On April 24, I ran the UTMB Canyons 25K in Auburn, CA, to kick off my 2026 racing season. And though I fell short of my overall goal, I learned some lessons and accomplished a few things that made me proud.

After more than 20 years of racing, I am used to waking up early for a 6 a.m. start. So for Friday’s race it was strange to wait until 4 p.m. to toe the line. But my pre-race routine was largely the same: coffee and a bagel for breakfast, yoga, stretching, and muscle activation, followed by a short shakeout run. Then, just wait.

About 90 minutes before the race, I drank my Precision Fuel & Hydration 1500mg sodium solution to make sure I started well hydrated, and right before the race I had one 30g gel. In my belt I carried gels, electrolyte capsules, and two 500ml flasks with water. My plan was simple: refuel every 30 minutes and refill water at aid stations.

The race started and finished in downtown Auburn, and the course was essentially an out and back on the Western States trails due east towards Cool. It was sunny and warm, in the high 60s, which felt more like 70s or 80s on the exposed sections at high effort. With about 2,400 ft. of vertical gain, there were only two big climbs, the rest was classic, fairly runnable Northern California trail surfing.

At the start, a group of 20 or so elite runners took off first, then 3 minutes later everyone else funneled through a small gate to avoid congestion at the trail head. Next to me, a runner gave me a fist bump and said, “I like your shirt, brother.” And when the race organizers asked who wanted to go through the funnel first, the same runner pointed at me and yelled, “The guy with the shirt!”

The start was fast. The first section was a short road climb towards Robie Point then downhill to the trails that lead to the legendary No Hands Bridge at mile 3.5, the first aid station. By that point, I had passed a lot of runners, even on narrow trail descents, and was in 7th place overall. This was much speedier than last year, and I felt good about my chances of achieving my goal of finishing in 3 hours.

But the first big climb slowed me down quite a bit. Had I gone out too fast? Hands on knees, I finished the 1 mile climb and made it to the second aid station. Then soaked my feet in the bogs and creek crossings along the 2 mile loop around Cool. After refilling my bottles at mile 8.5 it was time to head back to Auburn. But although I had energy to keep going, my legs felt exhausted.

The downhill towards No Hands Bridge at mile 12.5 was smooth but not as quick as I’ve done before. From there I had only 3 miles to go, mostly uphill. Slowly, with a combo of jogging and walking I made it to Robie Point, and soon heard the cheers of the crowd and music at the finish line. I ran it in, and as I crossed the finish line in 3 hours and 50 minutes the song that was playing made me feel like dancing.

Post-race, I had mixed emotions. I missed my goal of finishing in 3 hours but was happy with my fast, confident start. My body also reminded me to focus on hydrating more during strong efforts. And I finished 8th in my M55-59 age group, which accomplished by B goal of being in the top 10, despite finishing 30 minutes slower than last year. I think Mick Jagger summed it up nicely:

You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you'll find
You get what you need 🎵

Throughout the race, I got lots of comments on my race kit, and my shirt, which made me smile and feel proud to be a Precision Fuel & Hydration ambassador. So, I am happy that my race season has started, and that I showed up and tried to really race. Now, to recover, start a new training block, and get ready for my next race!

Cooking in Afro-Peruvian communities is an act of resistance that celebrates and preserves the culinary traditions of Black Peru. One iconic dish from those communities is carapulcra, a spicy and hearty potato or garbanzo stew.

Carapulcra de Garbanzos

Serves 4

Carapulcra is an ancestral stew that my Quechua and Inca ancestors made with papa seca (dehydrated potatoes). Families that migrated from the Andes mountains to the coast brought the stew with them. Over time, creole cooks incorporated cloves, cinnamon, and anise. Today, Afro-descendant communities in the town of Chincha south of Lima prepare three versions: papa seca, fresh potato, or chickpea carapulcra—and all of them are part of the soul food of Black Peru. Here, toasting dry chickpeas adds smoky flavor and crunchy texture, native Peruvian hot peppers aji panca and aji amarillo give heat to the onion aderezo base, and five spice adds aromatics. Peanut butter makes the stew creamy, while agave and red wine provide balance and depth. Colorful pickled cabbage brightens the dish. Accompany the carapulcra with a side of steamed rice to absorb the stew’s savory juices.

Pickled Purple Cabbage

• 2 cups thinly sliced purple cabbage strips

• 2 teaspoons lime juice

• 1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

• dash salt

Stew

• 1 cup dried chickpeas

• 4 cups water

• 4 tablespoons peanut oil

• 1 cup diced red onion

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 2 teaspoons aji panca paste

• 2 teaspoons aji amarillo paste

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 1/2 teaspoon pepper

• 1/2 teaspoon cumin

• 1/2 teaspoon oregano

• 1 teaspoon five spice

• 2 cups vegan beef stock

• 1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter

• 4 tablespoons agave

• 3 tablespoons red wine (such as Malbec)

• cilantro leaves and roasted peanuts for garnish

Combine the purple cabbage, lime juice, white wine vinegar, and salt in an airtight container. Seal and shake well to mix. Refrigerate for 1 hour before using.

In a dry skillet over medium heat, toast the dried chickpeas, stirring often, until they begin to brown, about 8 minutes. Transfer the toasted chickpeas to a large pot, and cover with at least 1-inch water, about 4 cups. Bring to a boil, then turn off heat, cover, and let soak for 2 hours. Strain before using.

In a 2-quart pot with peanut oil over medium heat, sauté the red onion with garlic until the onion becomes translucent, about 5 minutes. Mix in aji panca, aji amarillo, salt, pepper, cumin, oregano, and five spice. Stir occasionally, for 5 more minutes.

Add the toasted chickpeas plus the stock, stir well to mix. Bring to a simmer and cook until the liquid reduces to the level of the chickpeas, about 30 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the peanut butter, agave, and red wine. Let rest for 10 minutes.

Serve the stew in bowls and top with pickled cabbage. Garnish with cilantro leaves and roasted peanuts. Accompany with a side of steamed white rice.

To infuse the dish with the soulfulness of Black Peru, play some Afro-Peruvian music while you are cooking. Here’s a song by the iconic group Peru Negro:

In 2021, El Pais published an article about how the economy of nostalgia is shaped by the food products that immigrants acquire during trips back home. The author interviewed me about Inca Kola, the soda that became more popular than Coca Cola in Peru. To this day, it’s my favorite soda. Below are some excerpts which I translated from the original Spanish to English, with edits for clarity and brevity.

Peru’s Inca Kola

Peruvians often enjoy drinking Inca Kola with Chinese-Peruvian chifa food. Its bright yellow color resembles that of a highlighter pen and its flavor is somewhere between lemon verbena and bubble gum. It was sold for the first time in 1935 and since the 60s its advertising has linked the soda to the Peruvian identity. One slogan claimed Inca Kola was “The taste of Peru!”

With the economic crisis that affected Peru in the 80s and 90s, millions of Peruvians migrated and without international distribution cans of Inca Kola became precious, nostalgic gifts to those living abroad.

Nico Vera, a vegan Peruvian chef, remembers the soda as his favorite childhood beverage. “I drank it with arroz chaufa (chifa fried rice) or a sánguche (creole sandwich) for lunch, or to quench my thirst during warm summer days.” But when his parents moved their family from Peru to the Dominican Republic and then to Canada, he longed for the soda.

“In the 70s and 80s Peruvian products were not yet available where we lived, and we missed turrón de doña Pepa (anise-flavored nougat sticks layered with raw sugar syrup and topped with colorful candy sprinkles), panetón (sweet, fluffy bread with candied fruit), D’Onofrio ice cream, and Inca Kola. But when we travelled to Peru, we brought back some of those products to enjoy them on special occasions, like Peruvian Independence Day on July 28.”

Today, Inca Kola is available outside Peru with bottling factories in the United States and Chile. And a New Jersey based company founded in 1999 distributes the drink across the US and also in Japan, Australia, and Spain, among other countries.

“What I now realize is that we always had other options, there were other sodas like Coca Cola, but we always chose Inca Kola. I think that our food and drinks make us proud because they are part of our cultural identity,” he adds.

Today, I can get Inca Kola at local Latino markets. And although it’s not a chifa, our favorite Cantonese restaurant soothes my nostalgia for the family reunions and meals from decades ago. But since the restaurant doesn’t carry Inca Kola, I sneak in my favorite soda in a thermos. Each time I drink it, I remember another slogan: “The taste that unites us,” and how it must be true for all Peruvians.

The savory, cool, crisp, and creamy palta rellena—or stuffed avocado—that Mom taught me to make decades ago always reminds me of the beginning of spring.

Palta Rellena

Chickpea salad stuffed avocado.

Indigenous foodways brought the avocado from Mexico to South America centuries ago. In Peru, we call avocado “palta,” after a tribe in the northern part of the Inca empire that cultivated the fruit. I remember my mom making palta rellena with chicken or tuna salad for lunch, as an appetizer for dinner, or for a family potluck. Her small, creole kitchen was home to her seemingly effortless culinary magic that she practiced for more than 80 years. Holding a small, sharp pairing knife on one hand and a palta on the other, she would swiftly and elegantly slice the avocado in half, remove its pit, plate it, and scoop a filling of the chilled salad in the bright green cavity. Here, using mashed canned chickpeas for the stuffing makes the dish plant based and provides protein. Chopped parsley works as a substitute for the dill’s aromatics, and a squeeze of lime juice brightens the dish. This savory, cool, crisp, and creamy palta rellena that Mom taught me to make decades ago always reminds me of the beginning of spring.

Serves 6

• One 15-ounce can unsalted chickpeas

• 1/4 cup vegan mayonnaise

• 1/4 cup finely diced red onion

• 1/4 cup finely diced celery

• 2 tablespoons chopped dill, plus more for garnish

• 1/2 teaspoon salt, or more to taste

• 3 medium to large size ripe avocados, such as Hass

• 1 lime, sliced in half

Strain the chickpeas into a bowl. Use a fork to roughly mash the chickpeas. Add the mayonnaise, onion, celery, dill, and salt. Mix well to form the creamy filling. Adjust salt as needed. Refrigerate for 30 minutes, covered.

