The Best Food Is On The Other Side Of Tourism
The best of anything is always on the other side of a line others won't cross.
A voice called to me. A slender teenager, his oversized pants cinched with a belt long enough to wrap around him twice pointed in my direction with one hand, the other motioning to the restaurant he stood in front of. Dark hair and darker eyes tucked until the bill of an aged, counterfeit New York Yankees hat. He spoke the same English line in perpetuity, not all unlike my memorized Spanish quips for where to find the bathroom, and no, sorry, I actually spoke very little español.
An oversized visual aid of menu items occupied half the restaurant’s wall behind the teen, once vibrant colors now bleached by the sun. Thankfully, the next three restaurants all used the same photographs.
The establishments cast wide verbal nets, catching stray backpackers who decided to stay in Cocapabana, the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca. Stalls and shops hawking similar alpaca wear only with “Bolivia” stitching replacing “Peru” buttressed the Xeroxed restaurants. Despite the acidic pit of my stomach gurgling a desire for food, I continued past. Past the shops. Past the teenage boys regurgitating menu items and calling everyone their friend. Past the tourists.
Because the best food always lives over the line tourism fails to cross.
The stalls of novelty t-shirts and alpaca sweaters abruptly ended, replaced instead by mechanical shops and cobblers. A kind of invisible barrier holding tourists at bay. The shock of a dog collar surging through my body would not have surprised me when stepping into no-tourist land. A man sitting on crossed legs, hemming pants at my side.
The cobblestone roadway sloped up, then opened up and birthed a night market. Make-shift push-carts, with little more than large frying pans and plastic windows to protect onlookers from popping grease, populated the street. Swirls of smoke and steam twisted up to the stars, bringing with them the smells of fried and grilled meats, sauteed vegetables, ground spices, and heated sugar.
Few lights illuminated the space. Most of the cart owners brought their own light sources, slung over overhead wires, or clamped to the side of their mobile kitchens. A short, stout woman, sweat spilling from her face like a melting snowman, motioned for me to take a seat in front of her cart. I learned long ago when a woman old enough to be a grandmother suggests you take a seat around her cooking, you do as you’re told.
She spouted off a few menu items. I opted for potatoes, entirely because “papa” was the only word I understood. “Picante?” she asked. Did I want it spicy?
“Si! Muy picante, por favor.”
Grabbing a mixture of ground beef and vegetables, she coated it in potato purée, not unlike mashed potatoes. Once satisfied with the ball, she pressed the ball into a flat disc, then dipped the disc into a batter. Thoroughly coated, the woman slid the battered potato disc into the shallow cauldron of bubbling oil. The liquid hissed and spat. Thank goodness for the fogged plastic partition separating my face from dinner, otherwise, I would have left Bolivia with it etched in my heart and seared into my face.
After a few flips, she removed the golden, crispy disc, covered it in a pico-de-gallo-like sauce, then handed dinner over on a plastic dish barely larger than my palm. She motioned to a few sauces balanced on the side of her cart. Not fully sure of the flavors, I scooped out a chunky, reddish-looking liquid with obvious chili pepper seeds. Muy picante.
Hunched over my small dish while sitting on an undersized stool, I scooped off a wedge of the fried potato, lifting it delicately toward my mouth, not wanting to spill anything from the grasp of my flimsy fork. Invisible flames from the spiced sauce scorched at the underside of my nose, which began to run in hopes of putting out the fire.
The crispy barrier of the fried potato gave way to the creamy familiar texture of mashed potatoes, followed by steaming ground beef and just enough peas and carrots to keep nagging mothers satisfied.
I never would have thought someone could improve upon the classic Irish shepherd’s pie, but this woman, surrounded by local patrons, found a way. My nose wept in appreciation of her culinary achievement, while my eyes teared up from accidentally rubbing at them with spice-clad fingers.
With my face an oozing mess, I shoveled mouthfuls of goodness in. It didn’t take long to polish off the small plate. Her associate, and I believe daughter, took the empty dish and submerged it into a plastic tub overflowing with sudsy water.
Fumbling at my wallet to pay, the elder woman motioned to another potato disc, bubbling in the oil. “Uno mas?”
I didn’t even have to think. “Si,” I said, putting my wallet away. One more.