Cochabamba Is a Meat-and-Potatoes Kind of Town

Cochabamba is known as the culinary capital of Bolivia. "Maybe because there's not much to do here, so people just eat," a friend told us. "But it's not healthy. If you eat too much, you will roll." Indeed, while exploring the city we found endless options that all seemed to revolve around a gut-expanding combination of meat and potatoes.

The city is located in a mountain valley to the southeast of La Paz, although at 8,400 feet of elevation the term "valley" is relative. Mild weather and fertile ground made the area an agricultural center that historically supported mining efforts in other regions of the country. Specifically, people grew a shitload of potatoes.

Bolivia, of course, is the traditional home of the potato. The art of cultivating the tubers dates back about 10,000 years, and it's clear the people have mastered the practice. Every market in the Andes is overflowing with selections of potatoes in all shapes, sizes, and colors, from small, pale gnarled varieties that look almost like ginger root to big ol' purple mammas that could be a meal in and of themselves. And all that open space on the high plains means ample room for livestock to roam; the cows, sheep, pigs, chickens, and llamas that eventually end up in the bellies of hungry Bolivianos.

For an appetizer, small bags of homemade potato chips are sold on nearly every street corner in Cochabamba by squat Quechua women with long double braids hanging down their backs. Seeking a more substantial snack, I stopped at a street stand and picked up a salchipapa, which literally means "sausage potato." Sure enough, it was a small basket of French fries topped with thin sausage slices, slathered liberally with ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. Other delicacies like papas rellenas, salteñas, and tucumanas—meat encased in fried starch, although the later two are sadly lacking in potato products—were available in small stands all over the city.

There was no way I could leave Cochabamba without sampling chuño, a traditional form of freeze-dried potatoes that has long helped communities make it through hungry periods. Chuño is made by leaving potatoes out to freeze at night in the mountains, stomping on them, and then drying them in the sun. The result is a shriveled, round product that looks kind of like a mushroom—either white or black, depending on the preparation—and can last for as much as five years without modern refrigerators or freezers.

Chuño is so important to small communities, which are vulnerable to crop disruptions from unpredictable weather changes, that one village actually picked up and moved so they could continue to produce it. Several years ago, as annual temperatures started warming up, the town of Lanqaya relocated an hour's walk higher in the mountains, where there was still enough frost to continue to make chuño. Even at the higher elevation, it takes weeks instead of days to freeze the potatoes sufficiently, thanks to an ever-warming climate.

Chuño can be found in markets and grocery stores all over the country, but we tracked it down at the Casa de Campo, which brands itself as an upscale restaurant where diners can enjoy expensive versions of traditional Bolivian foods. I ordered a beef picante—essentially starch, starch, and more starch with some nicely spiced ground beef. To wit, the plate came with rice and fresh potatoes in addition to chuño.The freeze-dried delicacy was a bit rubbery, but not unpleasant, tasting vaguely like mashed potatoes that had been left in the fridge too long.

Finally, no investigation of Cochabamba's meat-and-potatoes culture would be complete without indulging in a pique macho, which is essentially a large serving of French fries smothered with a giant pile of assorted meats. We cruised by the Restaurante Miraflores, whose owners allegedly invented the pique macho, with the hope of asking what prompted them to come up with such a monstrosity. The restaurant was closed, however, and a large pile of rubble out front indicated that it might not be open anytime soon.

Instead, we made our way down to El Prado, one of the main bar and restaurant drags, where the city's population was out in full force to cheer on the Bolivian soccer team in a World Cup qualifier against Paraguay. We picked one of the few restaurants that still had open seats and plopped down in front of the television.

The menu's first page was literally nothing but meat and potato dishes—picantes, silpanchos, piques, etc., all served in varying sizes. Around us, tables were filled with men and women, while a single harried waitress ran back and forth to fulfill endless orders for Taquiña beer.

I was worried about a heart attack so I ordered the mini pique, risking the ridicule of bystanders who might discern that I wasn't macho enough to handle the large plate. The meal came as advertised—a bed of fries soaking in the juices of beef chunks, chorizo, sausage, and a strip of processed meat that appeared to be a cousin to Spam. Some onions, peppers, tomatoes, and hot chilies were strewed on top for good measure. I also discovered a hard-boiled egg somewhere in the pile.

The crowd cheered a Bolivian goal, a drunk vomited in the street between some parked cars, and I ate. In a dual bout of disappointment, the national team succumbed to a 2-1 defeat and I couldn't finish all the fries, the supposed mini size of the serving notwithstanding.

Of course, the famous Cochabamba food scene does include more than meat and potatoes, with fancy restaurants downtown serving food from all over the world, and even some vegetarian options if you look hard enough. But why mess with the basics? In the end, I survived, and rolled away with my waist, and arteries, just a little bit thicker.