Interview with Chef Virgilio Martinez: The Future of Peruvian Gastronomy

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The renowned chef Virgilio Martinez talks at length about his accomplishments and obstacles, and the future of Peru’s gastronomy.

Don’t trust a skinny chef, wrote a famous Italian chef. This premise is impossible to fulfill with Virgilio Martínez, a lanky and skinny cook, whose prestige, in addition to his creativity, is based on the confidence that he transmits.

He was born in 1977. He has four brothers. His dad is a lawyer; his mother, a housewife with a great love for art to the point that she was part of the team that designed the first Central restaurant in Miraflores. Before cooking, his passion was skateboarding. He started at 12 years old. He was the smallest of the group and his parents felt that his friends were lazy. “They were,” he says today, with a smile on his face. He listened to a lot of punk, was hyperactive and came to play soccer skillfully. Although he was a good “10” and was able to become a professional footballer, he was rejected by the club he is a fan of, Alianza Lima, but he is sure that elsewhere they would have admitted it. He studied cooking in Canada and England and, for 10 years, was a globetrotter with restaurant jobs in London, New York, Thailand, Singapore, Bogotá and Madrid. 

He returned to Peru in 2008 and founded Central, which almost immediately became the best Peruvian restaurant in Latin America and ranked fourth in the world on the 50 Best list. Married to the cook Pía León, his partner in his various projects, and the mother of Cristóbal, his son, the pandemic caught them in the process of consolidating the new Central and Kjolle (Pía’s restaurant), in Barranco. And, although these months were very hard and has left them with losses of several millions, Virgilio remains optimistic because “Peru continues to be a desirable destination, because we continue to be a country to discover and savor.” With you, Virgilio Martínez.

Who cooked in your house?

My mother, who learned to cook with her parents; all free spirits. My mother’s dream was always to be an artist. I remember her at home, with her canvases, painting still lifes. In my maternal family there are painters, architects, bohemian characters- one of them, my grandfather. In contrast, my father’s family is different. My father is a lawyer and his philosophy is constant, careful work. That, I value from him: his discipline, his energy, his vocation for work. He told me: “You can be bohemian, but after 9 p.m., after having worked and fulfilled your obligations, and the next day, very early, you have to be whole again, changed and bathed, ready to work.”

And how did you approach the kitchen?

It happened because of the flavors, the ingredients, but also the art. My grandmother was a great cook of criollo food. Her name was Lola. We all looked forward to the day we would visit her because we knew that it would be a criollo feast. And art because my mother painted still lifes with fruits, vegetables … some zucchini (laughs).

You studied in a German school …

Yes, but I don’t know German. In the third year of high school I threw in the towel. I was a bad student; rather, I focused only on what interested me. We are four brothers. One is a lawyer, then there is Malena, who today works with me and directs Mater Iniciativa. She studied Medicine. I used to say that I wanted to be an artist or an architect, but from the plastic art point of view, because I always liked drawing.

You roamed in alternative terrain, away from formality. For example, you really liked skateboarding …

I was very street, very bad; I listened to punk, smoked weed, although I didn’t stick to it, I liked alcohol more. I wanted the weed to calm me down, because I was hyperactive, but I failed (laughs). I was intrepid, risky, reckless; That’s why I broke all my bones: my clavicle, shoulder blade, arm, wrist, head; my leg is a mountain range from the marks of the fractures. My second home was the hospital. I would skip class and, from La Molina, where my school was, I went on my skateboard throughout Javier Prado to San Isidro and, then, to Miraflores. 

Our boards were “spells”, and if they broke we would make the pieces to fix them… we were “the Cuba of skaters” (laughs). At the age of 12 and, little by little, I reached a professional level, I won some tournaments, and I had no choice but to mince money from my father for my new implements. He felt that he should speak with me very seriously but he would sit down with me not at home but in restaurants. 

I remember going to La Carreta, La Gloria, Las Brujas de Cachiche, and arriving by skateboarding (laughs). There, during those remarks, I also got a taste for tasty cuisine. My father is from the old school, and he does not enjoy an experience like Central (laughs); my mom, yes. She loves the staging, the concept.

