A Fine Kettle of Fish

A Fine Kettle of Fish

As the waiter placed the steaming bowl of sopa de mariscos on the table between us, my dining companion leaned forward and breathed in deeply. A huge smile crept across her face.

"Why isn't there food like this anywhere else in the world?" she asked, gesturing at the thick seafood soup. "Because the fish needs to be fresh. You can't make a dish like this with frozen fish."

I didn't doubt that the fish was fresh. As we walked through the door of the restaurant we stopped to chat with Papo, who was helping to repair the net that had delivered the catch of the day. Isabel, slicing some slender strips of sea bass, waved merrily from the kitchen. It was interesting to see how this husband and wife team had divided up the duties. She made sure the fish was expertly prepared, and he made sure there was fish.

Their restaurant happened to be in the coastal community of Chorillos, but there are hundreds of similar places scattered around Lima. They range from single-room shacks on the beach where a piece of perfectly prepared pescado costs a few dollars to domed dining rooms in upscale neighborhoods where the exact same dish sets you back 10 times that amount. All of them are packed with Limeños who wouldn't think of spending their weekend any other way. Many people bring their children to the same spot where their parents took them years before.

The basic dish in all of these restaurants is cebiche, chunks of raw fish marinated in lemon juice and topped with onions. You'll almost always find sweet potatoes and steamed corn piled on the plate as well. But I soon found that there are innumerable variations to the recipe. Some cooks squeeze in limes or another type of citrus. Others substitute shellfish such as conchitas (scallops) or camarones (shrimp). The more adventurous add sauces that completely transform the dish.

The menu at any of these cebicherías is likely to includes dozens of other dishes, which can be intimidating to those who who can't tell lenguado (sole) from langosta (lobster). I was relieved when my friend suggested we order a series of dishes that we could share. This is exactly what local families do -- pass around huge platters of pescado until they are picked clean, then gesture to the server to bring out the next course.

We started off with the fragrant sopa de mariscos, overflowing with chorros (mussels) still in their shells. We moved on to tiradito, which is similar to cebiche but leaves off the onions and adds a spicy yellow-pepper sauce. It's one of the most colorful dishes you are likely to run across. A platter of chicharrones de calamar, little ringlets of deep-fried squid, arrived next. A squeeze of lime makes them irresistible. The grand finale, as always, was a nice piece of fish. Many restaurants suggest a dozen or more ways you might like to have it prepared. We had it grilled, or a la plancha.

By the time we were leaving at about 3 PM, Isabel was already scrubbing out the pots and pans and Papo was rolling up the net to bring back to the boat. Their shop, like most cebicherías, would be closed long before sunset. I asked my friend why they wouldn't stay open for dinner. "I told you already, " she replied. "The fish has to be as fresh as possible. If not, why bother?"

-- Mark Sullivan