Slice avocados in half lengthwise, and remove their pits. Place avocados flesh side up and sprinkle with a dash of salt.

Fill each cavity with 1 tablespoon of the chilled chickpea mixture. Serve face up and garnish with dill. Squeeze a few drops of fresh lime juice over each avocado.

Peru’s Victoria Santa Cruz (1922-2014) was an Afro-descendant who spent her life promoting Black consciousness. Through her dancing, she manifested an ancestral memory of movement from West Africa and laid the foundation for much of today’s Afro-Peruvian choreography. But her words in songs and poems are also her legacy. Below is her poem, in the original Spanish, “Me Gritaron Negra.” And following that is my translation to English. “They Yelled At Me Black” is a powerful dialogue—in call and response phrases—that begins with shame and ends with true empowerment, as conveyed by the closing video’s spoken words.

“Me Gritaron Negra” — Victoria Santa Cruz, 1978

Tenía siete años apenas,
apenas siete años,
¡Qué siete años!
¡No llegaba a cinco siquiera!
De pronto unas voces en la calle
me gritaron ¡Negra!

¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

¿Soy acaso negra?, me dije
¡Si!

¿Qué cosa es ser negra?
¡Negra!

Y yo no sabía la triste verdad que aquello escondía.
¡Negra!

Y me sentí negra,
¡Negra!

Como ellos decían
¡Negra!

Y retrocedí
¡Negra!

Como ellos querían
¡Negra!

Y odié mis cabellos y mis labios gruesos
y miré apenada mi carne tostada

Y retrocedí
¡Negra!

Y retrocedí…
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

Y pasaba el tiempo,
y siempre amargada
Seguía llevando a mi espalda
mi pesada carga
¡Y cómo pesaba!

Me alacié el cabello,
me polveé la cara,
y entre mis entrañas siempre resonaba la misma palabra

¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

Hasta que un día que retrocedía, retrocedía y qué iba a caer
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!
¡Negra! ¡Negra! ¡Negra!

¿Y qué?
¿Y qué?

¡Negra!
Sí

¡Negra!
Soy

¡Negra!
Negra

¡Negra!
Negra soy

¡Negra!
Sí

¡Negra!
Soy

¡Negra!
Negra

¡Negra!
Negra soy

De hoy en adelante no quiero
laciar mi cabello
No quiero
Y voy a reírme de aquellos,
que por evitar–según ellos–
que por evitarnos algún sinsabor
Llaman a los negros gente de color
¡Y de qué color!

Negro
¡Y qué lindo suena!

Negro
¡Y qué ritmo tiene!

Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro

Al fin
Al fin comprendí
Al fin
Ya no retrocedo
Al fin

Y avanzo segura
Al fin

Avanzo y espero
Al fin

Y bendigo al cielo porque quiso Dios
que negro azabache fuera mi color

Y ya comprendí
Al fin

¡Ya tengo la llave!

Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro Negro Negro
Negro Negro

¡Negra soy!

“They Yelled at Me Black” — Victoria Santa Cruz, 1978

I was hardly seven years old,
hardly seven years,
What seven years!
I wasn’t even five!
Suddenly some voice in the street
yelled at me, Black!

Black! Black! Black! Black! Black! Black Black!

Am I Black?, I asked myself
Yes!

What does it mean to be Black?
Black!

And I din’t know the sad hidden truth
Black!

And I felt black
Black!

Like they said
Black!

And I retreated
Black!

Like they wanted me to
Black!

And I hated my hair and thick lips
and I looked at my dark skin with sadness

And I retreated
Black!

And I retreated…
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!

And time passed,
and always angered
I kept carrying on my back
my heavy burden
It was so heavy!

I straightened my hair,
I powdered my face to whiten it,
and in my guts the same word always resounded

Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!

Until one day I retreated, retreated and was about to fall
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black! Black!
Black! Black! Black!

So what?
So what?

Black!
Yes

Black!
I am

Black!
Black

Black!
I am Black

Black!
Yes

Black!
I am

Black!
Black

Black!
I am Black

From today on I don’t want to
straighten my hair
I don’t want to
And I will laugh at those,
that to avoid—according to them—
that to avoid offending us
Call Black people, people of colour
And what colour!

Black
That sounds so nice!

Black
And what rhythm it has!

Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black

At last
At last I understood
At last
I no longer retreat
At last

And I advance sure of myself
At last

I advance and I wait
At last

And I bless the sky because God wanted
jet black to be my colour

And I understood
At last

I have the answer!

Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black Black Black
Black Black

I am Black!

I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing Enrique Hermoza, corporate head bartender at Museo del Pisco in Lima, for my Punch pisco cocktail stories. But for the first time, we chat about something more personal, a pisco cocktail he developed that celebrates Lima’s Chinese-Peruvian chifa culture like no other.

There are more than 6,000 chifas (Chinese-Peruvian restaurants) in Lima. For many limeños (residents of Peru’s capital), chifa is comfort food—a combination of Chinese and Peruvian food cultures that naturally evolved over the span of more than a century. Chifa is the food I grew up with; Mom cooked chifa dishes at home; and for family reunions and celebrations we always dined at a chifa.

Chifa culture is so strong that Peruvians call ingredients by their Cantonese names. Instead of the Spanish “gengibre” for ginger we say “kion,” and instead of “salsa de soya” for soy sauce, we say “sillao.” Many chifa menus list dishes in Cantonese too.

Recently, I came across a chifa-inspired cocktail at Museo del Pisco, a pisco-centric bar in Lima, Cusco, and Arequipa. So I reached out to Enrique Hermoza, and we had a chat about the inspiration behind this drink.

Nico: Hi Enrique, thank you for chatting with me about the chifa cocktail you created. But to begin, I’d like to hear about what chifa food and culture mean to you. Did you grow up eating chifa? Do you have a favorite chifa restaurant or dish? And do you cook any chifa dishes at home?

Enrique: My pleasure, Nico. To me, chifa is very meaningful as it was always one of my preferred cuisines. I grew up eating chifa food, and there was a chifa restaurant a block from my house. We’d go there two or three times a week.

I don’t have a favorite chifa restaurant; I feel that there are so many good chifas in Lima, so I can choose between eight or ten chifas near my home or work.

There’s this traditional chifa dish, Tipakay—the combination of sweet and sour sauce, crunchy chicken, and pineapple make it my favorite dish, without doubt. And at home I enjoy making arroz chaufa (Chinese-Peruvian fried rice).

Nico: So is the cocktail you created Pa’ti kay connected to Tipakay? What is the origin story of the cocktail?

Enrique: Indeed, this cocktail was born at a cafe when I was given the charge to create an offering that represents the taste of Lima. I thought of my favorite chifa dish, Tipakay, and from that point I created a liquid version with torontel (aromatic grape) pisco, tamarind, pineapple juice, and pear shrub.

The result is a sweet, acidic, and nostalgic combination that pays homage to Lima’s mestizaje—the multiethnic mix of people and cultures across centuries. The name of the drink, Pa’ti kay is a play on Tipakay, where pa’ti or “para ti” means “for you.”

Nico: I love that you mention nostalgia, chifa has always felt nostalgic because it’s the food we grew up with, that our parents grew up with, and that our grandparents ate. So it connects generations to a shared past. And it reminds us of home.

Now, all the ingredients you included in the cocktail are very chifa forward. But what about the pisco, why did you choose the torontel pisco for this drink?

Enrique: We chose the torontel pisco from Cholo Matías because of the bodega’s history and tradition, and because the torontel grape has pronounced notes of pineapple, jasmine, and pears. That way all the ingredients have a natural dialogue and integrate harmoniously.

Nico: There are so many pisco cocktails with quebranta (non-aromatic grape), so it’s always wonderful to see a pisco cocktail with an aromatic grape like torontel.

Yet, I am wondering what the drink tastes like. Can you describe the experience of drinking this cocktail?

Enrique: This is a cocktail with a marked intensity and complex pairing of ingredients. In the nose, one perceives aromatic notes of pineapple, flowers, pear, and tamarind. In the palate, the first sip is robust and dense. The pickled turnip activates the taste buds even more, creating an interesting umami sensation. While the fansi (fried glass noodle) accompaniment cleans the palate, allowing you to continue enjoying the drink.

Nico: In Lima’s creole culture, food and music always go together, right? So what Peruvian creole song would you select as the soundtrack for this drink?

Enrique: Definitely the vals criollo (creole waltz) “Alma, corazón y vida.” Alma (soul) represents the mestizaje between Peru and China; corazón (heart) symbolizes our pisco; and vida (life) because this cocktail invites us to cheer to the cultural richness of our country.

The song was composed in 1948 by the Peruvian musician Adrián Flores Albán, and made popular in the 1950s by the Peruvian trio Los Embajadores Criollos. The chorus says: “alma para conquistarte, corazón para quererte y vida para vivirla junto a ti"—”soul to conquer you, heart to love you, and life to live with you.”

Nico: Is there anything else you’d like to add about the cocktail or its place in Lima’s culture?

Enrique: Pa’ti kay is not just a cocktail, it’s a liquid interpretation of Lima’s mestizaje, where pisco has a dialogue which chifa cuisine. This is one of the cultural expressions that most represents the city. And at Museo del Pisco we believe that through cocktails we can tell stories.

Our mission is to reevaluate pisco through well conceptualized offerings that respect the product, the technique, and the complete experience, including the drinking vessel. That’s why we serve this cocktail in a Chinese bowl, as a nod to its origin and Lima’s collective memory.

We would like for Pa’ti kay to become a symbol of Lima in a cup. So when they ask us, “what does Lima taste like?”—the answer is clear: pisco, chifa, and mestizaje.

Nico: Enrique, it was a pleasure chatting with you. And thank you for sharing the recipe for the cocktail. Museo del Pisco is at the top of my list on my next trip to Lima.

Enrique: You are welcome Nico, we will be waiting for you with a drink or two.

I’ve interviewed Enrique for these Punch pisco cocktail stories:

• The Capitán Is Lima’s Old-Guard Aperitivo—For more than 150 years, the Manhattan-like pisco drink has been a Peruvian staple.

• The Pisco Punch Comes Home—Lima bartenders are making a late 19th-century cocktail from San Francisco their own.

