9 minute read
Ancestral Colombian Cuisine Makes its Comeback
by NANCY HELLMRICH
The resilient South American nation is rebuilding, this time around cuisine
“Have you seen James Cameron’s Avatar, the blue guys? The Amazon … it’s just crazy, I mean it’s magical. Like really magical. There are animals so crazy that your mind cannot even grasp them. There is this bird, pitch black. But you kind of turn your head a little bit and the sun hits it in the right way and it turns bright blue and you’re like, WHAT? You move a little. Black. Bright blue. Black. And when it flies, it kind of shifts black blue black blue.” — Juan Felipe Lozano Sanz, Owner Caffa Colombia
Everywhere I went in Colombia, I found exuberance, a sense of liberation and renewal. My first stop was a Bogotá coffee café where the owner, Juan Felipe, effused about the nation’s biodiversity and insisted I visit a place called Açaí Gastronomía Amazónica—but not before asking me if I was bold.
I assured him I was. I’ve traveled to other destinations that raised eyebrows among my friends. This was my first time in Colombia. While some cautioned me against the trip, others offered a simple “stay safe,” knowing there was little they could say to change my mind. Colombia is embarking on a peaceful new era, direct flights are plentiful, the dollar is strong against the peso, and the culinary scene is garnering international attention. How could I resist?
AÇAÍ Gastronomía Amazónica
After being seated at a table in view of the open kitchen, I was introduced to Sebastian, a confident young man in a chef’s apron with expensive-looking leather accents. Sebastian is the sous chef of Açaí, and was pleased to be my lunch guide.
“The dishes here are about transformation,” he began, with more genuine personal enthusiasm than the usual dining room pomp. “So when you try them, immediately you will have one
Courtesy of Açaí Gastronomía
strong flavor and then it’s going to slowly develop the rest of the flavors.” So far so good. The atmosphere was welcoming and, at first glance, the menu seemed harmless. Then Sebastian called my bluff. “So are you open to trying the mojojoy?” Right out of the gate. Just like that. Had Juan Felipe called ahead?
“It’s a worm from the Amazon. Basically, when the palm tree has died, bumblebees put their eggs inside. It’s how the tribes get most of their protein. Here, we have an adaptation of that. We treat the skin with smoke, we cure it, we fill it with fish and the fat of the worm. Then we fry it and we serve it with a ferment called tucupi. Would you like to try it?” Tucupi is extracted from wild manioc root. Raw, the root’s juice contains hydrocyanic acid. When cooked properly, it is safe, nutritious, and the acidic nature of the ferment brings out the flavors of a dish. “Sure. Let’s do it,” I said. In for a penny, in for a pound. Next, he asked about drinks.
I had ducked out of work to try this restaurant in Bogotá’s Los Martires (The Martyrs) neighborhood, where butcher shops abound and the “herb” market in Plaza Samper Mendoza attracts growers and sellers from remote regions. Recently inventoried by the Instituto Para la Economía Social (IPES), the market is a gold mine for chefs in search of esoteric ingredients, many purported to have magical properties. After lunch, I had important meetings scheduled but one drink wasn’t going to ruin me.
“The penultimate course was a spoonful of honey, produced by stingless bees that pollinate Amazonian kapok trees. It’s one of their most treasured ingredients.”
Sebastian returned with two gourd bowls. In the first, a basil extraction had been topped with chia seeds to give it mouth feel, or “bite.” The verdant concoction combined herbs from the Amazon with viche, an Afro-Colombian distillation legalized in late 2021 and now part of the nation’s cultural and ancestral heritage. The second was made with the “blood” of açaí berries and chuchuguaza, an Amazonian spirit. At first, I didn’t notice the lemon ants, which have, according to Sebastian, a “very nice aroma” that comes from citronellal pheromones. In Colombia, ants aren’t a party trick for tourists. “Insect caviar” is part of the nation’s culinary heritage and often cited as the reason for long lives.
“So this is a red-bellied pirañha,” Sebastian was back. “We serve it with the head and the tail because it is very common to cook and eat on the side of the Amazon River.” The cevichestyle fish had been cured in a spicy marinade and plated with mounds of soft cheese, sweet-potato-like manioc puree, hormigas cabezonas (prized big-headed ants), avocado powder, and açaí-smoked salt.
