This is Caesar. The one holding the giant lobster. He's the owner of Taste of Peru, the somewhat odd Peruvian hole-in-the-wall off the Loyola stop in Rogers Park. Odd because even though Taste of Peru should be some no-name pit stop where only in-the-know Latin American immigrants north of Pilsen go looking for salty frijoles negros and crunchy breaded steak, Taste of Peru has also become (perhaps in part because of the inexplicable charm of its lobster-holding owner, and also just because, well, the food is really good) a pit stop with a very good reputation. I remember the foodies at the Chicago Reader raving about it when I interned there, and I had wanted to go there ever since. Partly because I missed the oil-slicked, artery-clogging Cuban and South American food in Miami, which like the menu here, consists almost entirely of varying combinations of starch and meat that's been breaded and/or fried. And also because it's pretty cheap, because it's BYOB, and because they have a live band every weekend. After fact-checking a review of Taste of Peru, I hopped off the El on my way back to Evanston just to check it out. I seriously must've looked like Oliver Twist desperately in need of some beef chunks peering through the window. I saw people dancing. I saw people eating plantains. I wanted in.
When we visited on Halloween night, we were the only gringos in the place when we saddled up to a table by the window with a view of the parking lot. (One of Taste of Peru's many eccentric charms is that it's located in a strip mall.) But Caesar knew immediately what to do. He greeted us like the tourists we were, eager to embark on a voyage in a country whose language we did not know. We tried the ceviche, which was great--fresh and acidic--and the empanadas, which Ryan complained weren't as good as the ones at Tango Sur, but I don't know. I thought they were good. Doughier than I'm used to, though--more like a pastry. A pastry stuffed with succulent beef.
This is not Serena. This is another, somewhat janky-looking Asian eating at Taste of Peru. But you get the idea. We promise to take pictures in the future.
The bistec con frijoles y arroz blanco I'm having a little more trouble remembering. We were probably on the third bottle of wine by that point. I know it's what I wanted: a dense, salty piece of meat swimming in wet beans and a fluffy bed of rice. We all tried each other's dishes, and I remember one had fries that were absolutely awesome. Because the only thing more awesome than meat and rice is meat and rice and fries. Hey, listen, Peruvians have the meat-and-starch thing down pat.
Throughout the night, unspeakably cute children in costumes came in and out. Caesar would shout something in that inexplicably charming-but-also-creepy way only Caesar can do. He would give them candy. The bags of candy were stationed at the end of our table because it was closest to the front door. By 9 p.m., the live band started playing with a singer. Like Caesar, she clearly understood her role as tour guide to the hopeless gastronomic gringos. She ushered us on to the "dance floor" and sort of gestured at how we might dance if we had hips, rhythm, and a double citizenship somewhere south of El Paso, Texas. Serena has hips, but she's also Asian, so needless to say it didn't really work out. (As it happened, this wouldn't be the only time we danced at Saturstraight. We also attempted belly-dancing, even more catastrophically, at a Turkish joint some weeks later.) At this point, we were all drunk. Casear clearly knew this, and it seemed to make him happy. I remember Jen and he had a private moment near the end of the night, in the back corner of the restaurant. Oh, Caesar. Always walking a fine line between charming and creepy. I also remember this: Serena convinced me to steal two Snickers bars as we left, and we ate those Snickers, and we went to at least three different parties that I can remember, and things happened that I possibly regret. But I don't regret the fried steak for a second.
The biggest plus to La Ciudad was the amazing service. Our basket of crisp chips never went empty, and each time our three different salsas became obliterated, another plate would come our way. I'm pretty sure about three different people were serving us over the course of the night, but the whole schpiel was seamless. Or maybe it just seemed that way.