Pa’ti kay — A chifa-inspired cocktail by Enrique Hermoza | Museo del Pisco

INGREDIENTS

Serves: 1

• 2 ounces torontel pisco

• 1 ounce pineapple juice

• 1 ounce pear shrub

• 20 grams tamarind pulp

Garnish: a slice of pickled turnip and black sesame seeds

Pairing: fried glass noodles.

DIRECTIONS

1. Add the pisco, pineapple juice, pear shrub, and tamarind pulp to a cocktail shaker with ice; then shake vigorously for 20 seconds.

2. Double strain over a large ice cube in a Chinese bowl or Old Fashioned glass.

3. Garnish with a slice of pickled turnip and black sesame seeds.

4. Accompany with fried glass noodles.

I’ve been running on mountain trails for more than 20 years. But in 2026, I am trying something new—I signed up for my first road marathon.

#SquadGoals

As a writer and chef, I’ve earned accolades for my stories and cooking—both solo and in collaborations. And in my youth, I played in a tennis team at my local club. But this is the first time a running team has invited me to join them. As the New Year gets underway, and I begin to ramp up my pre-season training, I am stoked that I’ll be running for the 2026 Precision Fuel & Hydration Team!

I’ve been using PF&H gels (carbohydrates) for the past couple of years, but only recently did I take a sweat test at a local PF&H lab. The result was a revelation—it showed I was a very salty sweater, which explains why I’d sometimes bonk at races.

Armed with this knowledge, and following a science-backed approach, I’ll be drinking more water and taking more sodium and electrolytes than I have in the past—both while training and racing.

I am thrilled to have found a company that makes a vegan product to fuel my plant-powered endeavors. It’s also pretty awesome to have the positive vibes of the PF&H community supporting my running goals for 2026.

2026 Race Calendar

For the past two decades, mountain trails called me: from the coastal singletracks in California, to Lake Tahoe’s sandy paths, to the ancient Inca Trail in Peru, to Leadville’s rocky summits, to Oregon’s speedy parks, to rooted climbs in British Columbia.

But in 2026, as a masters and plant-powered athlete who is approaching 60 years of age, I am trying something new—I signed up for my first road marathon.

My coach was very surprised when I said I wanted to run the California International Marathon (CIM) in December. But it wasn’t a surprise when I said I also wanted to run my 8th Leadville Trail Marathon in June—and go for a PB in Pb (Leadville).

Those two A-races anchor 2026, and after a few iterations my coach and I settled on a race calendar we were happy with:

• Apr: UTMB Canyons 25K, Auburn, CA

• May: Stumptown Half-Marathon, Portland, OR

• Jun: Whistler Half-Marathon, Whistler, BC

• Jun: Leadville Trail Marathon, Leadville, CO

• Aug: UTMB Whistler 25K, Whistler, BC

• Oct: Toronto Half-Marathon, Toronto, ON

• Dec: California International Marathon, Sacramento, CA

With five trail races, one road half-marathon, and my first road marathon, from trails to roads I am ready to find out where my body will take me.

I love making empanadas. From cooking the filling, to working the dough with my hands, to shaping the empanadas the process is a culinary meditation that connects me to family and our creole roots.

A Family Tradition

Mom told me that my abuelita used to make empanadas and sell them in the street outside her brother’s school in Lima’s working class neighborhood of Barrios Altos. That was in the 1940s, and the beginning of my family’s empanada making tradition that I am proud to continue today.

In 2022, less than one year before she passed away, my mom and I made empanadas for the family. That was the last time we cooked together. And I remember her beautiful hands—that have cooked Peru’s creole food for more than 80 years—carefully folding the empanada dough.

After seeing the expression of bliss on my son’s face—from tasting his first bite of empanada at an early age—I started teaching my daughter how to make empanadas. I love their curiosity and interest in helping me cook, and I think we have all inherited my mom’s cooking hands.

I like to bake empanadas for lunch or dinner, served with a side of greens and glass of red wine. If we don’t finish them in one sitting, I store them in a sealed container and refrigerate them for a couple of days. I really enjoy a reheated breakfast empanada with my cafe con leche.

Empanadas Sin Carne

Baked plant-based beef empanadas.

Serves 12

Empanadas are a portable South American classic of fried or baked hand pies with a savory or sweet filling. Thought to originate in northern Spain, colonial foodways brought the empanada to Peru, where creole cooks made it their own. Street-food vendors have been hawking empanadas in Lima for more than 150 years. And according to colonial-era chronicler Ricardo Palma, empanadas arrived at Noon, after the morning tamales and before the afternoon alfajores.

Making the dough from scratch is a rewarding effort because each time you knead, roll, and shape the dough you build a memory of the scent and texture of dough that is just right. The baked pastry acts as a vehicle for different fillings. Here, the classic filling of ground beef is replaced with an analog plant-protein. An onion sauté base with garlic, spices, broth, and bay leaf enhances the savory filling; while currants and olives add fruitiness.

FILLING

• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

• 2 crushed garlic cloves

• 1 cup diced red onion

• 1 pound plant-based ground beef (such as Beyond Meat, thawed if frozen)

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1/4 teaspoon pepper

• 1/4 teaspoon cumin

• 1/4 teaspoon oregano

• 1/2 cup plant-based beef stock, or water

• 1/4 cup currants or raisins

• 1 bay leaf

• 12 pitted Kalamata olives

DOUGH

• 3 cups flour, plus more to dust the work surface

• 1 cup solid vegetable shortening (such as Spectrum Organics)

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

• 1 cup cold water

GLAZE

• 1/4 cup oat milk

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

For the filling, in a large non-stick skillet over medium to high heat, warm the vegetable oil. Add the onion and garlic, stir and sauté until the onion becomes translucent. Mix in the plant-based ground beef, and use the edge of a spatula to break up large pieces. Season with salt, pepper, cumin, and oregano. Stir occasionally until the filling begins to brown. Add the stock, then mix in the currants and bay leaf. Simmer until the liquid reduces almost completely. Transfer the filling to a bowl, and compost the bay leaf. If making the dough later or the next day, refrigerate the filling in a sealed container.

For the dough, in a large bowl, combine the flour and shortening. Use a spatula to mix thoroughly, add the salt and vinegar, and continue to mix until the dough has a uniform consistency. Add about 3/4 cups water, 2 tablespoons at a time, while continuing to mix. Shape the dough in the bowl by hand to form a dome. If the dough doesn’t keep its shape, add a few more tablespoons of water. The dough should have some elasticity when pulled and not easily crumble or tear apart. Transfer the dough to a floured working surface, and knead the dough for 1 to 2 minutes. Roll the dough into a log and cut into 12 equal pieces. Roll out each piece of dough and cut into 6-inch diameter circles.

To assemble, place the dough circles on a flat, floured working surface. Scoop 2 tablespoons of filling onto the center of each circle and place an olive on top. Use a brush or your fingers to moisten the edges of the dough circles with water. Fold the dough circles in half. With your fingertips, press down firmly on the curved edges to seal the empanadas.

The repulgue along the curved, sealed edge gives the empanada its distinctive style.

To make the repulgue braid:

1. Place an empanada in front of you with the curved edge facing away from you and the straight edge facing towards you.

2. Using your left thumb and left index finger, pinch the left corner, where the curved edge meets the straight edge, and fold the pinched dough towards the center of the empanada.

3. Place your left index finger over the dough you just folded. Then, using your right thumb and right index finger, pinch a piece of dough on the curved edge to the right of your left index finger and pull and fold the pinched dough over your left index finger.

4. Remove your left index finger from under the folded dough. Then, place your left index finger to the right of the dough you just folded.

5. Repeat this pinching, pulling, and folding until you reach the rightmost corner of the empanada. Then, fold the right corner towards the center.

To bake, arrange the empanadas flat on a baking sheet lined with a silicone mat or parchment paper. Brush the top of the empanadas with oat milk, then perforate the top of each empanada with a fork three times, making three parallel dotted lines. Put the baking sheet in the oven and bake the empanadas until they turn golden brown and have a firm, puffy shape, about 40 minutes. Serve warm.

Journalist and vegan chef from Peru. Dad, husband, trail runner, percussionist.

Over the past 15 years, my stories have focused on Peru’s food and drink culture. And recently I’ve looked at everything through a vegan lens. But as the New Year nears, I’ve decided to expand what I write about.

To set my new path, I took a look back at the evolution of Pisco Trail.

2010

When I launched my website 15 years ago my goal was simple: to share the traditional Peruvian dishes that my mom taught me to cook. So I posted recipes and photographs of the food I grew up with. Eventually, I taught classes at a cooking school in San Francisco, California, and cooked pop-up dinners featuring dishes from Peru’s coast, mountains, and jungle.

2018

Then, 8 years ago I turned vegan. And I worried I’d loose my cultural identity by giving up Peru’s traditional dishes. But after researching the food systems of my ancestors, I realized their cooking was very plant-forward. Potatoes, quinoa, corn, beans, and coca leaves were among the most important crops; while llama, fish, or cuy were occasional animal protein.

2020

So I started veganizing Peruvian dishes and shared recipes on my website. Seeking to expand my audience, I started writing for TASTE and Whetstone. Because preserving my culture is paramount, the origin stories I wrote about stayed true to the traditional dish or drink. However, all the recipes I developed and published were vegan.

2021-2023

For two years, I wrote about Peru’s food and drink culture, through a vegan lens, on my monthly Substack newsletter, La Yapa. It was a deeply personal project and I was thrilled to be a runner-up in the Substack’s 2022 Food Writers Intensive. But after 18 issues, I took a break. Later that year, Punch invited me to write a story about the Capitán pisco cocktail.

2025

After a two-year hiatus, I resumed my newsletter and shared an essay about the intersection of veganism and decolonization, plus two recipes (causa, and tiradito) that I contributed to the James Beard Award winning cookbook “Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking.” I was proud to be part of this project, and excited to be writing again.

2026-

La ruta del pisco, the original pisco trail connecting the vineyards and distilleries in Peru’s Ica Valley, has the tagline:

“Tú eliges cómo vivirla”—You choose how to live it

So I am choosing to broaden my newsletter beyond Peru’s food and drink culture to include art, literature, music, and film—all which are intertwined with Peruvian cuisine and the vegan recipes I’ll continue to share.