As I feasted, locals began to stream in, filling the place with laughter and conversation. At the table next to mine, a couple was joined by a man who looked like a jiu-jitsu master in a chef’s jacket. This was Andrews Arrieta, the restaurant’s chef and owner. “He’s not from the Amazon but he went there to study the culture,” Juan Felipe had said with the same blue-black-bird enthusiasm. Sebastian beamed when I asked him about working with Arrieta. “I go to the Amazon with Chef at least twice per year. When I was a kid, I traveled with my dad down the river many times.”
Next, Sebastian brought me his favorite dish, my favorite as well if I had to choose, curadito de pirarucu. “Basically what we do is we hang a full piece of the pirarucu. We smoke it, we cure it with salt and a bit of sugar, and then we hang it like a ham. Through this process it develops flavors.” After a time, they slice the dried fish thinly, roll it in dates and queso paipa – the only cheese granted origin status by the Colombian government – and serve it with smoked plantain. Absolutely delicious.
Pirarucu are native to the Amazon River basin and can grow to 15 feet in length. In Colombia, they were once endangered and have recovered nicely thanks to successful management. In nearby Bolivia, the carnivorous paiche are considered invasive, which has given rise to invasivorism wherein humans try to re-balance the ecosystem by eating intruders. As an omnivore, I was happy to help.
For the main course, I had pirarucu fillet on a pureed cauliflower base with powdered coca leaf residue, another of Colombia’s ancestral ingredients. On the side was salvaje, Spanish for wild, because “it’s an aggressive type of plate” with the bright flavors of tiny, juicy tomatoes, plantain, and balls of smoked fish and manioc.
The penultimate course was a spoonful of honey, produced by stingless bees that pollinate Amazonian kapok trees. “Compared to other types of honey, this one is super runny. It’s super acidic, super floral.” And super rare. “It’s one of my most treasured ingredients.”
“Now I’m going to bring you one of my special desserts. It’s called Victoria Regia, in honor of a plant.” That plant, also known as Victoria Amazónica, is the second largest water lily in the world, a marvel I beheld at the Jardin Botanico de Bogotá the following day. Sebastian’s was made with delicate white chocolate petals and so elegantly assembled I was torn between insulting the chef and destroying its beauty.
At LEO, even the dishes are supplied by producers in remote communities Restaurante LEO
Andrews and Sebastian aren’t the only chefs bringing ancestral Colombian cuisine to the world’s attention. The undisputed queen is awardwinning Chef-Restaurateur Leonor Espinosa who operates Restaurante LEO, in Bogotá’s mod Chapinero Alto neighborhood. Leo’s daughter,
Courtesy of Restaurante Leo
Sommelier Laura Hernández-Espinosa, runs her own kitchen and beverage salon in the same location. While the menu at Açaí Restaurante informs diners about the gastronomy of the Amazon, Leonor and Laura’s ciclo-biome menu brings attention to all six of Colombia’s natural regions – Caribbean, Pacific, Orinoco, Amazon, Andean, Insular.
In Sala de Leo, I took part in the eight-course tasting menu, which is a divine dining experience with expertly choreographed table service, synchronized plate drops, and edifying explanations for each dish. “We do not work with mass quantities,” says Leonor through a translator. By serving a multitude of dishes in perfectly small portions, she manages to satiate her guests while providing a livelihood for a breathtaking range of producers. LEO is not only a restaurant, it’s also an engine of social and economic development.
A culinary artist-slash-anthropologist, Leonor says, “I do not use a single ingredient without having lived in its territory, because I would not know then about its greatest potential. The potential I give to the ingredient arises from the experience.” Bringing a new ingredient on board can take up to a year. Before that, standards are put in place and tests are done to understand how the ingredient grows, whether it’s possible to use without exhausting the species, etc. Only after this research and experimentation does Leonor begin to consider its uses in the kitchen.
For sommelier Laura, the challenge is twofold. Finding beverage pairings that are true to the philosophy of supporting Afro and indigenous communities and biodiversity. And ensuring those drinks have “a dialog” with Leonor’s distinctive dishes. Laura’s solution is the in-house distillation of plants and herbs she and her mother encounter on their expeditions, which results in a range of distinctive tinctures and spirits not found anywhere else in the world.
Photos Courtesy of Restaurante Leo
