In Search of Chilean Cuisine
PUCÓN, CHILE – Like most Americans, I had no idea what “Chilean cuisine” meant. Wasn’t it just a mash-up of Argentinian beef and empanadas, combined with the ceviches of the Pacific Coast near Southern Peru? I knew, of course, there was great wine – carménère, merlot and syrah all grow exceedingly well in several of the wafer-thin country’s valleys. But the food was still a mystery to me. Was it a vague blend of South American ingredients, but without the celebrity chef heat of an Alex Atala from Brazil or Gastón Acurio in Peru? Or was there another, more hidden, less-publicized cuisine that was thriving in the countryside, but that no one had really written about at length? I decided to look in both the northern desert, as well as the lush, more southern regions, where the heart of the country’s indigenous culture is based.
Chile is divided into 15 different regions, moving from Region One in the North, in the Andes Mountains, all the way to the bottom of the continent, in Patagonia. Flying from the northernmost airport to the southernmost, incidentally, would take almost six hours. I began in the south, near the town of Pucón, first flying an hour south of Santiago then driving another hour-and-a-half to the Vira Vira Hotel, a magnificent series of rooms and villas with its own farms, featuring turkeys, chickens and wild boar – all of which end up on the menu. They also have a huge garden, plus a creamery, producing cheese, milk and yogurt. Here, in Region #9, the terrain is rugged but glorious, like Aspen or Vail. The only difference here is the dominating presence of an active volcano (it had erupted, briefly, just a week or so before I arrived), and a series of lakes and lagoons, giving it the name The Lake District.
The native Mapuche people are the dominant indigenous culture in Chile, and the nation has only recently begun to embrace its roots. While much of the country’s people are a mixture of Mapuche and Spanish, nearly everyone in Chile has the Mapuche blood in common. There are so many different words within their culture – even within Spanish – a native Spanish speaker would have a hard time understanding the local lengua (also because they speak exceedingly fast). One thing that’s universal, however, is merquén, more commonly spelled merkén. It’s essentially a dried and smoked chile, pulverized into a spicy salt. I saw it all over the country, but especially in the South, where it’s sprinkled onto pastel de choclo – a giant, baked wedge of corn pudding topping a savory mix of olives, raisins and cooked eggs, plus ground beef and some pulled chicken. Think of it as shepherd’s pie for South America. Locals will sprinkle some sugar on top, but you’re just as likely to see a dish of merkén on the table, along with a dish of pebré, a kind of Chilean pico de gallo with onions, cilantro and tomatoes.
Chileans love their tomatoes, which show up in dozens of dishes, but there’s nothing more comforting than tearing off a piece of sopaipilla (fried dough discs, often integrating pumpkin pureé), adding a few teaspoons of pebré and a sprinkling of merkén:
We had a traditional Mapuche lunch in the town of Curarrehue, at Fillke Iyabel, where the kitchen was no bigger than a Manhattan walk-up in the upper 80s. They managed to churn out not only pastel de choclo, but huge humitas – steamed corn torpedos – plus pischo, a succotash of sorts, jammed with local corn, carrots, green beans and peas. To drink, some freshly-pressed arandanos (blueberries) or nalca, which comes from an indigenous plant, kind of like a local rhubarb.
The other surprising thing about southern Chile was the massive German presence. As I took a bike ride one day through the Lake District, I saw several signs for “kuchen” – a German-style fruit-filled cake with a firm, crumbly base and a soft, top custardy layer embedded with streusel – as well as traditional strudel. We passed several bars carrying a local brew called Kunstmann (extremely hoppy) – which produced a couple of different styles of beer. Locals I spoke with all claimed the migration wave began in the late 1800s, as the government tried to lure these Europeans with strong work ethics to help build the nation, but what they also sheepishly admitted was the second wave that arrived after WWII. I had always thought most of the Germans and Nazis fleeing the country after the War ended up in Brazil and Argentina, but clearly, Southern Chile was also a frequent destination.