My tagline declares I am a journalist and vegan chef. But also a dad, husband, trail runner, and percussionist. So I will also write about those themes which are deeply connected to my identity as a writer and chef.

For 2026, I am renaming La Yapa to Pisco Trail and inviting you to follow my expanded cultural and personal journey.

According to Peruvian food historians, picarones—the fried dough mixture of sweet potato, squash, flour, water, and spices—are the result of a long miscegenation process between Andean and colonial ingredients and techniques.

In the 1872 book Tradiciones Peruanas, Peruvian chronicler Ricardo Palma documented the routine of colonial-era street food vendors such as the Afro-descendant picaronera that sang pregones at 2 p.m. to announce the arrival of the fritters she made:

Picarones calientitos, redondos, y tostaditos, y en su miel bien bañaditos 🎵

My translation:

Warm picarones, round and toasted, and in their syrup well bathed 🎵

Peruvian singer Cecilia Barraza evokes the pregones of the picaronera:

The 1903 cookbook Nuevo Manual de Dulces y Otros Postres Criollos, a collection of traditional creole recipes from Lima, includes one for picarones:

Se hace una masa de camote y zapallo bien sancochado, partes iguales de uno y otro; a esta se agrega en mayor cantidad que la que se ha formado, harina de trigo bien cernida, un poco de sal, anís y un poco de buena chicha de jora o de cerveza, todo lo cual se amasa lo mejor posible y se le deja fermentar dos o tres horas.

Al cabo de este tiempo se forman rosquetitas de la masa, que se echan a freír en manteca, y se comen después, bañados en miel de chancaca un poco floja.

Picarones recipe, my translation:

Make a dough of well boiled sweet potato and squash, equal parts of one and the other; to this add in a larger amount than what was formed, well sifted wheat flour, a bit of salt, a bit of anise and a bit of good chicha de jora or beer, all of which is kneaded as much as possible and then left to ferment for two or three hours.

After that time shape the dough into rings, which are thrown to deep-fry in lard, then eaten later, bathed in slightly runny raw sugar syrup.

However, the origin of picarones dates to precolonial times, when Peru’s Indigenous peoples fried mashed sweet potatoes and squash. As the recipe evolved creole cooks added flour, water, spices, and yeast instead of chicha de jora (fermented corn beer).

Today, food cart vendors such as Picarones Mary are popular in Lima, but the recipe and cooking method for picarones remains largely the same as a century ago.

I love that throughout their evolution picarones were always plant-based.

Nikkei cuisine—the centuries-old fusion of Japanese and Peruvian culinary cultures—is having its moment in the global spotlight. In Lima, you’ll find high-end Nikkei restaurants like Maido, currently the No. 1 spot in the World’s 50 Best. But throughout Peru there are more casual spots. One of them was el buda profano—Peru’s first vegan izakaya.

The restaurant was in Arequipa, some 600 miles south of Lima at 7,000 ft. above sea level in a lush valley surround by the Andes Mountains.

Recently, I had the chance to chat with Alan Pater, a native of Vancouver, Canada, who ran el buda profano from 2015 to 2022.

Nico: From your home base in British Columbia, Canada, you’ve travelled extensively throughout Latin America. So how did you end up in Arequipa and what inspired you to open an izakaya that served sushi vegano?

Alan: My travels in Latin America started in 2000 when I went to Guatemala to learn Spanish, and stayed for two years to run an internet cafe in Quetzaltenango. During those years I traveled a lot to neighbouring countries and everywhere I visited I discovered delicious local food.

On my return to Canada, I thought it would be cool if someone opened a restaurant featuring all those little known regional dishes. I did not have any restaurant experience, I was not Latino, but the idea stayed in my head.

A decade went by, I found myself on the island of Ometepe in Nicaragua. There, at a small vegetarian restaurant on a beach, I worked expanding the kitchen, adding a wine and beer menu, improving service, and formalizing opening hours.

The result was very positive, with rave reviews pouring in and a nightly full house. That gave me restaurant experience and less of an excuse to not open my own place.

Around that time someone asked what foods from Vancouver I missed. My answer: sushi, specifically vegan sushi. And from there the question became, “where should I open a cool little vegan sushi place?”

In 2014, I arrived in Arequipa, Peru. And what I found was a city known for its culinary scene, not only its native picanterías but a range of international restaurants as well. But the sushi options sucked, especially the vegan options. One can only eat so many cucumber rolls. And few got the rice right, some totally ruined the rice.

Nobody had a good vegan sushi place, so I decided to do it myself!

Nico: So you decided to do it yourself and opened el buda profano. But what’s the story behind the name?

Alan: Yeah so there is a long tradition of buddhist food associated with veganism in Japan, in China, and in Korea. So while I respect that tradition, I am not a spiritual person and the restaurant would in no way be a temple. But I suspect serving sake, wine and beer would not be things one would find at a Buddhist temple. Knowing me, my girlfriend at the time suggested “el buda profano”, the profane buddha. That describes exactly how I think and feel about things.

We do not mean profane in a negative sense, but in a secular sense. It merges the buddhist concept of respect for all sentient life and the profane concept of using evidence and reason to determine one’s actions in a physical world. These concepts complement each other.

Nico: What was it like to dine at el buda profano in its previous incarnation? Tell us about the neighborhood and what made the place unique?

Alan: Our first location was behind the Monasterio de Santa Catalina in the historic center. We occupied one of several small spaces that had historically housed the servants of the nuns, daughters of wealthy families, cloistered in the convent.

These spaces featured high arched ceilings and were built of large blocks of sillar, the white volcanic stone that is said to have inspired the city’s nickname—la Ciudad Blanca, the White City.

The remodeled interior, constructed with the help of a local jack-of-all-trades, featured a full length wood bar fronting an open kitchen and five rustic wooden tables sourced from the local market.

Bebop played in the background and eclectic artwork hung on the walls.

To answer the question of what it was like to dine or even just hang out at el buda profano, I am going to lean on the words of others:

“Perfect your inner zen with a glass of wine (or sake) as you blend into the shabby-chic atmosphere.” — Fodors

“…the best vegan sushi of my life. No words. Light, savory, sour, sweet, a tinge of salt, sustainable–everything. el buda profano, with their shiitakes, tomato petals, cashews, and algae had me returning each day for lunch. In all honesty, they defined what food should be about, and I would literally food-travel thousands of miles again just for another bite.” — The Metropolitan

Nico: It’s one thing to have an idea for a restaurant, and another to assemble a crew of like-minded and like-spirited people to embark on a shared culinary journey with you. How did you put together your team, in the kitchen and front of house?

Alan: While it was rare to have staff who shared the values of ethical veganism, the unique concept did attract talented staff. I had the good luck to contract MasterChef Perú Jim Daniel Echevarría, who taught at a local culinary school, to help me equip the kitchen, develop the menu, and recruit and train the initial round of kitchen staff.

Jimbo was intrigued by the concept, and took it as a way to test his skills and creativity. He did a fantastic job, the dishes were amazing! Soon after opening, a French-trained chef knocked on our door to offer his services. We often had other international hands join us for a few months at a time.

And over the years, we hired a regular rotation of recent grads from local culinary schools. So with the back of house in professional hands, I was free to handle front of house duties, a role that I really enjoy. A few times we had other front of house staff, but for a lot of the time I was the one greeting and serving customers.

Nico: You and your team manifested el buda profano and opened its doors in December 2015. Did the menu change with seasonality? When I think of Peruvian ingredients I think of palta (avocado), potatoes, quinoa, squash, beans, corn, tomatoes, pineapple. How did you incorporate some of these uniquely Peruvian ingredients in your dishes? And what drinks paired well with the food you served?

Alan: The fresh produce available year-round in Peru helped a lot in maintaining a quality experience. As a result, we kept the same dishes on the menu throughout the seasons. Apart from the selection of sushi rolls, we also had a few dishes with a more local slant, such as our ceviche serrano oriental and a crema de zapallo.

The role that palta (avocado) plays in our dishes is the fat content and the creamy texture. So it is used when those characteristics will enhance the experience, one example is the maki (sushi roll) featuring beet, spinach, and avocado. These three flavours and textures complement and enhance each other.

Our drink menu did change more over the years. We had a selection of teas and fresh juices as well as a beer and wine menu curated by myself. After the pandemic we introduced a small cocktail menu selection as well, including an amazing pisco sour!

For the pisco sour foam, instead of egg whites, we made aquafaba from soy beans.

Sake paired best with sushi, but there was another beverage that paired really well with our food. The dry sparkling wines from Peru—made using the traditional French method—are fantastic and I made sure we always had some on hand.

Nico: Ceviche, of course, is an ancestral Peruvian dish of fish cured in citrus and hot peppers. Over time, Japanese cooks shaped the ceviche into the popular dish served all over Lima and along Peru’s Pacific Coast. How did your chef veganize ceviche and what about the ingredients and flavor make it serrano oriental (Andean-Asian)?

Alan: As is the same with all the other dishes on our menu, we did not try to emulate the flavour of fish. Instead of fish it features Andean ingredients like Peruvian fava beans and Asian ingredients like mushrooms and bean sprouts. The marinade as well is a mix of Peruvian and Asian seasonings: soy sauce, ginger, chilis, and limes.

Nico: I’ve heard you talk about your high standards and the importance of making good rice. Can you say more about that?

Alan: So the Japanese word “sushi” is a compound word: “su,” meaning sour and “shi,” meaning rice. But one cannot use just any rice for sushi. The key to good sushi is in the rice selection, in its preparation, and in its seasoning.

Sushi is made with a specific type of rice: white Japanese sticky rice. But we did not have to import it from Japan as it is now grown in Peru, as well as in California and in the Fraser Valley here in British Columbia, Canada.

So to make good sushi we start with the correct type of rice, we cook it in the correct fashion, and we season it with the correct vinegar mixture. Every good sushi chef has perfected their own specific way of doing this, and el buda profano is no exception.

Some vegan sushi places use brown or other whole grain rice due to their focus as health food restaurants, but the profane buddha is not a health food restaurant. Our goal is to offer delicious food and wine, an inviting atmosphere, and great service.