When did you decide to be a cook?

At 16 years old, with all the bones broken by skateboarding, I had to make a decision: either I would turn pro and move to the United States, or I would dedicate myself to something else. Take note, skateboarding requires a lot of discipline, effort and time, but the issue of visas and permits was very difficult. So I said to myself “I give up, I’m going to study” (laughs). I decided to apply to the University of Lima because the Pontific Catholic University was more difficult. Yes, I felt like I was coming in second place. I took a few months, I went to Cusco, I came back, I went to an academy, I studied a lot and I began law studies. “I’ll be a lawyer in my style,” I said (laughs). 

At the same time, I began to study English, and I did put a lot of effort into this, a lot of dedication, because I knew that at some point I was going to escape, that I had to start building my plan B, and I imagined it outside of Peru. Also, in those days, I realized that gastronomy, as a career, was already an option because, in those days, its first local references began to appear.

Who, for example?

Gastón had already opened Astrid & Gastón. La Gloria already existed. But I spoke with Diego Muñoz (chef who came to lead Astrid & Gastón), who was already studying cooking. What he was telling me caught my attention, so one day I talked to my dad and said “I can’t take it anymore, law is over for me, I have to do what I like.” It was a blow, I was in my third year, I was even practicing in a studio. I must admit that, at the beginning, gastronomy was an escape more than a vocation or a passion. I knew the benefits of being a cook, but not all that this job entails. Of course, I wanted to study abroad, see the world. For an academic exchange I spent four months in Scotland at the age of 14. I loved the experience, reason why I needed to leave Peru.

And so you arrived in Canada …

I went to study at Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa. My goal was London, but I opted for Canada because it was cheaper and to show my family that their money was well spent, that cooking was not another one of my crazy things like skateboarding, architecture or law. I started studying and soon I got a job. They paid me well and soon my parents’ subsidy began to be less: with me in Lima they spent more (laughs). I finished the first cycle and they gave me an honorable mention. I was the best in my class, read a lot of cookbooks, I was well informed. Then my father came to visit and was impressed by the rigor of the school, by the knowledge that gastronomy implies. “It’s all science,” he told me. He also saw that my classmates respected me and my teachers told him that I had a great future. I was not just another student: I finished class and stayed to help the chefs, I became their assistant. They were going to play golf and I was preparing everything.

What triggered this passion for cooking?

First, it was getting to know a different, foreign culture. In Canada, at Le Cordon, almost all the cooks were French, European. I always had a mystical connection with Europe and, at that time, we felt that Europe was very far away, the United States was closer to us, and the United States was Miami, and that did not thrill me. I was very curious, I read a lot about history, I wanted to know the history of humanity, and in the West the most important things happened in Europe. What’s more, my teachers in Canada told me “don’t stay in America, the most important things happen today in Europe, in Paris, in London”. So, I met the world, with Europe, through the kitchen.

That’s why you went to England …

That’s why. My teachers contacted me with the Ritz in London, with the headquarters of Le Cordon Bleu, and I went to work there. The Ritz catered for royalty, it had a lot of prestige. My parents were happy. There I was convinced that the kitchen was my place. At the beginning, it shocked me because the pressure was very hard, and I was the only Peruvian, the only South American, in a space where the French, the Belgians, the English abounded. The kitchens were not, as is the case today, multi-ethnic. At that time, France ruled in gastronomy. Japan did not exist. Many made fun of its cooking. “What is this rice with vinegar?”, people would say referring to sushi. “Do you eat raw fish? These Asians don’t know anything,” they repeated. “China is a dirty kitchen,” they continued. A lot of importance was attached to order, discipline, and Michelin stars.

I worked a lot, slept little, but I saw this room as a challenge. I finished my degree in London and stayed for four years.

