I wanted Lomo Saltado for breakfast.

We went into a restaurant near the square in Arequipa with a sign that said it was their house breakfast special. We ordered. She said she didn´t have it. Robbed, I say! Robbed of my Lomo . . . we settled on the grilled chicken. It just wasn´t the same.

We wandered into an antique shop because it looked cool . . . Matt sat his backpack down and then walked around in the store.

¨Aren´t you afraid that your pack will get stolen?¨ I asked.

¨No,¨ he said, ¨not even a little bit.¨

So, I didn´t say anything more. But it was a prophetic moment. We bought a couple of postcards, collected his unattended bag and walked on.

After a lovely evening stroll in Arequipa, we needed food. We wandered back into the edge of downtown. I spied a local sole menu restaurant with Lomo written on the sign. We walked in. Again, no Lomo. Damn! Robbed again . . . of my Lomo!

But we were hungry, so we just ordered something else. The restaurant was local – kind of grungy and packed with people. Lots of cars bounced by on the brick-covered colonial streets. Activity buzzed around us in all manner and form. Matt grabbed the water bottle we always keep on hand out of his backpack, which he then sat on the floor next to his leg.

I´m not sure at what point I realized that something was amiss.  I was busy people-watching. There was a cute old man wearing a dirty trucker hat who slurped his soup. Another dude looked like the real-life version of Smithers from the Simpsons. There were people getting up to pay just as a girl sat down right next to me at our table . . . unconsciously, I shifted my own backpack under my legs . . . and that´s when I looked over at a now-empty table that had been occupied by two young men . . . and I don´t really know why, but I suddenly shouted at Matt, ¨Where´s your pack? Where´s your bag?¨

He reached down, but it was already gone. In the shuffle, someone had just picked it up nonchalantly and walked out the door.

Don’t let the name of this cozy little artisan café scare you away. The Ayahuasca Cafe is named after the ayahuasca vine, a vision-inducing shamanic medicine plant of the South American jungle that has the very real ability to heal people on a mental, spiritual and sometimes, a physical level. The ayahuasca brew itself tastes horrible, though,  and you’d never want to associate it with food. I must admit when I first saw the name of the café, I thought about the ayahuasca brew and immediately lost my appetite. But no worries, the food at The Ayahuasca Café is home-cooked, healthy and incredibly tasty. After one meal at this café, all you’ll think about is how yummy the food is.

This café is the perfect fusion of everything enjoyable about Pisac – fresh, local food, truly hand crafted art, (unlike many of the factory-made things being sold by those calling themselves ‘artesanos’ in the market), a chill atmosphere and a very welcoming, gringo-friendly attitude. Although the owners speak only Spanish, the place is decorated inside and out with thick, gorgeous carved wood signage displaying nearly perfect English. The wide-ranging menu is offered in both Spanish and English. A lot of establishments in Peru use bad English on signage and in printed menus, but the professionalism and attention to detail of The Ayahuasca Café doesn’t end here.

The place is tiny; the front room only has four tables, a couple of small couches and a coffee table. For the weary traveler, this place is chill-out heaven, offering a respite from the bright sun. Jazzy music with an international flair plays on the speaker system. Daniela, the owner, always asks me if the music ¨is good for inspiration¨ when I sit for hours at one of the little tables, writing in my journal.

The interior of the restaurant doorway is hand-painted with a colorful bird pattern that is reminiscent of Inka designs. In Peru, it can be difficult to find a perfectly clean, comfortable and visually pleasing eatery with good service, so this gem is not to be overlooked. Although not advertised, if you have an international phone card, they might allow you to use their nice cordless phone for free if you’re a customer. When not taking an order or cooking food, the owners are busy making art while hanging out in the back room.

The walls are a warm yellow color and decorated with unique items for sale – Shipibo ayahuasca tapestries in all sizes, visionary ayahuasca prints and paintings made by local shamans and a prominent Artesano display in the middle of the room is loaded down with local hand-made jewelry, carved items and small sculptures. From carved poles hangs a display of t-shirts painted with a colorful array of trippy little dwarves. One window is loaded with hunks of natural incense of copal, myrrh and palo santo.

