As desperate vendors shoved barely cooked chunks of indescribable meat towards the car window, three Peruvians and I continued to drive through Lima’s surrounding slums for a lengthy half-hour. My persistent Peruvian companions only uttered defeat upon seeing the looming closed gate: it was Sunday, and our winery destination had closed at 1pm. Only my second day in Lima, still adjusting to the overcast darkness, this winery fiasco completed my embodiment of the annoyed New Yorker persona. I then dared to utter, “It’s not like Peru’s known for its wine anyways.” Silence. Our two companions being non-English speakers, I thought only Danny, well accustomed to my less-attractive moods, would understand me. Apparently one understands any language when one’s country is insulted by a know-it-all gringa. Suddenly, amidst the uneasy silence, I spotted radiating yellow in the distance. No, no, it was not from anything as glorious as the sun, but a restaurant painted in a yellow reminiscent of a Provence sanctuary. Tradición Morena, specializing in foods created and honed by Peru’s black population, was, in fact, our next destination. Giddy talk of juicy, sumptuous anticuchos ensued, and my obnoxious comment was (practically) forgotten.
Grilled beef-heart brochettes, anticuchos are not for the timid, but for the ravenous meat-eater who thinks a meal without a slab of bloody beef is a cardinal sin. They could be mistaken for their less-intimidating cousin, the beef kabob, but are actually, at least in Tradición Morena’s interpretation, bigger, rarer, and juicier. And nothing like the fat-ridden bits of flesh offered earlier.
I anxiously awaited these dripping chunks of deliciousness, even if we were regulated to one of a few outside tables in brisk weather. Damn locals, getting all the ambience inside through the same soothing golden walls, native crafts dangling gently off them. Cleaning my taste buds for the anticipated heavy anticucho flavor was a glass of Chicha Morado, a subtly sweet punch derived from purple Peruvian corn. But I only had a few gulps before our waiter presented the overwhelming meat chunks on two glistening skewers.
Even though a bit on the rare side for a medium-well girl like me, we all looked like props from Lima’s Museo de la Nación, cavemen (and women) tearing into the meat after an arduous hunt. Danny even snatched a juicy, spiced piece from my almost-obsolete serving in an obviously animalistic action of survival. He got me with the, “Look, it’s an iguana!” Do they even have iguanas in Lima?
To dilute the meat-and-grease-heavy meal, though, there had to be a dough-and-grease ending. Enter Picarones con Miel de Chancaca, fried doughnuts with soft, warm insides bombarded with molasses. For this course, I kept one eye focused on swirling the crisp dough through the sugar-filled stickiness and one on Danny’s fork, which loomed closer and closer to my last bite soaked in sweetness. He backed down, forgoing the fork fight and allowing us to return to modern-day civilization, with silly things like manners, class, and restraint.