High Costa Living  

A lover of Mexican cuisine heads south to Costa Rica to learn the techniques and ingredientsthat are making this lush countrythe next big food destination.

 


Ask any Costa Rican (or Tico, as they call themselves) how they are, and the standard reply is "pura vida." It translates into the Jesuit-sounding "pure life" and it represents the summation of a culture so laid-back that they’re fazed by nothing. I, on the other hand, am fazed by plenty: hair-straightening tropical humidity, missed airline connections and long waits on scorching tarmacs, for example-all three occurring shortly after landing in a tiny airport on the outskirts of the capital, San José.

So the first three pura vidas I hear inspire downright anger, the next three something like indifference. But, by number seven, I soften, and allow that these perma-smile people might be on to something. I relax, my shoulders slacken and I take deep breaths of air so rich with nutrients it seems like a tropical amuse bouche. I’m even smiling by the time my hotel shuttle finally deigns to show up.
I’ve come to this country, largely known for its burgeoning eco-tourism, to try to tap into the culture the only way I know how: through its cuisine. I’ve spent countless days immersing myself in the food of Southern Mexico-I can spot a good mole from bad without even tasting it-but the cuisine of the rest of Central America is something of a mystery. While others will be ensconced up in tree houses or planted on pristine white beaches, I intend to have my sleeves rolled up mashing plantains in a bowl-or whatever else my instructors tell me to do. Any gourmet meals I enjoy will be the fruit of my own labours.

My first stop is the cooking class at Arenas Del Mar, a Five Leaves-certified (the Michelin stars of sustainability) beach resort near Quepos on the Pacific Coast. The resort is swank but when I’m whisked off to the "test kitchen" I’m slightly concerned-it also doubles as the staff quarters. My concerns are allayed when my instructor, sous chef Gerardo Zuñiga, a serious but laid-back 30-something in starched chef’s whites, starts the first dish with the simple act of picking a verdant green papaya from one of the resort’s many trees. He demonstrates the preparation of a picadillo, grating the papaya and sautéing it with onions, cilantro, red pepper and ham. He finishes with Lizano, a popular store-bought tamarind sauce that provides a sweet note, and some annatto paste, which gives the dish a bright orange hue and an earthy-floral flavour and aroma. Soon he and I are fiendishly digging into the dish with hot tortillas and going mano a mano over hot sauce consumption.

The "snack" segues deliciously into some patacones, flattened and double-fried discs of green plantain that are a staple in these parts. I fry some plantains, flatten them with a plastic-wrapped cutting board and fry them again, all the while heartened by my knowledge that deep-frying equals tasty the world over. The crisp, slightly sweet crust of the patacones gives way to a satisfying starchy core, sprinkled with enough salt (harvested just up the coast) not only to make each bite sing, but to replenish my own salts in this humid tropical heat.

I continue the plantation-to-plate adventure by moving to the Finca Rosa Blanca Coffee Plantation & Inn, another Five Leaves establishment located in the lush central valley perched above San José. My education begins with chef Rodrigo Nuñez Corrales, who skips the kitchen in favour of a heady trip to the vast, open-air
Mercado Central so I can meet some of his favourite ingredients. There’s the stocky guineo banana and camote, a gnarly arracache tuber with a flavour reminiscent of celery and roasted chestnuts. Then there’s the pejibaye, a palm fruit taken with coffee and used in sauces, the sour guava, and something called a water apple.
Corrales, upbeat and charming, is clearly in his element, trading quips and the local slang greeting of "Hola, papi!" with many vendors. Inside the market’s core, we enter into a series of fluorescent-lit cafés known as sodas-ground zero for home cooking, helmed by robust women in cramped quarters. Here my education ramps into overdrive as I sample dishes such as chorreada, an enormous and dense sweet corn pancake topped with sour cream and banana-leaf wrapped tamales stuffed with pork and carrots with the most velvety textured corn masa (dough) imaginable. I begin to understand how the cuisine differs from the fiery salsas and complex moles of Mexico. Costa
Rican cooking tends to be simpler, using minimal ingredients, and more mildly spiced. Any added heat comes courtesy of chilero, a pickled chili condiment, which can range from mild to five-alarm, but is always served on the side.

Back at the Corrales’s kitchen, we get to work transforming our market bounty into culinary magic. First the guineo bananas are used for soup-once cut they must be soaked in water to avoid turning black. Then the arracache is peeled and blanched, much like a potato, before using it for a picadillo.

On the days following, Corrales takes me to Ark Herb Farm, an organic wonderland where he sources arugula, tatsoi and edible flowers for his new series of greens cooking classes. I visit a spice farm dripping with orchids that’s home to some of the world’s largest vanilla beans, along with cinnamon, peppercorns, turmeric, cardamom, allspice and cacao. I daydream that this could be my permanent hub from which to live a 100-mile diet.

The cooking continues apace and more than once I lose my way with the combination of fractured Spanglish, unknown ingredients and the ever-

present heat. But my brow hasn’t furrowed since that first day on the tarmac. And even if, in the past few days, I’ve gorged myself on fried bananas, fried papaya and twice-fried plantains-I’m chalking it up to the pure life.

 


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