The café con leche is rich and piping hot, the juices freshly squeezed and/or blended and the burgers are delectable, served on a quarter round of fresh, wood-fired whole wheat bread, and dripping with mashed avocado. From vegetarian specialties like spaghetti pesto to the sweet pankekes (crepes) offered for dessert, the menu has something enjoyable for everyone. After your meal, if you want to leave your giant backpack behind, this is a safe spot to do so. The owners will gladly hold your pack while you make the roughly 2-hour arduous climb up the mountain to visit the spectacular Pisac ruins.

The nicest thing about this café is that although it definitely has a new-age shamanic vibe, the proprietors never bring it up – unless a customer asks. This laid-back attitude is refreshing and welcoming – mostly everything in Peru is too aggressive with sales pitches. The prices are very fair (about $3 US for a three course meal with a hot drink) and the portions generous – most gringo friendly places overcharge for less than spectacular food.

Matt and I decided to go to Mama Chicken´s house last night to find out what the deal is with the gringo pricing on their fabulous chicken . . . and . . . my favorite restaurant in Pisac has been redeemed, I´m happy to say.

Apparently, they do have a 4.50 sole portion of chicken – it´s an 1/8 of a chicken, a smaller portion of fries and a smaller bowl of (truly) yummy chicken foot soup. Ah, no matter that all this time they never asked us which portion we wanted. Every time we walked in, they just handed us the biggest plate they had.

Now we know. And I suppose I didn´t completely understand my new friend. She meant an 1/8 of a chicken for 4.50 soles. The smaller portion is so much better anyway! So, go to Las Gamelas Polloria for the best chicken in Pisac. They may not have a menu, but they do have two different sized portions. Now you know!

 . . . . all this time we’ve been paying nine soles for a quarter of chicken and fries. It’s good, but it always seemed a bit expensive to me.

 The other day a girl was walking down the road, pushing a bicycle cart. Just as I was about to pass her, we were coming upon a slight incline. I grabbed the back of the bicycle and began to help her push the bike and cart across the little footbridge and up the hill. I wasn’t paying attention and my foot went through the slats of the footbridge and I fell all the way up to my knee, hand still on bicycle.

Luckily, I didn’t get hurt at all. The entire situation was funny to me and I couldn’t stop laughing as I stood there up to my thigh caught in the footbridge. I couldn’t stop laughing as I climbed out and I certainly couldn’t stop laughing as the girl and I finished pushing the bike up the hill.

She stopped to make sure that I was all right. We ended up talking (even though we barely could understand one another) and walking all the way to Pisac. She’s a nice girl. We sort of became friends on our walk. We got to talking about restaurants.

I told her that my favorite was Las Gamelas Polloria. Her eyes lit up. She said in spanish, “Isn’t it a great place? And only 4.50 soles for a quarter chicken!”

Wait. Just. One. Minute. They always charge us nine soles for a quarter chicken. Ah! Gringo pricing has struck once again! I’ll go back, for sure, but this time, I’ll do some more bargaining, even if I need to take it up with Mama Chicken herself . . . .

Matt and I sat on the bus in Urubamba, waiting for it to fill up, so we could go back to our little town of Pisac. A little girl of about five walked onto the bus and ignoring everyone else, she shoved a plastic bag in our faces and said simply, ¨Rocoto relleno?¨

A lot of the time, we ignore vendors for the simple fact that in Peru, every second of the day, at every bus or collectivo stop, on every streetcorner and in every way one could imagine, there are endless people trying to sell something – food, handicrafts, CD´s, juices, massages – the list goes on and on. But that evening was different. Perhaps it was the blank look on the dirty child´s face. Maybe it was her simple insistence. Hell, maybe we were just hungry after the long day of bus rides and hiking.