You also passed through New York …

Yes, I worked for a year at Lutèce, a French restaurant that, by then and by far, was the best in New York, but the money was not enough for me. I returned to London, but could not renew my papers. I went to Germany, following a girlfriend. I settled in Frankfurt, but its food scene was weak. I was puffed up, pissed off. So, I turned to Iván Kisic. I met him in Canada, when his father was a military attaché. What’s more, I encouraged him to go to London to work. I contacted him and said “Hand me a rescue buoy, recommend me”. He did, I was able to return. Having been to Lutèce, where I was chief of cold cuts and, later, of lukewarm side dishes, opened the door to many places for me.

Did you have a good time?

They were very hard days, like a military training, but that discipline formed me, made me a better cook. Life consisted of work and sleep. Not enough for a beer. What’s more, we appreciated working all day – and we even slept in the restaurant – because if we went out we had to spend, and we didn’t have the money to do it; at work at least we had food. I do not defend this model, but that is what I lived.

And did you really find the world in those kitchens?

I learned a lot, no doubt. For example, at the Ritz he was in charge of the cheeses. Suddenly, I had to select a hundred different types of French cheeses, cheeses that I did not know and that I had to try, also out of hunger (laughs). I learned about foie gras, about its ideal temperature: it had to arrive warm, that showed its freshness, but then I found out that some suppliers heated it before delivering it. I also learned about champagne, wines, and spirits, because our reward for hard work was always alcohol. I became an expert in these products, I expanded my universe of flavors. Like I said, in those days we looked down at Spain, everything was France, France, France. I got to junior sous chef, but I didn’t get higher, first, because of my age – I was very young – and also because I was Latino. Some thought, because of my name, that I was Italian.

Do you have any anecdotes about this “double identity”?

I remember one: I worked in the Italian restaurant at the Four Seasons, and they sent me to put together the menu for their new location in Singapore. “You will say that you are Italian. There, you will be ‘Virgilio’, Italian-style, they will not realize it ”(laughs). There I met a Chinese cook who, in gratitude, invited me to eat. He made me amazing dishes, very complex. For me, Chinese food was chifa, but this was something else: different textures, different techniques, incredible handling of vegetables, of thickeners; sweet, salty, bittersweet. Italians feel like capos in pasta, but Chinese are machines.

You decided to stay in Southeast Asia, a fundamental stage in your training as a cook…

Since they made me responsible for everything, my self-esteem grew a lot. I realized that they valued me, that I had learned a lot in a short time. At first I was going to stay six months, but I decided to extend my stay. I went to Thailand, to Malaysia, as a backpacker, not as a cook, because what I wanted was to know the culture of those countries. Sometimes I would see advertisements in schools, in restaurants, and I would help out. I only asked for a house and food. I even worked for a kilo of swordfish and a cheap bottle of wine (laughs). In the end, I stayed a year and a half. Actually, I was amused.

It happens that I was looking at the kitchen as something very strict, very military, and I needed to see the funny side of things. Before this experience, my obsession was to become a Michelin star chef.

What did you question, what was happening in you?

I had an identity conflict because, although I had studied in London and specialized in French and Mediterranean cuisine, and was learning some Asian cooking and sleeping in a luxurious room at the Four Seasons, I was Peruvian. My stay in Asia helped me change my chip. I returned to London renewed, reconnected with Peru. Remember that Peruvian cuisine had not yet taken off and it was not easy to be proud of it, although we sensed its greatness. Today it is already possible to verbalize this pride, but then almost everything was going wrong for us: the lost wars, violence, economic crises … even in football they always beat us.

Didn’t it cross your head to return to Peru?

I was already friends with Gastón, Rafael Osterling, but the local food scene was still in its infancy. Every time he came to Lima on vacation, I practiced in Gastón and Rafa’s kitchens. What’s more, there was a time when I worked with both of them at the same time: Monday through Friday with Gastón; on the weekends, with Rafael. However, at the beginning I was very prejudiced with Peruvian cuisine, due to its indiscriminate use of garlic, raw onion, cilantro, and ginger. When I made Peruvian cuisine to my French friends, they did not understand it, “what is this, how disgusting”, they told me. The ceviche, the raw fish, bothered them, they only enjoyed the ají de gallina. So, when I came back from Asia, I said to myself “why does France, why does Europe have to rule”. I started to question everything. By then, in addition, the Internet became popular and we had news from all sides. We learned, for example, that Japanese cuisine was beginning to prevail, to bring down French restaurants, that the gringos were excelling; they began to talk about the organic, the quality of the ingredients, and so on.