Nico: So for seven years, el buda profano was a popular, casual, rustic, neighborhood izakaya that served vegan sushi and drinks. Why did it all end?

Alan: The pandemic was very hard for everyone in Peru on so many levels, but the restaurant managed to survive and was just starting to regain its full potential. But the political crisis at the end of 2022 was the final nail in the coffin.

With the city shut down for a month it was like going back to pandemic times all over again, but now with a lot of pandemic-era debt. Staff couldn’t safely make it to work due to blockades. Customers, both local and international, were staying home.

The landlord insisted we pay rent in full at the first of the month. It looked like it would be months before things returned to some level of normality. Again. The difficult decision to close it down became the only viable option.

Nico: It’s been almost three years since el buda profano closed its doors, but you’ve said that it’s your life goal to bring it back. Now that you’ve returned to your native Canada, what is the vision that you have for the next iteration of the profane buddha?

Alan: My vision for the rebirth of the profane buddha is a cool space in Canada where people enjoy great food and drinks and music and art. I dream of attracting a team of like-minded individuals who share the goals of helping wean society off of eating animals via delicious food.

I envision being part of an ecosystem changing the dining world’s choice architecture away from exploiting animals. And I look forward to again sharing an amazing experience with friends.

The restaurant continues to receive 5-star reviews online even after being closed since 2022. And I regularly receive emails asking when the place will reopen.

I would like to invite any readers to get in touch. Do you have kitchen skills? Finance skills? I am looking for potential partners to help make the relaunch reality.

Photos courtesy of @elbudaprofano. Follow the next incarnation @theprofanebuddha.

Amid controversy, pisco’s history and cocktails point to a Peruvian origin.

The Controversy

Pisco is a grape brandy, and both Peru and Chile stake a claim to the pisco appellation. Each calls pisco their national spirit, and each country’s D.O. (denomination of origin) regulates the grapes to use and how to distill it. So, is pisco from Chile or from Peru?

Let’s take a look at pisco’s Peruvian etymology. In Quechua, one of Peru’s Indigenous languages, the word for bird is “pisku.” Then, there’s the port of Pisco, founded in 1640, that has exported pisco from Peru to places like California since the Gold Rush. The earthenware jars used to store and transport the spirit since the 16th century are also called “piscos.”

A D.O. matters. For example, France’s D.O. for champagne states that the wine can only be produced in the Champagne region via the méthode champenoise. Now, imagine the outcry if neighboring Spain changed the name of one of their cities to Champagne and called champagne theirs. That’s what Chile did in 1936 when it renamed the village La Union to Pisco Elqui in an effort to strengthen their claim.

A book titled “El Pisco Nació en Chile” claims pisco was born in Chile and makes reference to a 1733 document listing three pisco jars in the inventory of hacienda La Torre. Unfortunately, the book’s evidence is unclear or misleading. It’s unclear whether the three pisco jars in the inventory are just empty earthenware jars, jars containing pisco, or jars that were transported from the port of Pisco in Peru. Also, a graphic shows Pisco Elqui in 1715, two centuries before the name change.

Beyond the above, the evidence, pisco's long history in Peru, and Peru’s pisco cocktails strongly point to the spirit’s Peruvian origin.

The History

Peru’s Ica Valley, 200 miles south of Lima, is home to some of the first vineyards in South America that produced wine and then pisco since the 16th century. At first, distillers called the spirit aguardiente de uva (grape firewater). But with the start of commercial exportation on ships leaving from Peru’s port of Pisco, the aguardiente’s name became simply pisco.

The UNESCO validated and registered historical documents and maps that prove that pisco production occurred in Peru between 1587 and 1613. These documents include:

• 1587: payments and settlements recording the materials and production of pisco

• 1589: commercial maritime records of pisco exports from the port of Pisco

• 1605: the last will and testament of Manuel de Azante noting the distillation and storage of pisco

• 1613: the last will and testament of Pedro Manuel noting the production and commerce of pisco in Ica

In 1823, The British Press wrote about an American ship carrying 2,800 jars of Pisco brandy from the port of Pisco during Peru’s war for independence. This is an early reference to pisco with a clear place of origin.

In California, a legal case from 1864, “The U.S. vs. 200 Jars of Pisco,” clearly identifies the spirit as Peruvian, both in production and point of origin. The case was brought against Nicholas Larco who was importing pisco (in pisco earthenware jars) from Peru to San Francisco. Apparently, Larco violated import quantity regulations.

Peru's claim to the pisco appellation is stronger because evidence from historical documents dating to 1587 support pisco's Peruvian origin. While in Chile a reference to pisco appeared in 1733, albeit in an unclear context.

The Cocktails

The Pisco Sour is the national drink of both Peru and Chile. And there are anecdotes about drinks in both countries that combined pisco with lime juice and sugar. However, written documents point to the Pisco Sour’s Peruvian origin.

The 1903 Peruvian cookbook, “Nuevo Manual de Cocina a La Criolla,” includes an early version with pisco (not just aguardiente), sugar, and egg whites. In 1920, Victor Morris began serving the Pisco Sour at his bar in Lima, and the cocktail appears as “Pisco Sour” on the bar’s menu alongside other gin, whiskey, champagne, vermouth, and brandy cocktails. Meanwhile, 14 years later a 1934 Chilean novel, “La chica del Crillón" by Joaquín Edwards Bello, mentions the Pisco Sour.

Beyond the Pisco Sour, Peru has a rich history of pisco cocktails that spans centuries:

• El Capitán: the old-guard mix of pisco and vermouth has been around in Lima for more than 150 years.

• Pisco Punch: made with pisco imported from Peru, the potent drink rose to fame in San Francisco, California, from 1893 until Prohibition.

• Chilcano: the refreshing combination of pisco with ginger ale and lime juice has strong connections to Lima’s 19th century.Italian immigrants.

• Emoliente Piteado: a clandestine street cocktail which originated from the tisanes served by Lima’s street vendors during the Viceroyalty of Peru.

• El Chirulín: the Afro-Peruvian cocktail from El Ingenio that combines pisco, pomelo, and cinnamon syrup is likely Peru’s first pisco cocktail.

In Chile, popular pisco cocktails include Peru’s Pisco Sour and Chilcano plus drinks of Chilean origin, such as the Pichuncho (similar to a Manhattan) and Piscola (a mix of pisco and Coca-Cola).

Two Spirits, One Pisco

While both Chile and Peru produce grape brandies, the spirit made in Peru is an exclusively Peruvian creation. To be clear, I am not saying the grape brandy from Chile is inferior. It’s different, made from different grapes, with different terroir, and a different distillation process. Chile can continue to distill brandy, but can’t call it pisco.

Because of pisco’s history in Peru, and documents which prove that pisco was first distilled in Peru, only Peru has the right to use the pisco appellation.

It’s time for Chile to stop using the name pisco. Pisco is from Peru, carajo!

Recipes are a gift. Mom gifted me her recipes when she taught me to cook. And for more than a decade I gifted recipes through my cooking classes, blog, newsletter, and published stories. But only recently did I gift recipes for a cookbook.

The Invitation

Four years ago, Joe Yonan asked me to develop recipes for his new cookbook. I knew who he was, admired his work, and had his cookbooks in my home library, so I wondered how he found me. His answer surprised me: he had been following my writing for some time now, and found my recipes to be unique and interesting.

I think my stories about Peru’s food culture for TASTE magazine, some with recipes, must have made a good impression.

During our first phone conversation, he described the ambitious scope of the project and how he was recruiting a dozen or so recipe developers to help out with 300 recipes. At the time, I was busy with my own projects and sleep deprived from being a new dad, but by the end of our chat, he convinced me and I was all in.

The Recipes

My goal was to develop all new recipes for the cookbook, significantly different from other recipes I’ve published. Also, it was important to use non-processed and accessible ingredients. That meant no imported Peruvian aji amarillo (yellow hot pepper), or maiz morado (purple corn).

These recipes—rooted in traditional dishes and which represent the multicultural diversity of Peruvian cuisine—made the cut:

• Beet Ceviche—an homage to the bonito ceviche my grandfather cooked

• Trumpet Mushroom Tiradito—celebrates the Japanese-Peruvian sashimi dish

• Beet & Quinoa Soup—a hearty plant-based twist on a coastal dish

• Ocopa Potato Garden—invites you to the Andes mountains of Peru

• Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato—a sushi roll take on the traditional potato mash

• Panetón Loaf Cake—evokes the Christmas holidays in Lima

• Quinoa Oat Milk Pudding—the Andean version of the classic arroz con leche

• Tusán Pisco Sour—toasts the popular Chinese-Peruvian food culture

The Process

Developing recipes is an art, where the ingredients, techniques, and presentation tell a story. Take the Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato. The template for the recipe is the traditional creole dish Causa Limeña, but I wanted to transform it into a dish that showcased the creativity of Japanese-Peruvian Nikkei cooking.

Mom prepared Causa Limeña in a casserole and spread a bottom layer of the yellow potato mash mixed with olive oil, aji amarillo, salt, and lime juice; added a middle layer of tuna salad with onion, celery, and mayo; then spread a top layer of the potato mash; and garnished the dish with olives, parsley, and hard-boiled eggs.

In my Vegan Causa Limeña, I replace the tuna with mashed chickpeas and use plant-based mayo, but the potato mash—already vegan—is the same. For the presentation, however, I shape the potato mash into individual servings, balls that I top with chickpea salad to make it a Peruvian piqueo, small bites of comida criolla.

So the question I posed was—how do I transform my Causa Limeña into a Nikkei dish?

First, the presentation. The potato mash is very smooth yet firm when chilled so I shaped it into a roll that reminds one of a sushi roll, specially when sliced and topped with avocado, nori strips, and jalapeño rounds. Since potatoes are from Peru, using the potato mash instead of rice made the Japanese roll more Peruvian.

Next, the yellow potato mash. Instead of olive oil, I used toasted sesame oil to introduce the flavors of Japanese cuisine into the dish. But for the heat, the recipe calls for the more accessible sriracha rather than aji amarillo. I kept the limes, as the sharp flavor is ubiquitous in Peru’s ceviche and Pisco Sour, so I wanted it here too.