We paid the two soles, expecting her to just pull one rocoto out of the bulging plastic bag. Matt pressed the coin into her hand and without any further emotion, she thrust the entire bag toward him, nearly dropping it his lap and quickly disappeared. I´d been wanting to try rocoto relleno for some time, but had no idea what I was missing!

We opened the bag. Inside were two rellenos and three small boiled potatoes – a great deal! Rocoto relleno, a classic Peruvian dish whose origins come from the town of Arequipa,  is a type of pepper that grows in South America and is usually stuffed with meat and vegetables. No, it doesn´t taste anything like an American stuffed bell pepper, not even close. It´s infinitely better!

The relleno batter (my favorite part) was rich and tasted sort of cheese-like. They were filled with a savory mixture of meat and spices. We polished off the entire contents in the bag in under five minutes and decided immediately to get second serving.

Thus began our obsession with rocoto relleno. It seems like now the entire rocoto relleno world has opened up to us. That next week, all the sole menu places in Pisac were serving them, it seemed. We tried them all.

At the market that Sunday, we went from tent to tent, trying the rocoto relleno of every mamacita in sight. After eating four in a row, we finally headed home. Oddly enough, in response to the tourist palate, the ladies of the market have begun to only serve vegetarian versions of this Peruvian carne classic.

I still haven´t found a rocoto relleno that was as rich and savory and classic as the one that little girl served to us, and certainly not one as economical. But, I certainly plan to keep looking! And I plan to continue to rocoto relleno tours, especially anytime I see a row of vendors all selling them. That´s my favorite way to sample them – four in an hour!

As I walked into one of my usual three sole menu restaurants yesterday, I noticed that the place was packed. Not that it´s unusual for a menu place to be busy, but there are so many of them that almost never is one place more busy than any other. Something seemed out of place, but I wasn´t sure what. I was too hungry to notice just then. Matt and I took the only open table, the one in the middle of the room.

We were talking and not really paying attention to what was going on. That´s when I noticed the entire place was dead silent and that we were being very loud in comparison. ¨I feel like we´ve come at the wrong time,¨ I said. ¨I feel awkward but I don´t know why . . . ¨

We sat in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by people and every single eye in the place was glued to the television. I noticed a Pervian lady two tables over. She was staring at the TV,  looking horrified but in ecstacy at the same time. Without really considering what in the world she and everyone else, even the waitress, could possibly be watching at 12:30 on a Saturday afternoon, I looked up at the television. After all, it could be my favorite soap opera, La Hija Del Mariachi.

I could not be more wrong.

The program was the most graphic and bloody depiction of the life of Jesus Christ that I have ever seen. I glanced up at the television at the exact instant when a soldier hit Jesus in the eyeball with a rock, leaving a bloody socket where his eye used to be. Ugh.

What was so amazing to me was that everyone was absolutely enthralled. The beating of Jesus continued unchecked, with sound effects and lots of blood and gore and gratuitous missing eyeball shots. I ate my soup in silence and tried to ignore the pitiful moans on the TV. I counted a total of ten children huddled around different tables with their parents, mindlessly shoveling their lunch in their faces while they watched the suffering cinematic Jesus. A group of at least eight people had gathered just outside the door to watch too.

Finally the waitress turned the movie off, but not because of it´s violence. There was a problem with the sound. Within two seconds of the movie being switched off, the crowd outside dispersed. Everyone inside eating at the tables seemed disappointed. As for me, I could finally eat my lunch.

We found the best place ever – EVER – for chicken!

It’s this little tiny unassuming place with dirt-encrusted red doors on the main road in Pisac. The official name of the restaurant is Gamelas Polleria, but we affectionately call it ‘Mama Chicken.’

One day we had agreed to get home and have dinner ready by 6PM sharp. We’d hiked up one of the giant mountains that surround Pisac that day and we were so tired that our shaking legs were about to give out. We weren’t even sure if we could manage the one kilometer walk home, so the thought of going to the market and cooking dinner for our friends for movie night was completely out of the question.

