The Ceviches of Peru’s North Coast
A tale of black clams, grouper, guitarfish and...duck.
They’re like waves, these ceviches. They have peaks and valleys. Drifting from one place to the next. Flowing between acidity and spice depending on exactly what you scoop up in your spoon. And when it’s balanced, the leche de tigre, a cure for whatever ails you, is like a long, steady left breaking wave at Chicama, a smooth a ride that carries your imagination across the Pacific. But sometimes it is nice when they crest a little bit. A little extra heat from the ajíes. A little bit of burn on your tongue.
The ceviches here tend to be spicier, but in different ways. It’s less about the rocoto here, that bulbous red chile from the south, and more about the plethora of smaller, fruitier red, yellow, green and orange chiles that are used without caution. Some are fresh, some are dried in the sun. They’re grown in the arid coastal valleys, the same ones once farmed by the Moche, Sican and Chimu, who used guano and a vast irrigation system to turn the desert fertile, a home for corn, beans and loche squash.
Depending on your exact location, garnishing your ceviche might mean small, crisp slices of ají limo, sunny and citrusy, found in much of the north; its cousin, ají arnaucho, a tad more robust, grown just north of Lima and the coast of Ancash; or the round, red cerezo, especially in Lambayeque. There’s the ají amarillo of course, the default chile across Peru, sometimes used here in the leche de tigre or as a garnish. Most appropriate here is ají mochero, long, smallish and yellow. Once endangered by a changing market, it’s making a comeback.
When you think about the ceviches of Peru’s north coast, you must consider water temperature. The fish and shellfish here, and the ceviches they are served in, change with the currents. The far north in Tumbes, near the border with Ecuador, where the water is warm and the mangroves still line the coast, shrimp and other shellfish are favored. Outside of seasonal bans, usually in February and March, Ceviche de Conchas Negras (Anadara tuberculosa), a black clam ceviche is in demand. It’s a strong flavor, too strong for some, and it will turn the leche de tigre black.
As you move south the waters are still warm, and you’ll find the big game fish like tuna and marlin, but the ceviches naturally seek out what’s under recognized everywhere else. Less so the beloved mero (Mycteroperca xenarcha), but fish like cachema (Cynoscion phoxocephalus), cabrilla (Epinephelus labriformis) or even caballa (Scomber japonicus peruanus).
In Piura, they’re accompaniments can be interesting too. Joined on the plate with chifles, thin slices of fried plantains, and frejol zarandaja, a meaty white bean. It’s this province where you’ll find the limes of Chulucanas, highly acidic and sour, the favorite in all of Peru.
The water turns colder as we move into Lambayeque as the Humboldt current gains a firmer hold. The standard ceviches in Chiclayo aren’t much different than those in Piura, though sometimes in small restaurants and markets, or along the beach in Pimentel, you can find Ceviche al Paso, the old style Chiclayan ceviche served with tortitas de choclo, or fried corn cakes. More ancient is Ceviche de Chiringuito, made with the shovelnose guitarfish (Rhinobatos productus). After being caught, the fish is skewered and hung in an airy, sunny place for weeks, a process that has allowed the fish to be preserved and traded in the interior since Pre-Colombian times. It’s the only ceviche I know that is made from dried fish, which gets re-hydrated in hot water or chicha de jora, shredded, and then prepared much like any other ceviche with lime, onions and chiles.
In La Libertad, in Trujillo and towns that radiate around it, most ceviches are defined for their use of ají mochero. The chile’s unique aroma and strong heat is infused right into the leche de tigre. In Huanchaco, ceviche de cangrejo, appears on the menus along the malecón, such as the restaurant Caribe, made with crab meat that has been pulverized and then prepared like a classic ceviche.
In the Ancash province and the Norte Chico north of Lima, including occasionally into the interior, you will find ceviche de pato. The first time I heard the term was in 2005 and I was just as confused then as you likely are now. I had moved to Peru earlier that year and was in Huaraz, an Andean town not far from the coast, surrounded by some of the highest mountains outside of the Himalayas, where I saw it on a menu.
Duck doesn’t make many other appearances elsewhere in Peruvian cuisine, but in this region it’s everywhere. The creole or Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata) was domesticated and traded among cultures like the Moche long before the arrival of Europeans to the Americas. There are dozens of recipes that make use of it. There’s arroz con pato a la Chiclayana of course, duck cooked in chicha de jora with rice made green by cilantro and spinach. You’ll also find it as pato guisado (stewed duck), pato estofado (braised duck), tallarín con pato (duck with noodles) and seco de pato (duck slow cooked in a spicy, herbal stew).
“Can you do that,” I asked myself, internally, when I read it in Huaraz. “Is citric acid enough to make raw duck edible?”
I didn’t even ask the waiter about it. I just ordered it. I thought it might even be a joke while I waited with anticipation. What he brought out wasn’t a true ceviche, at least depending on the definition of most. Aside of not having fish, it was hot. The duck was cooked. Yet, the flavors of a ceviche were still sort of there finding a way through. The acidity. The heat. The protein is still broken down by the bitter orange juice like a typical ceviche, but it is just cooked further afterward.
It uses a combination of chiles, which varies from recipe to recipe. In The Latin American Cookbook, we use ají limo, ají amarillo and ají mirasol. In the States, ají limo and ají mirasol are not as easy to come by, so I sometimes use ají panca, which isn’t out of place here and adds a smokey, berry flavor, that matches the duck nicely, not to mention a darker color.
Recipe: Ceviche de Pato
In a bowl, mix a cup of bitter orange juice with a teaspoon of cumin, a couple of minced garlic cloves, a couple of tablespoons each of ají amarillo and ají panca paste, and season with salt and pepper. Rub the mixture all over a whole duck, cut into fours, then let it marinate for at least a half hour at room temperature.
Afterwards, heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium heat, then sear the duck pieces for about 5 minutes per side, or until they’re golden brown, then take them out. In the same pan, heat another tablespoon of oil and add a couple more minced garlic cloves, a chopped whole white onion, and another couple of tablespoons of each of the chile pastes. Maybe even a little bit more. Sauté for 10 minutes or so, then add the duck with the marinade. Bring it to a boil, then lower the heat and let simmer covered for 30 minutes. Add a sliced red onion and cook for another 15 minutes.
After this I take the duck out and let it rest to a for a few minutes, while I let the sauce reduce further, though that’s a personal preference. I’ll have a few lime wedges on hand when I eat to tamper the spice down a little bit if needed. On the plate, some boiled yuca is standard, as is salsa criolla, a basic onion relish used all over Peru for just about everything.
I definitely agree. The variation between each bite of ceviche is one of the things that make it so addictive!
Love this post, such rich detail on the unique ingredients and regions!