Kuchenladen, in Pucón, features four types each day, including the popular raspberry and apple. But their Torta Mixta was even more impressive: layers of raspberry, chocolate cake and meringue, smooshed together with manjar – the Chilean version of dulce de leche – with a very light bottom crust. “My great grandparents came over in the 1800s,” said owner Juan Pablo Winkler, whose parents started the family business 16 years ago and opened the second location, in Pucón, just two years ago.
That same night, we checked out the BierGarten, where they boast more than 80 beers, several on tap from Chilean producers like Crater and Escudo. I found it odd, however, when the condiment tray arrived for our bratwurst platter, and it contained only ketchup, olive oil, Southwestern spicy mustard and mayo (more on that in a bit).
In the North (Region #2), the climate is much more arid. Flying nearly two hours north of Santiago, to Calama, we drove another hour into the heart of the Atacama Desert. One of the most arid places on earth, it’s a sea of brown, lifeless rock, as far as the eye can see. The endless salt flats render most of the region fallow, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the landscape has served as a backdrop for movies about Mars or human desolation. But look closer on the horizon, and you’ll see the majestic Andes, featuring a number of snow-capped peaks tucked in among the volcanos that make up this part of the globe’s “Ring of Fire.” Walking through a salt flat one day, near a flamingo preserve, I got the sense of what it must feel like walking on the moon, or Mars.
Sure, it’s lifeless and stark, but there is also a strange, prehistoric beauty to it all, like you’re walking among the ancients in a strange, dust-covered world. It’s a cross between the Badlands of South Dakota and the deserts of Arizona. Life is hard in the desert, and every creature – including the plants – has to struggle to survive. “The main problem is the water,” said Daniela Vega Vilches, the owner of Senderos de Coyo, a restaurant in Coyo, an eye blink of a town made up of about 18 families near San Pedro. “It’s difficult to cook here, since the dryness is a problem,” she said. I got to take a tour of her large garden in back, which included a small stable of llamas, goats and horses, the first two of which are eaten, the latter, only ridden. Vilches prepared a thickish syrup made from cheñar, the ubiquitous fruit found everywhere in the North. The size of a walnut, it has a thin skin, with a large seed inside, covered by a sweet, slightly tart pulp, almost akin to tamarind, but sweeter.
There is no sugar here in the desert, so locals rely on naturally sweet fruits like cheñar and algarrobo, which looks like a dried bean but when you bite the outside, yields a funky sweetness. Both of these fruits are boiled in water, reduced and strained, resulting in a concentrate local chefs use to make ice creams and cakes. One day at the stunning Alto Atacama Hotel, I had a remarkable panna cotta made with cheñar. The sweetness was subtle, but the flavor totally beguiling. I tried describing the flavor and could only come up with a vague sense of coffee, caramel and tamarind; later that night, I tried a couple of ice creams made from these same fruits and polished all of them off.
Another strange fruit – what North Americans would call prickly pear – arrives on the top of cactus paddles, looking like an acne-prone lime. Here it’s called tuna, and its flesh is more akin to a custard apple, with the addition of a bunch of annoying seeds, not unlike a gargantuan blackberry’s. I had it made into a light and frothy panna cotta one night, and could easily see it appearing on big-time restaurant dessert menus in the larger cities.
Speaking of which, it’s time to talk about Santiago, where the food scene is somewhat different, but clearly, draws inspiration from the countryside. I’ll dive into that city tomorrow.
In the South:
Vira Vira Hacienda Hotel
Parcela 22a Quetroleufu, Pucón
+56 45 2374000
Fillke Iyabel (no exact address; just get to town and ask a local)
Curarrehue
Kuchenladen
Fresia #248 Local A, Pucón
+56 045 244 1782
In the North:
Senderos de Coyo Restaurant
Pasaje Kara – Ama Sitio 14 C
Coyo
San Pedro de Atacama
+56 953 78175
Alto Atacama
Camino Pukará s/n
Suchor, Ayllú de Quitor
San Pedro de Atacama
+56 229 123945
LAN flies nonstop to Santiago from L.A., Miami and NYC (JFK).
American flies nonstop to Santiago from Dallas and Miami
Delta flies nonstop to Santiago from Atlanta
United flies nonstop to Santiago from Houston