Emerging cuisines began to be given importance.

Exactly, and that’s exactly when Gastón calls me. He was going to open an Astrid y Gastón in Colombia. “How cool, but I’m fine in London,” I said. But I realized again that I was not going to go up any further, that I was not European, that I always had problems with papers. I thought about it and said to myself “you must take advantage of this opportunity: Gastón is not just anyone and he is giving you the opportunity to lead something” and, the truth is, I knew about many cuisines of the world, but ironically, little of Peruvian gastronomy, and it was my turn to learn. I needed to clear my prejudices, and through the kitchen I began to understand the Peruvian idiosyncrasy.

In London, as I already told you, everything was very strict, very martial, very fast; Here, however, you entered a kitchen and everything was noise, party… and garlic and onion (laughs).

Did you want to do fusion?

At the beginning, I wanted to take Peruvian cuisine towards sophistication, but how do you make a pan con chicharrón sophisticated! The problem was not with our kitchen, it was mine (laughs). But I also saw it as a challenge to my creativity. Let’s be free, let’s opt for creativity. Gastón had already taken the first steps towards a new Peruvian cuisine, one with an emphasis on creativity, where the causa, for example, was not served on a tray but was personalized.

Your view of Peruvian cuisine was not complacent…

Our cuisine was fortunate that it did not have a tradition of old food criticism. That gave us the freedom to take risks. Today they criticize me every day, and I know it is very hard. Of course, I have never been criticized for “messing with traditional Peruvian cuisine”, for changing some canons. For example, for me the so-called Novo-Andean cuisine is a French-style Andean cuisine (laughs). Putting it “novoandina” sounded cool, that’s why they did it (laughs). I mean, yes, I was very critical of Peruvian cuisine, but at that time, how dare I change a ceviche! Today, yes. At that time, putting a tomato in a ceviche was like spitting soup. But then, the artichoke, fruit, flower ceviches started to come out… total freedom, and I opted for it. If in the 90s I made a ceviche of flowers, you wouldn’t be interviewing me as a cook, I’d be a lawyer (laughs).

Let’s go back to Colombia: you did very well there…

The restaurant was brutal, with the same equipment as it had in London; just the pots cost as much as setting up another restaurant (laughs). Investors went nuts. There, Gastón taught me the value of Peruvian cuisine, its rhythms, its idiosyncrasy. I had to listen and then transmit. For example, I liked the arroz con pato, but my boss was Gastón and I couldn’t change the menu, I could only give ideas. I wasn’t the creative chef, I was just the chef.

Did you feel tied by the hands?

Yes. At that time, the menus were very long, and that made me suffer. In addition, I came from restaurants for 70-80 people, but in Colombia we had up to 400 people. The kitchen was not enough for us! Suppliers came in, we processed what they brought us, and we served (laughs). Keeping order was extremely important in moving the operation forward, and I brought that discipline and exhaustive division of tasks from England. Sometimes we stagnated, we delayed serving the dishes, something unthinkable today, but people still had fun because they felt that what Gastón was doing was revolutionary.

Why did you leave?

At that time, in Bogotá there was no fresh fish, there was no contact with the producers, we did not have direct access to the pantry, and I wanted that. When I returned to Peru I traveled to Cusco, to the Amazon, because I wanted to understand our cuisine from the origin, from the producers. In Europe many cooks have never harvested a potato, a tomato, anything.