Now, the filling. Instead of a chickpea salad, I experimented with steaming cubed beets in kombu stock in order to impart umami from the sea and introduce a color and texture that is reminiscent of bonito. Then, scallions replace the red onions and cucumber stands in for the celery that I mixed with the beets and mayo.

And that was my process to transform the traditional creole dish that is Causa Limeña into a Nikkei dish that combines Japanese and Peruvian ingredients and techniques. So the flavors and presentation are familiar, yet unique. And they tell a story. That is what makes Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato an interesting recipe.

The Cookbook

Joe Yonan’s cookbook, “Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking,” went on to win the James Beard Award for best Vegetable-Focused Cookbook. In his Instagram post, @joeyonan said this about the developers that contributed recipes:

Thank you for helping me spread the word that plant-based cooking doesn’t have to be an identity — it is a cuisine unto itself, worthy of study and interest and … mastery (or the ongoing attempt at such).

The cookbook is truly a beautiful collection of recipes, all with their own stories and cultural significance. And each recipe is a small, intimate gift that promises to feed and nourish you in ways you might never have experienced before.

Cooking Peruvian food is a strong part of my identity. So it makes me proud that the world is finally realizing what I’ve always known: Peruvian cuisine is a rich culinary fabric of Peru’s Indigenous, African, Chinese, and Japanese cultures that tells stories of colonialism, resistance, and migration while celebrating coastal, Andean, and Amazonic ingredients.

Global Recognition

This past year, Peru won World’s Leading Culinary Destination, besting culinary giants France, Italy, Japan, China, Mexico, Australia, India, and the United States, among others. This is the Oscar’s of the food world and it went to Peru. But it’s not just last year, Peru has won the award 12 times:

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2024: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2023: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2022: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2021: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2020: Italy

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2019: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2018: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2017: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2016: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2015: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2014: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2013: Peru

• World’s Leading Culinary Destination 2012: Peru

This means that more people enjoy traveling to Peru to eat than anywhere else in the world. This global accolade makes all Peruvians very proud.

Top Restaurants

In 2023, Lima’s Central was the No. 1 restaurant on The World's 50 Best Restaurants, and this year four Peruvian restaurants are on the list, with one in the top spot:

• No. 1: Maido

• No. 9: Kjolle

• No. 26: Mérito

• No. 39: Mayta

While all have risen in the rankings from previous years, I am happy to see Maido in the top spot because it celebrates the Nikkei fusion of Japanese and Peruvian culinary cultures that inspires me so. It makes me proud that for the second time the best restaurant in the world is in my home country.

The James Beard Awards

Since 2020, I’ve submitted my stories to the James Beard Awards food and drink categories, but I’ve never won. These are three of my favorites:

• The Soul Food of Black Peru

• This Tamales Story is Still Being Written

• The Capitán is Lima’s Old Guard Aperitivo

However, this year I have reason to celebrate. Joe Yonan’s cookbook, “Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking,” won the James Beard Award for best Vegetable-Focused Cookbook. Of the 300 recipes, I contributed a dozen, plus an essay. Two of the recipes are inspired by Peru’s Nikkei cuisine:

• Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato

• Trumpet Mushroom Tiradito

• Decolonize Your Diet

I am proud that a cookbook with my name as a contributor, that includes recipes inspired by my culinary heritage, has won a James Beard Award.

My Andean ancestors imbibed chicha de jora (corn beer) and chicha morada (purple corn drink) in daily life and for special ceremonies. But throughout Peru, the term “chicha” also refers to a lively musical genre and the colorful street art closely associated with it. This multifaceted chicha culture connects the coast, Andes, and Amazon regions because everywhere there’s drink there’s music.

The Beer

For Whetstone Journal, I wrote about The Spirits of the Andes, and how thousands of years ago Andean communities used germinated corn to make ancestral chicha de jora beer. Chicheras—women brewers that have passed on generational knowledge from mother to daughter for millennia—mill, boil, and strain germinated corn before fermenting it in chomba earthenware vats. Served in a large caporal glass, the chicha de jora beer is still fermenting when you drink it.

“It’s a really nice, unfiltered, wonderful light sour, with a lot of chewiness and body to it, like a big wheat beer, with a light frothiness to it.” — Juan Mayorga, Cervecería del Valle Sagrado founder.

Like many foods of the Andes, the beer has made its way to Lima, Peru’s coastal capital, while in the Amazon, locals make chicha with cassava or yuca instead of corn.

The Drink

Chicha morada is a traditional non-alcoholic drink that families from Lima to the Andes mountains make with a maiz morado (purple corn) elixir, lime juice, sugar, spices, and fruits. Corn is one of the primary foods that my Inca ancestors cultivated, and purple corn is rich in antioxidants. Chicha morada is so popular that all corner markets in Lima carry packets of chicha morada powder mix.

Since I live in the Pacific Northwest, I wanted to use local ingredients to make a drink that honors chicha morada—presenting: chicha de blueberry. Blueberries have the same deep purple color as maiz morado and are also rich in antioxidants. Chicha morada’s aromatics are infused into the syrup with cinnamon, cloves, and orange peel. The vibrant color of the drink celebrates the summer season, and the garnish of a lime round, fresh mint, and blueberries on a toothpick give the drink a cocktail vibe.

Chicha de Blueberry

Blueberry Purée

• ½ cup fresh blueberries

• 5 ounces water

Spiced Syrup

• ½ cup water

• ½ cup cane sugar

• 1 cinnamon stick

• 2 cloves

• peel from half an orange

Chicha (1 Serving)

• 2 ounces blueberry purée

• 1 ounce spiced syrup

• 1 ounce fresh lime juice

• ice

• lime round, for garnish

• mint sprig, for garnish

• blueberries on a toothpick, for garnish

For the blueberry purée, in a tall container, combine ½ cup fresh blueberries with 5 ounces water. Blend with an immersion blender and pass through a fine mesh strainer into a mason jar. Compost the leftover skin.

For the spiced syrup, in a saucepan over medium to high heat, combine ½ cup water, ½ cup cane sugar, 1 cinnamon stick, 2 cloves, and the peel from half an orange. Bring to a gentle boil, reduce the heat, and stir to dissolve the sugar. Simmer for 5 minutes to let the spices infuse in the liquid. Remove from the heat, strain into a mason jar, and let cool before using. Compost the spices and peel.

For 1 serving of chicha, in an 8 ounce mason jar, combine 2 ounces blueberry purée, 1 ounce syrup, and 1 ounce lime juice. Stir vigorously to mix well. Add ice and garnish with a lime round, mint spring, and blueberries on a toothpick.

The Music

Just like people and foods from the Andes migrated to Lima, so has music—and the fusion between Andean huayno and coastal cumbias is chicha. By the 1980s, chicha became an established musical genre that combined huayno melodies, electric guitar, psychedelic rock, and cumbia beats.

Los Shapis, originally from the Andean region of Huancayo, was one of the first bands that popularized chicha in Lima and then around the world. Beyond their music, the musicians promoted a new Andean identity in Peru’s capital and proudly represented the working class. One of their songs, “Rica Chicha” / “Delicious Chicha” celebrates the beer. Decades after the release of “Rica Chicha,” Brooklyn-based band Chicha Libre plays a cover of the song, and their album art is, of course, in chicha lettering:

A musical cousin of chicha is the cumbia Amazonica. Los Mirlos illustrate the psychedelic elements of this genre and invite everyone to dance when they sing about “la cumbia de los pajaritos,” the cumbia of the little birds from the Amazon:

The Art

Chicha art is the style, lettering, posters and murals whose aesthetic is defined by a flowing font with sweeping curves and vibrant color gradients. Some of the first posters from the 1980s that featured this style advertised chicha bands and their concerts, so chicha art is very much connected to chicha music.

To urban artists, chicha is a form of social activism. One chicha poster I’ve seen at a bar in Lima says:

“Somos cholos, seamoslo siempre.” / “We are cholos, let’s always be cholos.”

Here, “cholos,” once a pejorative for Andean people, is now a reclaimed term of pride, and the phrase is a play on Peru’s national anthem which says:

“Somos libres, seamoslo siempre.” / “We are free, let’s always be free.”

Originally from the Andes and now based in Lima, one contemporary chicha muralist is Elliot Tupac. Beyond the colors and design of his art, the lettering is made all the more powerful by his choice of words:

“Libertad Es Responsabilidad” / “Liberty Is Responsibility”

“Cholo Soy” / “I Am A Cholo”

“Vive Tus Sueños” / “Live Your Dreams”

“Poesía Del Alma” / “Poetry Of The Soul”

“El Amor Cura” / “Love Heals”

“Libertad” / “Liberty”

Today, Tupac’s art transcends boundaries, and his murals appear throughout the Americas and Europe.

The thread that connects all these chichas—from drinks to music to art—is the culture of the Andes, and the journey of Andean people from their home in the mountains to Lima. My mom, who passed away two years ago, made this journey with her mother. Mom loved to dance huaynos, and always enjoyed arandanos (blueberries). So for the anniversary of her passing this June, I’ll cook an Andean dish, drink chicha de blueberry, and dance with her to chicha music.

When I make causa Limeña, I always remember my mom and how she taught me to make the traditional creole dish. My mom also liked Japanese food, so I think she would have enjoyed making this Japanese-Peruvian recipe that I contributed to Joe Yonan’s cookbook Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking.

Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato

Causa is a traditional Peruvian chilled mashed potato casserole with a tuna or chicken salad middle layer. The mash is already vegan because instead of milk or butter, Peru's creole cooks mix in olive oil, lime juice, and ají amarillo (native yellow chiles). This recipe honors Nikkei, the Japanese-Peruvian food culture prevalent in Lima for more than one hundred years, by having you shape the causa like a sushi roll, filling it with a salad of beet cubes steamed with kombu stock (making them resemble the bonito tuna so popular among Lima's working class). The potatoes get a little kick from sriracha, while nori strips, avocado, and jalapeño garnish the sliced rolls.

Makes 4 servings

Time: Weekend

Storage: Not recommended, but you can make and refrigerate the potato puree 1 day in advance, until you are ready to make the dish.

