Danero, our waitress took this photo. For more info on Ceviche and Pupusas, read on.
Ceviche
Ceviche's birthplace is disputed between Peru and Ecuador, and as both countries have an amazing variety of fish and shellfish, it could easily have come from the ancient Inca civilizations of Peru and Ecuador. Every Latin American country has given seviche/ceviche its own touch of individuality by adding its own particular garnishes. In Peru, it is served with slices of cold sweet potatoes or corn-on-the-cob. In Ecuador, it is accompanied by popcorn, potato chips, nuts, or corn nuts. It is also served in a large crystal bowl with the guests helping themselves, either by spearing it with toothpicks or filling the pastry shells. In Mexico, seviche is accompanied by slices of raw onions and served on toasted tortillas.
It is considered Peru's national dish. Diana Nuņez de Smolij, who is Peruvian and now living in Ecuador, sent me the following information on the history of Ceviche:
There is a theory that pre-Hispanic peoples cooked fish with a fruit called "tumbo." The Inca's ate salted fish and a chicha-marinated fish dish. The Spanish contributed the Mediterranean custom of using lemons and onions.
There are other historians that believe that Ceviche's origin is Arabian, imported to Peru by Arabian immigrants and re-interpreted by the Peruvians of the coastal areas.
The other version is that some English-speaking people, who watched fishermen on the coast of Peru eating their fish directly from the sea with just lemons and salt, said "See the beach." Since this is a phrase that the locals could not repeat well, they instead pronounced it "Ceviche."
Ceviche, which is often spelled serviche or cebiche, depending on which part of South America it comes from, is seafood prepared in a centuries old method of cooking by contact with the acidic juice of citrus juice instead of heat.
It can be eaten as a first course or main dish, depending on what is served with it. The preparation and consumption of ceviche is practically a religion in parts of Mexico, Central, and South America, and it seems as though there are as many varieties of ceviche as people who eat it.
Latin American flavors first found a place on Florida menus with South Florida's "New World Cuisine" in the late 1980's. This cuisine comes from the diverse cooking styles and tropical ingredients of the Caribbean, Latin America, Central, and South America. They became fascinated by the tempting flavors of exotic tropical fruits and vegetables. From this fascination, many versions of Ceviche were developed.
In the grand tradition of holes-in-the-wall, the decor at Oakland's Los Cocos Restaurant isn't much to look at. The walls of this eighteen-year-old restaurant are cluttered with Salvadoran kitsch -- wooden coconuts and mangoes, posters of San Salvador, a tapestry of women patting out pupusas. If you bend over really close to the plastic tablecloths, hearts and flags printed all over them, you can smell the bleach the staff uses to wipe them down. And the kitchen fans chug along like a Yugo running on its spare tire. One day my friend Steve, who was seated facing the stove, spent the meal giving me smog updates about the oily haze that would well up from the fryers and slowly dissipate.
Just the kind of place I love.
Although San Francisco's Mission neighborhood has just as many pupuserias as taquerias, the Fruitvale stretch of International Boulevard seems to be Mexican-only territory. The East Bay's Central American community has set up shop out Richmond and Pittsburg way. Which makes Los Cocos, as far as I know, the only Salvadoran restaurant in the neighborhood.
Pity it closes so early. I've been trying to check out Los Cocos for almost a year, but I keep arriving too late; most nights it closes at 7:30. One night last month, though, I finally caught the staff closing up shop and was allowed to take some food home. Once I figured out the schedule, my friends and I arrived at peak time to squeeze into a table, blocked in by multigenerational families sitting around huge heaps of pupusas, four-year-olds darting through the maze of chairs.
I'm sure I freaked out the cook a little on that first night, when I was the only customer in the restaurant, because I just stood at the counter, transfixed by the sight of her making my pupusas. She kept smiling up at me warily, as if worried I'd jump over the counter and demand to help. In short, quick gestures, she'd scoop a ball of masa off a large lump of the corn-lime paste at her station, then pluck off just enough to make it the right size. Then she'd grab bits of shredded cheese, pork, or beans, press them into the center so the ball dimpled in, and close the sides around the filling. A few smacks between her flattened hands, and the pupusa would fly off onto the griddle. Repeat.