You went back to Europe, but this time to Astrid & Gastón in Madrid…

For some of us, our asses burn (laughs). In addition, that cover of Time came out with the face of Ferran Adrià where he was described as one of the most influential personalities in the world. “How did something like this happen while I was in Europe!” I said. I had to immerse myself in the Spanish avant-garde, and just then Gastón told me that there was the possibility of opening in Spain. “That’s me,” I replied. The experience was brutal. Before that, I practiced in some spaces: I was with Santi Santamaria just when he fought with Adrià. In Madrid I worked with Alberto Chicote, who had good spaces, not necessarily haute cuisine. I also met Arzak, Martín Berasategui and many more. At Astrid & Gastón we did traditional cuisine, a bit innovative, but we never did haute cuisine; yes, we generate a lot of curiosity.

I’m not saying it was because of us, but soon after, Spanish chefs, Dani García, for example, began to serve tiraditos, ceviches, and so on. After a few months I said: “That’s it, mission accomplished, it’s time to go back.”

There you open Central. I remember that in your first menus there were Spanish olive oils, Italian pasta, Asian salts. You weren’t obsessed with local input. At that time you told me that if you could offer the best of the world to your clients why not do it…

I realized that I understood not only the kitchen but the business: I served what I liked, but also what people liked. It was a moment of transition, of taking risks, but also of making some concessions. I can’t always do what I like. Remember that the image that that first Central had was European, because I came from abroad. How was I going to sell something totally Peruvian? It would have meant attempting against myself, against what the clients expected of me. I knew that was going to change, but in time. Likewise, change is always a dilemma: Do you betray yourself by changing? Why not stay in your comfort zone if you are also successful? The answer is to always be aware of the moment you live. Today, our ingredients are 100% Peruvian, but that cost us a lot of time, work; Furthermore, we had to focus on knowledge, and that happened thanks to Mater Iniciativa. Concepts that are common to us today –certification, traceability, conservation, etc.– were novel at that time. What’s more, even today they are complicated for some cooks.

In that first Central, you did not serve ceviches, tiraditos, much less a lomo saltado.

(Laughs) I had to win some battles, one of them, that of credibility, and I couldn’t get into traditional cuisine. I said to myself: “what happens if I deconstruct the lomo saltado, the papa a la huancaína. I cannot present myself in this way to the Lima public who will be my client”. Remember that, at the time (it was 2008), there was no gastronomic tourism or it was very incipient. We set out to provide a great experience, a mystique of service: our dining room equipment was first class, we hired sommeliers, our glasses and tableware were of extreme quality, and so on.

Being complacent has never been your bet…

At the beginning, I was extremely accommodating to the crowd on the main course, but risky on the side dishes. For example, who doesn’t like a strip asado cooked for 24 hours with chili peppers and spices easily recognizable by the Peruvian palate! The best, how delicious. It went that far, but I was left with 30% freedom, with an extra side dish. As it was served separately, the customer could try it or not, finish it or not. We both won: the diner left satisfied and we felt that we were making progress in our proposal. If those days had all been risk, people could have gotten up, left and never come back.

And how often do you give people what they like?

(Laughs) I had a restaurant in Hong Kong. I got into a fight with my partner because he wanted me to put truffle oil on a tiradito. The truffle is liked by everyone and using it is an easy, winning bet. The cook that I am today refused to use it, perhaps the one from ten years ago would have accepted; so my association in Hong Kong broke down because I refused to use truffle oil (laughs).

Several times I have refused to earn money if doing so implied breaking the principles that I defend today: biodiversity, for example.

Have you changed, have you evolved? How do you feel about the transformations in your kitchen?

I have wanted to bring my kitchen to the world: to be global, to be accepted, to be bought, to be loved. Before, I was afraid of sounding nationalistic, jingoistic. Today, without being a populist, based on knowledge and learning, I am more willing, more open to doing Peruvian things. Despite the pandemic, we have the opportunity to do so. I decided that I was going to cross out, little by little, my to-dos. However, we have also made our discourse more specific. Before we covered many things, today we are more specific.

Mater Iniciativa has been fundamental in this learning process…

Mater gives me knowledge, error, change. I have always proposed to do transcendent things, things that I feel. Lima London (Virgilio’s restaurant in London, which earned a Michelin star) is a good space, but it hasn’t changed anyone’s life. My space in Hong Kong was impressive, but I never felt it was mine. From now on, I will only open spaces that follow what was created in Mater.