2 pounds (910g) Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch (2.5cm) pieces

1½ teaspoons fine sea salt

2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

1½ teaspoons sriracha

1 (4 × 6-inch/10cm × 15cm) piece dried kombu, rinsed

2 cups (470ml) water

2 medium beets (7 ounces/200g total), peeled and cut into ½-inch (1.3cm) cubes (about 1 cup)

½ medium cucumber (4 ounces/115g), peeled and cut into ½-inch (1.3cm) cubes (about 1 cup)

2 tablespoons Silky Aquafaba Mayonnaise (page 46) or store-bought vegan mayonnaise

3 scallions, white part only, finely chopped (about 2 tablespoons)

Toasted nori strips, for garnish

Sliced avocado, for garnish

Thinly sliced jalapeño rounds, for garnish

In a large pot, combine the potatoes with enough water to cover by 2 inches (5cm). Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, reduce the heat until the water is simmering, and cook until the potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Drain and let the potatoes cool slightly.

When the potatoes are cool enough to handle, use a ricer to press them into a large bowl. (A ricer gets them particularly smooth, but alternatively you can use a potato masher and try to get out as many lumps as possible.) Fold in 1 teaspoon of the salt, the lime juice, sesame oil, and sriracha. Transfer the mixture to the refrigerator to chill completely before using, at least 3 hours.

In a medium pot, combine the kombu, the 2 cups (470ml) water, and ¼ teaspoon of the salt. Let the kombu soak for 15 minutes, then set the pot over medium-high heat and bring the water to a boil. Reduce the heat until the water is simmering and cook for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat (fish out and compost the kombu).

Place a steamer basket/insert in the pot, pouring out a little of the kombu stock if need be so the basket isn't touching the water, and spread the beet cubes evenly in the basket. Bring the kombu stock to a boil over medium-high heat, reduce to a simmer, cover, and steam the beets until tender, 20 to 30 minutes. Transfer the beets to a bowl and let them cool.

When the beets are cool, add to their bowl the cucumber, remaining ¼ teaspoon salt, mayonnaise, and scallion whites and stir to combine.

Set an 11½ × 8-inch (29cm × 20cm) piece of compostable parchment paper on your work surface, with a short side facing you.

Once the mashed potato is chilled, scoop one-quarter of it, about 1 cup, on top of the parchment and shape it into a 7 x 4-inch (18cm × 10cm) rectangle centered on the parchment, with the 7-inch (18cm) side of the rectangle parallel to the long side of the parchment. (From your perspective, the mashed potato rectangle should be taller than it is wide.) Spread one-quarter of the beet and cucumber filling, about ½ cup, length-wise down the center of the mashed potatoes.

Starting with the parchment's bottom short edge, fold it up in half to bring together the 4-inch (10cm) edges of the mashed potato. Gently peel the parchment off the mashed potato, and use your hands as needed to shape the potato into a roll with the beet filling inside. Transfer the roll to a plate. (it should le about 2½ inches/6.5cm in diameter.) Repeat to make 3 more rolls.

Slice each roll into 6 pieces and top the pieces with nori, avocado, and jalapeño. Serve immediately.

When Joe Yonan asked me to contribute recipes to his cookbook Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking, I thought about how the food cultures of Lima and Tokyo are connected by the Pacific Ocean.

Trumpet Mushroom Tiradito

Tiradito, the marriage of Peruvian ceviche and Japanese sashimi, is one of the hallmark dishes of the Nikkei cuisine that Japanese indentured workers and immigrants first cooked in early twentieth-century Lima. Though there are many variations, three important ingredients are salt, hot pepper, and citrus-all of which are combined with ginger and jalapeño in the leche de tigre, the spicy marinade that captures the essence of both ceviche and tiradito.

Unlike ceviche, tiradito is traditionally sliced and sauced rather than "cooked" in the marinade. In food writer Nico Vera's version, inspired by his travels to Lima and Tokyo, a kombu stock imparts umami from the sea, a sweet potato mash balances and thickens the leche de tigre, and sliced trumpet mushroom stems resemble sashimi. This makes for a beautiful, elegant dinner-party course and is best enjoyed immediately after preparing. In the Peruvian tradition, serve extra leche de tigre in shot glasses and drink with an optional splash of pisco.

Makes 4 servings

Time: Weekend

Storage: Not recommended. The extra kombu stock and sweet potato can be refrigerated for up to 1 week or frozen for up to 3 months.

4 large trumpet mushrooms (9 ounces/255g total), with stems 3 inches (7.5cm) long and 1 inch (2.5cm) thick

1 (4 x 6-inch/10cm x 15cm) piece dried kombu, rinsed

2 cups (470ml) water

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more to taste

1 small garnet sweet potato (7 ounces/200g)

3 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

¼ cup (60ml) fresh lime juice, plus more to taste

3 tablespoons chopped red onion

3 tablespoons chopped celery

1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro leaves

1 tablespoon chopped peeled fresh ginger

2 medium garlic cloves, chopped

1 tablespoon chopped seeded jalapeño, plus more to taste and thin slices for garnish

1 scallion, thinly sliced, for garnish

Starting with the stem end, slice each mushroom on the diagonal into ¼-inch (3mm) slices, including the mushroom cap.

In a medium pot, combine the kombu, water, and salt and let the kombu soak for 15 minutes. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a simmer and cook for 15 minutes, stirring initially to dissolve the salt. Turm off the heat. Remove the kombu and compost it. Add the mushroom slices to the pot with the kombu stock and let cool to room temperature, about 1 hour.

Meanwhile, in another medium pot. combine the sweet potato with enough water to cover by 1 inch (2.5cm).

Bring the water to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a simmer and cook until the sweet potato is fork-tender, 20 to 30 minutes. Drain. When the sweet potato is cool enough to handle, peel it and mash enough of the flesh to equal ¼ cup (62g). (Compost the peel and reserve the extra sweet potato for another use, such as adding to soups, smoothies, tacos, and grain bowls.)

Remove the mushroom slices from the kombu stock and pat dry with a towel. Measure ½ cup (120ml) kombu stock for the leche de tigre and reserve the remaining stock for another use, such as adding to soups and sauces.

In a large nonstick skillet, heat 2 teaspoons of the sesame oil over medium heat until it shimmers. Add the mushroom slices and cook undisturbed on one side until the edges are lightly golden, about 1 minute.

To make the leche de tigre, in a blender, combine the reserved ¼ cup (62g) sweet potato mash, ½ cup (120ml) kombu stock, the lime juice, onion, celery, cilantro, ginger, garlic, jalapeño, and the remaining 1 teaspoon sesame oil and puree on high until smooth, about 30 seconds. Taste and season with salt, more lime, and/or jalapeño as needed. Transfer ½ cup (120ml) leche de tigre into a container with a spout.

Set aside the remaining leche de tigre.

Slowly pour the ½ cup of leche de tigre onto the center of each of four small plates to form a circular pool, 2 tablespoons per plate. Arrange the mushroom slices over the pools, garnish with the sliced jalapeno and scallion, and serve immediately with the reserved leche de tigre in shot glasses (with an optional splash of pisco).

When Joe Yonan asked me to contribute recipes to his cookbook Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking, he also asked if I wanted to write an essay. Immediately, I knew what I wanted to explore: the intersection of decolonization and veganism, and how the past is connected to a plant-based future. Below is the full essay from the cookbook, which features three chefs that show that cooking with plant-based ingredients can be a practice in decolonization.

Decolonize Your Diet

Starting in the fifteenth century, colonization impacted all aspects of Indigenous culture in the Americas. European colonists uprooted Indigenous peoples from their homes, enslaved them, indoctrinated language and religion, and exploited natural resources for economic gain. Colonial practices destroyed Indigenous food systems and introduced foreign plants and animals, transforming many Indigenous recipes, disappearing others, and creating new dishes.

Peru's Indigenous peoples, for instance, prepared ceviche in precolonial times. But its contemporary and most traditional preparation—fish cured in lime juice with salt, red onions, and native hot peppers—is a product of colonization because Spain's colonial foodways introduced two of its ingredients: limes and red onions. Colonization also created Mexico's emblematic carnitas taco of pulled pork atop native corn tortillas after the Spanish introduced pigs to the Americas. And in the United States, dairy foods— milkshakes, ice cream, cheese, and more—became a product of colonization when Europeans brought cows to the Americas.

Before colonization, though, Indigenous cooking in the Americas was largely plant-based.

In Peru, Indigenous peoples thrived on a diet of native ingredients such as quinoa, potatoes, corn, hot peppers, and wild herbs and plants. They also used food storage methods, such as freeze-drying potatoes into chuño, which has a ten-year shelf life, in case of scarcity or drought. Quinoa, dubbed "The Mother Grain," was an important source of protein for the Inca. The Inca also cooked animal protein such as fish and llama, and they cultivated most of their foods according to seasonality and at challenging high elevations in the Andes.

In Mexico, Indigenous peoples cooked with native ingredients such as squash, beans, corn, and xitomatl—tomato, in the Indigenous language Náhuatl. They also developed nixtamalization, the process of treating corn with lime (calcium hydroxide) water to remove toxins produced by fungi, making the corn more workable, and increasing its nutritional value. This is the basis for making corn tortillas, tamales, tostadas, sopes, and all the other dishes that start out as masa. Some animal protein, such as birds or fish, was also part of their diet, which complemented their agricultural system, yielding diverse, nutritious foods.

In North America, Indigenous peoples developed community-based regional food systems rooted in permaculture. Here, the Three Sisters—squash, beans, and corn—complement one another nutritionally and form the foundation of Indigenous culinary traditions. They also carry spiritual significance and, when grown together, work synergistically to create fertile soil. Across North America, some animal protein, such as deer or other native game, was also part of their diet.

Today, chefs and home cooks in Peru, Mexico, the United States, and elsewhere are seeking to reconnect with their ancestral food cultures by decolonizing contemporary recipes, and in the process are unearthing the deep roots of plant-based cooking in the Americas. But what does it mean to decolonize a dish? Is it simply to cook only with precolonial Indigenous ingredients? Is it possible to undo the evolution of traditional dishes that were transformed by colonization? The answer is not that simple.

