngs of the hungry made their way to the cart fr pick-up, then dispersed into the dark street to devour the juicy organs.
When our number was finally called, Robert and I were already huddled around the plate lady, almost jumping our turn anticipation. Each paper plate contained 3 massive skewers, 3-4 giant blocks of flesh on each one. 9 skewers in all. We had at least 27 chucks of cow heart to consume between the two of us. We couldn’t handle the challenge with just 4 hands, so we made a table out of the trunk of a parked car.
How can I describe it? It was tender, but also chewy. Not crunchy, but it had a certain styrofoamyness to it… firm and with a lot of volume. It wasn’t like a floppy, juicy, dense piece of steak, like I expected. Rather, it was almost “airy,” or had hidden internal juice pockets. It squirted. The flavor wasn’t quite as magical as I anticipated. I was hoping for the worlds best marinade or something--I guess something I would expect back home. Instead, it had been dipped/soak, I think, in some sort of oily/vinegary/chili broth and thereafter, on the grill, continuously lathered. It had a very natural, meaty sort of flavor-- good, but different. It was fully-cooked, not rare, so not quite like the meaty flavor you get from a normal steak--it was hearty!
The lack of magical seasoning got me thinking too much about the cow organs and their styrofoamyness. That, combined with excessive juiciness, had become slightly repulsive in my mouth. The sheer amount of heart flesh lying before us wasn’t particularly appetizing either, and the sight of it began to grate on my senses--more than one cow, probably less than 3. The first skewer was good, the second not bad, but the third took some real focus to get down.
Robert and I looked at each other. Neither us had the space or the gumption for another half a plate of skewers, so we gave it away.
So I can’t say that these were the best anticuchos in Lima, sine they were the
only I’ve had, but I imagine it’s possible to do better. We’ll see. Every street corner in Huaraz has anticuchos and chicken feet stands--well, more accurately, at 6pm old ladies come out of their houses and starts up grills to make a few soles. It reminds me of the good old days when I use to sell pop out of a cooler at the Eastmoreland golf course--it feels like a lot of the local economy is organized this way. Anyway, I’ve eaten plenty of questionable street food, but haven’t had the heart to try these just yet.
I didn’t have my camera with me, but this is more or less what they looked like:
Read more about anticuchos here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anticuchos
