When my sister studied in Costa Rica several years back, she landed in Puntarenas. Port cities, although somewhat poetic with their air of nostalgia beaming from wrecked and abandoned ships, are far from your picture-perfect exotic places. Whoever came up with the idea of sending exchange students there must have really wanted them to stay focused on school work. It is not surprising that "pura vida" were not exactly the words my sister was using to describe her study-abroad experience. This kind of skewed perception of what Costa Rica had to offer also transferred to the food and, on many occasions, I would hear her complain about how unsatisfying her meals have been.
After having traversed most of Costa Rica this past March and having had many culinary "explosions in my mouth," I concluded there was something my sister missed out on perhaps because of unrealistic expectations or terrible luck with finding good food spots. Thankfully, this trip proved that her previous experience wasn't the whole story to Costa Rican cuisine.
First dish consisted of gallo pinto, rice mixed with black beans seasoned and reheated, eggs any style, fried plantain and a side of fresh fruit served with coffee so strong and aromatic, one couldn't get enough of it. I have to say that the best gallo pinto can be found at the most remote places where an extension of one's house serves as a restaurant. At places like that the whole family helps out in the kitchen and the family's pets come to your table begging for food or just some attention. Nowhere else did we encounter the same kind of service or as tasteful meals. For no more than a few bucks this type of breakfast kept us going well into the afternoon and, although I did start putting on weight after only a couple days, I barely felt any remorse.
From the lunches/dinners we had, one left a long-lasting impression on our taste buds: the Caribbean chicken. The chicken happened as a complete surprise. We sat down at a place that advertised "Typic Food," which was funny, but certainly not promising in terms of quality of food. We decided to try it anyway since it was conveniently located at the corner of the town's (Cahuita) two main streets and served as the ideal people-watching spot. All of a sudden, the waiter brought out our order with half a chicken occupying most of the space on the plate and the aroma spread within a few feet from our table attracting several of the stray dogs together with other tourists. The chicken had a brownish glaze on top and smelled sweet and spicy. Curry was the dominant spice, but there were other unidentifiable scents surrounding it that made our mouths water before we even began eating. The waiter swore that the chicken had been cooked in coconut milk, but the consistency of the glaze and the color looked nothing like the Indian curry dishes I make at home. We all agreed that "typic" just acquired a meaning of its own, something along the lines of psychedelic, mind-blowing, and whimsical. For a second, I considered applying for a job at his kitchen so I could secretly steal the recipe.
I was most glad to see my sister immerse herself into this rich food culture. All it took was a little bit of an open mind, the right surroundings, great company and natural-born chefs (read grandmas and moms).
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