Matt had been raving about ‘this chicken place’ for a week solid, saying it was the best chicken he’d ever had. I wanted to sample it for myself. We decided on one and a half hour trek down the mountain that we’d pick up some chicken to go. But, our plans were dashed when we realized that the red doors to the polleria were locked. It was nearing 6, we had no food at the house and really couldn’t think of any more options. We didn’t want to leave our friends hanging, especially after we’d promised we’d have dinner waiting.

So, we yelled up to the second story above Gamelas. Several times. Just as we were about to give up and walk away, this large smiling Peruvian Momma flung the windows open. She recognized Matt from the week before. (Matt’s especially easy for the locals to recognize because he’s got a long red beard, something they don’t see too often.)

“What time do you open?” we asked in Spanish.

“6:30, mas o menos.” she replied, which in Peru means “Oh . . . sometime after 7.”

“Awww, too bad!” we replied and began to walk away.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” she called. “For you, 6:00!” This really meant that we’d have chicken in hand by 6:30. Well worth the wait.

Seriously, it’s some of the best chicken I’ve ever had. Mama Chicken’s back yard is a giant chicken coop. She’s got a shiny wood-fired stove where they rotisserie the chicken. If you walk in and ask for a menu, they’ll look at you a little funny, because there is no menu, there’s just chicken. And fries. And occasionally a good ole chicken foot soup. And salad, except we gringos most likely can’t eat that or we’ll be in the throes of a three-day bout of TD.

The chicken is smoky-fire flavored, moist, savory and the skin is divine! The meat falls off the bone. And since the chickens come hand raised from Mama Chicken’s back yard, there’s a ‘real’ kind of flavor that the factory farmed chicken I’m accustomed to in the states just can’t compete with. The fries can be hit or miss, usually a hit, but bring your own ketchup because the watery red stuff they serve can be dissappointing. And they have a TV, which is always playing something fun, whether it be The Simpsons or an old 80’s movie dubbed in Español.

We always bring an extra baggie so we can take the bones and any leftover skin home so we can feed it to the dogs, who smell us coming from a half a kilometer down the road. (Yes, Peruvian dogs live on chicken bones, but more on that later.)

So, if you find yourself in Pisac, make sure you check out Mama Chicken. She’ll have a smile for you. You’ll leave with greasy fingers, a full belly and a pack of dogs following you down the street.

I’ve grown to love three sole menu places. And the best part is – they´re yummy and entertaining . . .

Because of past stomach problems, I was very picky about where and what I ate when I first arrived in Peru. I only frequented fancier, more expensive (between 5-10USD) gringo places, where they wash their vegetables with purified water. Then I realized I was missing an important piece of the genuine Peruvian experience. All local people eat from the numerous street vendors and three sole places (1USD). Sometimes the local ex-pats look at me funny when I tell them that I eat at the three sole places all the time. With some common sense and an adventurous outlook it’s completely safe, quite satisfying and even fun to frequent the “menu places.”

Remember that the local water and cleanliness standards are different than the tight restaurant codes of the Western world. Don’t go to these places if the sight of dirty walls, floors or light switches seem scary or offensive. It’s great to embrace local ways, but be a wary consumer. Local people are accustomed to bacteria in the unboiled water of their area, while you may not be. Make sure your food is always served on a dry plate. It’s not uncommon for food to be served on wet, but clean, plates. The problem for gringos is that a wet plate could contain potentially irritating bacteria. These bacteria die without the presence of water. Request a dry plate in a pleasant manner and most of the time the proprietor will be happy to oblige.

Menu places prepare one meal a day. There’s no choice to make, just walk in and you get whatever it is they’ve cooked. The first course of every menu place is a giant bowl of delicious broth-based soup that usually contains a lot of rice or pasta. I call it ‘parts is parts’ soup because most of the time there is at least one piece of something I pick out and save for the dogs – liver, gizzard, chicken foot or the occasional slice of intestine.

