Description: "You must go to Pachapapa" Jonathan said when I mentioned I was visiting Cusco. "It's up in San Blas; it's great".
Three weeks later I was in Peru. Determined to check out his recommendation I gathered four friends and boldly led them across the Plaza de Armas. San Blas is a lovely little square to the north-east of the centre, reached up sloping streets lined with Incan stonework. Thankfully, when we reached the Plazoleta San Blas, huffing and puffing, the restaurant was easy to find—an archway directly across from the modest little church led into a sunny courtyard.
Finding a table in the shade we turned to watch the activity. In the centre of the yard a pit had been dug. Lined with red-hot stones, food was being lowered into the pit—sweet potatoes, vegetables, hunks of meat. The pit was then covered over, the food left to cook underground. I knew of this method of cooking food as a 'Mongolian barbecue'. Here is Cusco it's pachamanca. This wasn't for us sadly. For this treat you need to reserve in advance with a party of at least six.
We didn't miss out though, as the food we ordered was lovely. Pachapapa serves traditional highland Peruvian cuisine. The green quinoa soup was scalding hot. To wash it down I ordered chicha—the local fermented maize beer. It came served in a stout earthenware mug, dirty suds spilling over the brim. It looked like dishwater. Nonetheless I steeled myself and tried it.
'Beer' is a very poor name for chicha. The brew is malty, curiously sweet, and fairly warm. And it's nice. I polished it off and asked for another.
We had seen cuy on the menu. Cuy is something most non-vegetarian tourists try once in Peru. It is roast guinea pig. We ordered half a pig between the five of us. Sadly it came chopped up (we had enviously seen entire blackened guinea pigs, complete with teeth and claws, served up in other restaurants). There wasn't an awful lot of meat on the carcass. To me it tasted like rather greasy chicken. It was an experience not to be missed though.
Also not to be missed was the music. To one side a tall man in red poncho and striped hat who bore a distinct resemblance to a young Christopher Lee was playing the Andean harp. Less polished than its celtic cousin, the sound produced was more...'twangy'. We clapped as he finished a tune and he came over. In halting English he introduced himself as Felix Blanco Monterroso. Would we like to buy a CD? Three of us took him up. Twenty sols, and he signed it too—'Para Liam, Desdecusco Unamigo Felix'. Right now I am listening to the CD. The tune takes me back to that sun-dappled courtyard, the sweet taste of chicha on my tongue, and the scent of roasting meat in my nostrils. You must go to Pachapapa; it's great.
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