Many say that haute cuisine is in crisis. What’s next?

The world does not ask for more fun, casual concepts, but restaurants with ideas, with a philosophy. This will be, for example, our new restaurants in Russia and Japan, with few people and many ideas, where the riches of Peru, its biodiversity, and our creativity are appreciated; using the ingredients that we produce in Cusco, in the Amazon; that we process in Mater laboratories such as coffee, cocoa, mead. Of course, we will also work with producers from the places where we settle, but from our perspective, from our philosophy, one that is built by looking at the culture, the history of the countries where we will be, which analyzes their anthropological processes. Today, due to the pandemic, for people to leave their home you must offer them a unique experience. From my days in Spain I remember that there were some traditional chefs who were magnificent at what they did, but then one of the avant-garde would come, show their ideas and concepts and expand the flavors, improve the experience. The diner, after living both experiences: who did he believe the most? The first maintained his prestige, but the second became greater.

In other words, your commitment is to ideas, new experiences and prestige…

We are all struck, confused, with a lot of uncertainty. If customers give us their time and, of course, their money, we must give them something to match that delivery, that disposition. Before we were criticized for the long tasting menu of two or three hours. Well, today people stay five, six, eight hours without problem, and happy. Why? Because they have time. Immersion in nature, something we offer thanks to Mater, is very important.

That is precisely the proposal of MIL, your restaurant in Moray, in the Sacred Valley…

MIL is liked a lot, especially by outsiders. Its impact is incredible… and to think that we opened it with only 180 thousand dollars! A small number for its proposal. To tune in with the community and our customers, we have deepened our sensitivity, our vision of what culture means. I give you an example: the cement and bare brick constructions that are made today in the Sacred Valley. For many, that is ugly, and perhaps I think the same, but for the people there, using cement and brick means getting out of poverty. They are communities in need and one way to show that they are getting out of that situation and that they are entering modernity is by using the materials of the city. So, if I listen to them, if I integrate myself, if I talk and work with them, before judging them, I prefer to understand them. And so will our new spaces abroad: in Russia we will have farmlands; in Tokyo we will be closely linked with Kyoto, with its natural spaces.

You were criticized for not being in your restaurant for long, that you lived more on a plane than in your kitchen…

(Laughs) We have made an inventory of our merits and shortcomings. We have cleaned up our messes. There was a lot of confusion, perhaps because, it’s true, I traveled a lot. But I was recently telling Mitsuharu (Tsumura, Maido’s chef), that we belong to the generation of cooks who had to travel, and we had to do our homework. And why were we traveling? Because many were not willing to come to Peru, you had to show it. If we had not traveled, gastronomic Peru would not be so powerful, it would be less known. For example, without my trips to New York and Los Angeles, maybe Netflix wouldn’t have made some of their culinary documentaries – with Zac Efron, Street Food – about Peru. Today is the time to stay in the country, for Zoom congresses, for virtual meetings. It is what we have, to take advantage of it.

You were also criticized a lot because your restaurants ended up being spaces for tourists…

It is true that before the pandemic most of our audience was not local, but today it is. We are in debt, but tourism will return little by little. What’s more, it’s already coming back. Our bet is not to lower prices, that I reduced them a little, more for a phonetic issue (laughs). I repeat, if the client gives you more of their time, we also give them more of ours. Everything is more personalized. If you return as a customer tomorrow, believe me I’ll serve you another menu.

Does haute cuisine have to follow formulas similar to yours to survive, to continue?

Reality is teaching us that going down some steps does not mean that we have stopped doing haute cuisine. For example, today we make and sell chocolates, but we do it hand in hand with the producer, with research, with knowledge. That is haute cuisine.

That is, we are taking off some corsets, but always with the aim of breaking the brains of our guests. These are not times to transmit tricks but truth.

Today that people cook at home, where should restaurants be?