Let's take a closer look at Peru's ceviche. Precolonization, some five hundred years ago, the Inca cooked ceviche by curing fish for hours in the juice of tumbo, a jungle citrus similar to a sour orange, mixed with salt and native hot peppers. After the Spanish colonists introduced limes and red onions to Peru's cuisine, ceviche's ingredients changed. But postcolonization, Japanese indentured workers who settled in Lima transformed ceviche even further. They shortened the curing time and quickly tossed the catch of the day with salt, fresh lime juice, onions, and hot peppers. Colonization transformed the dish's ingredients and its preparation.

To strictly decolonize ceviche would mean to cook it like the Inca, without limes and without onions. It would also mean erasing the culinary contributions of Japanese culture. Should that be the goal of decolonization?

Three chefs are confronting the challenges of decolonizing recipes in different ways.

From Peru's Pacific Coast, over the Andes Mountains, and into the Amazon jungle, chef Virgilio Martinez forages for native ingredients at different elevations to create a tasting menu at his Lima restaurant, Central. He also works with farmers and producers, especially in the Andes, to feature their ingredients on his menus. And he cooks using Indigenous techniques such as pachamanca, an underground earthen oven that slow-cooks buried ingredients with hot rocks. By using native ingredients in situ, instead of re-creating traditional postcolonial dishes, Martinez is effectively cooking through a decolonization lens.

All food evolves over time. Just as immigrants adapt their cuisines to fit the ingredients of their new homeland, these chefs are showing that decolonization can be an exercise in looking to the past as a way to imagine the future.

Based in Los Angeles, Jocelyn Ramirez is a chef and author of La Vida Verde, a cookbook with plant-based recipes inspired by her Mexican roots. One of her recipes for tacos eschews pulled pork for shredded jackfruit, and another combines tofu, tempeh, and mushrooms to resemble chorizo. Cooking with plant-based ingredients instead of pork is one way Ramirez is decolonizing the taco. But she also builds community through her food business, Todo Verde. From cooking classes to farmers markets and other events, she is trying to bring food equity to LA neighborhoods and promote a healthy plant-based lifestyle that celebrates a shared ancestral culture.

In the United States, Oglala Lakota chef Sean Sherman, aka the Sioux Chef, is revitalizing the nutritional plant-diverse Indigenous cuisine of his ancestors. While his cooking includes some native animal proteins, it eliminates ingredients that didn't exist before colonization—such as dairy, wheat, flour, cane sugar, beef, pork, and chicken. But he also embraces a modern Indigenous perspective and cooks with nonnative plants. With a focus on education, Sherman opened the Indigenous Food Lab, a cooking school and restaurant that showcases decolonized dishes, foods, and techniques of North America's Indigenous peoples.

As a chef and former omnivore who turned vegan several years ago, I was afraid I would lose my cultural identity if I stopped eating the traditional animal-protein dishes I grew up with in Peru. But chefs such as these have shown me—and others—that cooking with plant-based ingredients can be a practice in decolonization. After experimenting with veganizing several dishes, I had a realization:

The culinary essence of my country's traditional recipes is not the animal protein, but rather the combination of flavors, hot peppers, spices, textures, and stories that have shaped a dish over centuries.

Learning to cook Peru's traditional dishes with plant-based ingredients has done the opposite of what I feared it might. I haven't merely preserved my cultural identity while going vegan; I've forged an even deeper connection to my ancestral roots.

Further reading :

• For This Tamales Story is Still Being Written, I interviewed Jocelyn Ramirez about her family’s tamalada tradition.

• In Indigenous Cuisine Tells the Story of Connected Continents, I chat with Sean Sherman about the cooking and precolonial food history of our ancestors.

• In The Underground Story of Slow Cooking, I write about the huatia and pachamanca, ancestral earthen ovens used by cooks like Virgilio Martinez.

• In The Coca Story Goes Way Beyond the Cola, I interviewed the chef de cuisine at Mil, Virgilio Martinez’s restaurant in Moray.

A lot has happened since my last post in January of 2023. I’d like to tell you about my mom, pisco cocktails, a Peruvian podcast, and a plant-based cookbook. Welcome back to La Yapa.

My Mom and Tupananchiskama

Six months after I wrote Tupananchiskama, my mom, Sara, passed away. So the Quechua word for “until life makes us meet again” has a deeper meaning now. It’s bittersweet that one of the last dishes we made together was empanadas, and that my family’s empanada making tradition story was published three days after she died.

Though I am profoundly sad, I am also immensely grateful for all she taught me about cooking, the many stories she shared, and all our trips together. Now, I love recreating the comida criolla that Mom cooked for us, and will always cherish memories like the time when Mom cooked with the famed Afro-Peruvian singer Susana Baca.

To honor my mom, I got a tattoo on my arm—TUPANANCHISKAMA—in the font that resembles the hand writing of 17th century Inca chronicler Guaman Poma de Ayala. I see it when I cook, and my kitchen is still a place where we meet again, because my mom is there cooking beside me.

Pisco Cocktails

Since 2020, TASTE and W Journal have published several of my stories about Peru’s food culture. However, I also wanted to write about pisco cocktails for Punch, and over the years I sent them pitches that went unanswered. So I was surprised when Punch reached out to me in 2023 to ask me to write about the Capitán.

The Capitán is a classic cocktail dating from Lima’s Belle Époque era that combines pisco and sweet vermouth. Its origin story connects Italian immigrants and cavalry captains in the cold sierra region of Puno. In Lima, Capitán variations are as diverse as the bars that serve them.

My stories about the Chirulín, Emoliente Piteado, and Pisco Punch have taken Punch readers from an Afro-descendant community in Ica’s wine-growing region, to the streets of Lima, to San Francisco’s Gold Rush. And this year, I’ll continue exploring pisco cocktails and their origin stories.

National Pisco Sour Day

The first Saturday in February is National Pisco Sour Day, and making Pisco Sours is a family tradition. In 1940s Lima, my grandfather served it at my mom’s quinceañera by whipping egg whites with sugar in a bowl, then adding pisco and lime juice. And in the 1970s, my father used a tall blender to make a large pitcher for family reunions.

To make it vegan, I used a popular plant-based ingredient: aquafaba, the water from unsalted canned chickpeas. Its foaming properties make it an ideal replacement for egg whites.

Vegan Pisco Sour

Serves 2

• ½ cup pisco (quebranta or acholado grape variety)

• ¼ cup fresh lime juice

• ¼ cup simple syrup (1:1 water and sugar)

• ¼ cup aquafaba

• 2 ice cubes (each cube about 1 oz water)

• Angostura bitters or cinnamon powder, for garnish

Combine the pisco, lime juice, simple syrup, aquafaba, and ice cubes in a tall kitchen blender. Blend on high for 30 seconds to crush the ice and make a thick foam. Pour into 2 glasses. Garnish each drink with 3 drops of bitters or with a sprinkle of cinnamon powder like my grandfather did.

Peruvian of USA Podcast

In the summer of 2024, when I was training for trail races in Leadville, CO, I chatted with Nathalie, the host of the Peruvians of USA Podcast, about my journey as a journalist and chef. Our conversation, in Spanglish, is in Episode 117 Exploring Peruvian Vegan Cuisine and Cultural Preservation.

Soy Nico, un journalist and chef from Peru. I write about Peru’s food and drink cultura and I develop vegan-Peruvian recipes. Y me encanta cocinar para mi familia.

We covered several topics, from restaurants, to cookbooks, to the dishes I cook, to my first Pisco Sour, to the benefits of a plant-based diet, to which recipes to try if you are vegan-curious. In an upcoming newsletter, I’ll share more about our dialogue on the future of Peruvian cuisine.

Gracias Nathalie for inviting me to chat about preserving culture through cooking, music, art, literature, and our family’s travels to Peru.

Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking

In late 2024, I celebrated the release of Joe Yonan’s new cookbook Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking and I am thrilled to have developed and contributed some vegan-Peruvian recipes, plus an essay on food, culture, and decolonization.

To learn more about what it took to make this cookbook, listen to Joe Yonan on Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking, Episode 117 of Everything Cookbooks.

I was delighted that Joe said this:

Nico Vera, who’s this fascinating Peruvian cook, who veganizes traditional Peruvian recipes. I just thought he was so charming and talented.

In another podcast, This is TASTE, Joe chatted with TASTE editor Matt Rodbard about the mind-meld required with the contributors in order to develop the recipes.

And Matt had this to say:

Wow, you have a real incredible list of contributors. Brigid Washington, Alicia Kennedy, Ali Slagle, Nico Vera, I’m naming just a few. How did you engage these contributors and what are some examples of what [they] brought to the book?

These are some contributions that I developed over a span of four months:

• Beet Ceviche

• Trumpet Mushroom Tiradito

• Beet & Quinoa Soup

• Wild Rice & Quinoa Bowl

• Ocopa Potato Garden

• Causa Rolls with Beet & Potato

• Panetón Loaf Cake

• Quinoa Oat Milk Pudding

• Tusán Pisco Sour

Thank you Joe for inviting me to share Peru's culinary traditions in this beautiful book. Upcoming newsletters will include the essay I wrote plus a couple of the recipes I developed for Mastering the Art of Plant-Based Cooking.

In Quechua, the language of my Indigenous ancestors, there is no word for goodbye. That is because goodbye implies a finality that is foreign to Andean cosmovision and spirituality. So instead of goodbye, Andean people say “tupananchiskama” which means “until life finds us again.”

After 18 issues of La Yapa—my monthly newsletter about Peru’s food and drink culture, through a vegan lens—I’ve decided to take a break to focus on other projects.

So, until life finds us again, I invite you to revisit some of my favorite stories from the past 3 years:

• This Tamales Story is Still Being Written made TASTE’s top 20 stories of 2022

• The Coca Story Goes Way Beyond the Cola made TASTE’s top 20 stories of 2021

• The Soul Food of Black Peru made TASTE’s top top 20 stories of 2020

• The Origin of Lima’s Creole Street Food for W Journal

• The Spirits of the Andes for W Journal

My hope, as a journalist, is that these stories help preserve the culture of my Indigenous ancestors. As there are more stories to be told, I am optimistic that La Yapa will return, in some form or other, to continue its mission.

Thank you for supporting La Yapa this past year and a half. Happy New Year and tupananchiskama.