Normally there are two choices of meat for the next course, or segundo. The economical portions of the segundo keep the meal affordable. The meat portion is about half the size of a standard American portion, but after the giant bowl of soup, the smaller size is perfect. The meat always sits on a giant mound of rice and comes with a sauce or vegetables of some kind. Its safest to assume that raw vegetable garnishes or salads at a menu place have probably only been washed in unpurified water, so it’s best not to eat them.

Menus often come with extras, too. Desert often is a tiny bowl of warm pineapple or grape-flavored sauce, which I usually skip. Refrescos (kool-aid like drinks) and gelatins are also best avoided, because of the risk of being made from water that’s never been boiled. Sometimes sole menus come with a mug of pre-sweetened hot tea, which I always drink even though usually it’s more sugary than I would prefer.

The best part about a menu place is the atmosphere. Most of the time there are no other gringos around, which can be fun. Menu places are where I get my regular dose of Latin television. The Latin version of “Married With Children” is hilarious. And La Hija Del Mariachi is my favorite evening soap opera – it’s so engaging. Last week the mariachi and his friends got into a giant fistfight with some frat guys. (Of course the mariachis won!)

Many times over the summer, Matt and I would venture down to the Cardinal Cafe in Adairville, Kentucky for a cup of their .25 cent coffee and air conditioning. Unfortunately, due to the ‘economic downturn’ of our country, the price of the Cardinal Cafe’s coffee skyrocketed to .50 cents, but we kept going anyway. I’d want to go so I could get some writing done, but I was never able to because the owner, who is also the cook, would constantly engage us in conversation.

Monday was our last foray to the Cardinal Cafe and when Mike, the owner, found out, he insisted that we all give him our autographs. He lined out three kitchen tickets on the counter – one each for Matt and Hardy and I. We each obliged, writing a little ‘thank-you’ blurb and signing our names. Mike beamed as he thumb-tacked each one to the cafe wall underneath the daily menu board.

Then Matt and I headed to the Adairville library, a place where the hours actually shorten when school begins. There’s only one librarian, Barbara. When we walked in, I said, “Hey Barbara, how’s your son doing? I heard he was in a really bad car accident. I hope he gets better soon.” She thanked me and after our chat I said good-bye and informed her that our summer in Adairville was over and we were leaving the next day. She tilted her head and then said, “Hey, are you all the ones that Dick Dickerson wrote about in the county paper?”

Dick is our neighbor down the road. He’s the local politician, writer, historian and all around civic guy. We ran into him constantly all summer and almost every time, he’d mention how he believed that someday we’d all be famous. He’s a really nice guy. We liked having him around to chat with.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “What did his article say?”

“Well, the headline was ‘Movie Stars on State Line Road.’”

“Ha!” I laughed. “Yes, that’s us!”

. . . some green leaf lettuce. Really.

“What do you want for your birthday?” Matt asked the other day.

“Some green leaf lettuce!” I said.

He went to the IGA. Only a few heads of wilting iceberg lettuce were on display. We went to the local cafe, where the menu is centered around a salad bar/hot buffet. I never order the salad bar because it lacks greens. But that day, we noticed the white lettuce was sitting atop a garnish of green leaves of lettuce. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to want to order the salad bar. We sat drinking our coffee for awhile when Matt looked up.

The place was empty of customers. The waitress left the room. The cook left the room.

Matt got out of his seat without a word, walked over to the salad bar, looked around like a kid who’s about to raid the cookie jar and . . . pulled a single leaf of green lettuce out from under the iceberg mix. A smile crept across his face as he ripped it in half and came back to our table. He handed me my half as he shoved his half in his mouth.

I tried not to giggle as I ate my portion of this birthday wish come true. We checked one another’s teeth for any sign of green so we wouldn’t be busted by the waitress when she came back to make her rounds and I realized that I am in love.