Those who opt for the different, for the exceptional will survive. Today people know that we are not an island in a poor country, that we are necessary because we are a space where our culture is manifested. It is true that places like Central are for few people, and perhaps now we will be even more so due to the restrictions of the pandemic, but we will establish new forms of communication, to get closer to more people, perhaps through producers. The other day I saw the documentary “Why Beauty Matters” and I felt that this was my responsibility. If I know that I have a talent for transmitting the beauty of my country, why not do it, perhaps that is my task, the most important thing I can give today. The beauty that I transmit is not that of a gallery, that of a museum, but the connection, respect and affection towards Peru, its people and its products.

Is the next MIL Amazonia part of that self-imposed mission?

It was originally intended for Madre de Dios, but perhaps we will transfer it to Tarapoto or Pucallpa. In two years we will have the new space. Today there is a market for medicine and natural food linked to health and luxury that Peru could target. With MIL, at the beginning, we focused on the experience, but we realized that that was not enough, that we left many things out, things that today people would appreciate: connecting with nature, the landscape, the harvest, the interaction with community members and producers, and so on.

Projects like this need not only cooks but doctors, social scientists, multidisciplinary teams…

We have to be much more aggressive. The time for adventurous, expeditionary cooks is over. We are also summoning people from outside and, if it becomes necessary to apply for research funds, we will do so. We also have to convince investors, because I already have enough debts with Central (laughs). Yes, our discourse is about sustainability, but the first thing that must be sustainable is the restaurant (laughs). This, being basic, was neglected.

The pandemic caught many of us with our pants down, but we will not give up, we will not leave, and we will continue to fuel our work.

Because of the pandemic, have you lost thousands or millions?

Millions…

Why do you persist?

We cannot afford to be depressed by the crisis, by accounts payable. You have to stay active, do more things and avoid the state of fear. We have more lines of business, projects outside, a clearer and more credible discourse. We are a team, and there are things, not only from the kitchen but from the administration, that I have been able to delegate. I am aware that we live on our prestige, on the value of our brand, although we do not have liquidity (laughs). When the pandemic started I wondered if our proposals were going to continue to be interesting for people or if they were going to change their priorities. Today, for many, going to a restaurant is like going to the theater: the staging – with better dishes, better tableware, better service – has become essential. Along these lines, we have created the Department of Art and Cultura Mater, where we work with universities, research centers, architects, and artists.

I mean, we don’t have to lower our standards, we have to raise them. That is our response to what we live, to be more forceful.

What place does your wife, Pía León, occupy in all this?

We are lucky that we share the same tastes: cooking, eating and love for our son. At the beginning of the pandemic, everything was misconfigured, but we can already sleep well. Why? Because we see Central with people; because Kjolle, her restaurant, although it started slow, has recovered its customers; because we no longer remain only in dreams and words but we move on to actions; because we have been able to travel through Peru again; because we reopened MIL. Pía calms me down.

She was voted the Best Cook in Latin America?

I have no problem if she stands out more than me. The other day, at MIL, we shot a video for the Barack Obama Foundation. The protagonist was her, but Pía asked me to accompany her to Cusco. When they saw me, the people of the Foundation told me, somewhat embarrassed, that I was not going to appear, that the protagonist was Pía. “I have come to take care of Cristóbal, our son,” I told them (laughs). I celebrate her achievements because I am the first to admire her work.

Is there room for optimism?

Yes, because although the situation is rough, Peru continues to be an appealing destination, because we are still a country to discover and savor.

Interview originally published in Spanish in LaMula.pe. Translation by Traveling & Living in Peru.

Gonzalo Pajares

Gonzalo Pajares Cruzado. Journalist. He was editor of Culture and Gastronomy for Perú21 newspaper and Poder magazine. He also worked at El Comercio and RPP. His texts have been published in the magazine Libros & Artes of the National Library, Semana Económica, the newspaper Gestión, the magazines Bocas (Colombia), El Conodor (Argentina), Vinos y más (Chile) and a long etcetera. Today he writes for the online portal La Mula and is a freelance journalist. He has a huarique in Miraflores, where he makes a living preparing chilcanos and capitanes, those delicious pisco cocktails.