Pupusas, pupusas, pupusas. Why am I going on about the pupusas? They're the hamburger of El Salvador, the dish that defines the country's cuisine. Your garden-variety pupusa looks like a golden, oversize hockey puck, slightly oily and crispy around the edges. When you're especially lucky, a little of the stuffing will ooze out onto the griddle and fry into a deep-brown crust. You can order your choice of fillings: For vegetarians, cheese and beans, grated squash, or loroco, a flower bud that tastes a little like artichoke; for meat eaters, shredded chicken or chicharron, meaty pork rinds. My favorite are the pupusas revueltas, containing cheese, pork, and beans. Los Cocos even serves a rice-flour pupusa, which I'd only read about before, and it's okay: slightly chewier than the cornmeal variety, without that sweet, floral aroma of the lime-soaked corn.
You have to eat pupusas straight off the griddle, while the outside is fluffy and the filling molten. Heat can't save a mediocre pupusa from tasting dense and dull -- but Los Cocos' plump masa cakes are anything but. A pupusa isn't a pupusa, however, until you cover it with salsa roja and a vinegary slaw of cabbage, carrots, and onions. Crunchy. Meaty. Puckery. Chewy. Delicious.
Besides the pupusas, the other thing I enjoyed most about Los Cocos is that it has the widest-ranging selection of Salvadoran specialties in the region. All the other places in the East Bay seem to doubt the appeal of their cuisine, so they supplement the platos Salvadoreņos with Mexican fare like burritos and quesadillas. Are they bowing to the tastes of their Mexican customers, or the other norteamericanos? There's no need. Salvadoran cuisine is humble, stick-to-your-ribs food, like biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings.
Danero, our waitress took this photo. For more info on Ceviche and Pupusas, read on.
CevicheCeviche's birthplace is disputed between Peru and Ecuador, and as both countries have an amazing variety of fish and shellfish, it could easily have come from the ancient Inca civilizations of Peru and Ecuador. Every Latin American country has given seviche/ceviche its own touch of individuality by adding its own particular garnishes. In Peru, it is served with slices of cold sweet potatoes or corn-on-the-cob. In Ecuador, it is accompanied by popcorn, potato chips, nuts, or corn nuts. It is also served in a large crystal bowl with the guests helping themselves, either by spearing it with toothpicks or filling the pastry shells. In Mexico, seviche is accompanied by slices of raw onions and served on toasted tortillas.
It is considered Peru's national dish. Diana Nuņez de Smolij, who is Peruvian and now living in Ecuador, sent me the following information on the history of Ceviche:
There is a theory that pre-Hispanic peoples cooked fish with a fruit called "tumbo." The Inca's ate salted fish and a chicha-marinated fish dish. The Spanish contributed the Mediterranean custom of using lemons and onions.
There are other historians that believe that Ceviche's origin is Arabian, imported to Peru by Arabian immigrants and re-interpreted by the Peruvians of the coastal areas.
The other version is that some English-speaking people, who watched fishermen on the coast of Peru eating their fish directly from the sea with just lemons and salt, said "See the beach." Since this is a phrase that the locals could not repeat well, they instead pronounced it "Ceviche."
Ceviche, which is often spelled serviche or cebiche, depending on which part of South America it comes from, is seafood prepared in a centuries old method of cooking by contact with the acidic juice of citrus juice instead of heat.
It can be eaten as a first course or main dish, depending on what is served with it. The preparation and consumption of ceviche is practically a religion in parts of Mexico, Central, and South America, and it seems as though there are as many varieties of ceviche as people who eat it.
Latin American flavors first found a place on Florida menus with South Florida's "New World Cuisine" in the late 1980's. This cuisine comes from the diverse cooking styles and tropical ingredients of the Caribbean, Latin America, Central, and South America. They became fascinated by the tempting flavors of exotic tropical fruits and vegetables. From this fascination, many versions of Ceviche were developed.
The article below is from the East Bay Express
A Higher Pupusa
At Los Cocos, it's all Salvadoran -- and it's all good.
BY JONATHAN KAUFFMAN
jonathan.kauffman@eastbayexpress.com
In the grand tradition of holes-in-the-wall, the decor at Oakland's Los Cocos Restaurant isn't much to look at. The walls of this eighteen-year-old restaurant are cluttered with Salvadoran kitsch -- wooden coconuts and mangoes, posters of San Salvador, a tapestry of women patting out pupusas. If you bend over really close to the plastic tablecloths, hearts and flags printed all over them, you can smell the bleach the staff uses to wipe them down. And the kitchen fans chug along like a Yugo running on its spare tire. One day my friend Steve, who was seated facing the stove, spent the meal giving me smog updates about the oily haze that would well up from the fryers and slowly dissipate. Just the kind of place I love.
Although San Francisco's Mission neighborhood has just as many pupuserias as taquerias, the Fruitvale stretch of International Boulevard seems to be Mexican-only territory. The East Bay's Central American community has set up shop out Richmond and Pittsburg way. Which makes Los Cocos, as far as I know, the only Salvadoran restaurant in the neighborhood.
Pity it closes so early. I've been trying to check out Los Cocos for almost a year, but I keep arriving too late; most nights it closes at 7:30. One night last month, though, I finally caught the staff closing up shop and was allowed to take some food home. Once I figured out the schedule, my friends and I arrived at peak time to squeeze into a table, blocked in by multigenerational families sitting around huge heaps of pupusas, four-year-olds darting through the maze of chairs.
I'm sure I freaked out the cook a little on that first night, when I was the only customer in the restaurant, because I just stood at the counter, transfixed by the sight of her making my pupusas. She kept smiling up at me warily, as if worried I'd jump over the counter and demand to help. In short, quick gestures, she'd scoop a ball of masa off a large lump of the corn-lime paste at her station, then pluck off just enough to make it the right size. Then she'd grab bits of shredded cheese, pork, or beans, press them into the center so the ball dimpled in, and close the sides around the filling. A few smacks between her flattened hands, and the pupusa would fly off onto the griddle. Repeat.
Pupusas, pupusas, pupusas. Why am I going on about the pupusas? They're the hamburger of El Salvador, the dish that defines the country's cuisine. Your garden-variety pupusa looks like a golden, oversize hockey puck, slightly oily and crispy around the edges. When you're especially lucky, a little of the stuffing will ooze out onto the griddle and fry into a deep-brown crust. You can order your choice of fillings: For vegetarians, cheese and beans, grated squash, or loroco, a flower bud that tastes a little like artichoke; for meat eaters, shredded chicken or chicharron, meaty pork rinds. My favorite are the pupusas revueltas, containing cheese, pork, and beans. Los Cocos even serves a rice-flour pupusa, which I'd only read about before, and it's okay: slightly chewier than the cornmeal variety, without that sweet, floral aroma of the lime-soaked corn.
You have to eat pupusas straight off the griddle, while the outside is fluffy and the filling molten. Heat can't save a mediocre pupusa from tasting dense and dull -- but Los Cocos' plump masa cakes are anything but. A pupusa isn't a pupusa, however, until you cover it with salsa roja and a vinegary slaw of cabbage, carrots, and onions. Crunchy. Meaty. Puckery. Chewy. Delicious.
Besides the pupusas, the other thing I enjoyed most about Los Cocos is that it has the widest-ranging selection of Salvadoran specialties in the region. All the other places in the East Bay seem to doubt the appeal of their cuisine, so they supplement the platos Salvadoreņos with Mexican fare like burritos and quesadillas. Are they bowing to the tastes of their Mexican customers, or the other norteamericanos? There's no need. Salvadoran cuisine is humble, stick-to-your-ribs food, like biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings.