Twelve years ago when the wine bar Bocanariz opened in the historic and bohemian Lastarria neighborhood in Santiago, Chile, wine bars were completely unheard of in the country. When Chileans drank wine, it would be at home, bars, restaurants, and wineries, but the concept of a wine-only bar was unheard of. And when Bocanariz also started making food to pair with their wine flights, that was also seen as odd. But people started taking notice. This wine bar has won a lot of accolades globally not just for its wine, but also its food. When I was doing research for our South America trip, specifically for Santiago, I could not see restaurant recommendation lists that did NOT have this spot on it. The reviews were quite enthusiastic, and it was hard to ignore. On top of that, the food menu looked pretty enticing, with an emphasis on seasonal and locally sourced ingredients. The prices seemed like a relative bargain to the equivalent I’d find in New York. Since traveling with a young child, I’m cognizant of the annoyance of babies/young children to other diners, so during our travels, I’ve been hesitant and avoidant to make any reservations at any “fine dining” type establishments. But Bocanariz seemed amiable to younger children, with their restaurant noting that they have high chairs, and some photos posted on Google where I can clearly see people have brought littles. So I decided to make a lunch reservation and see how we’d go.

The food in Chile has been delicious, but this meal and wine experience will definitely be a highlight. For our starters, we enjoyed local Chilean oysters, small and exceptionally creamy. I had just enjoyed a number of (East Coast) oysters at a customer dinner the previous week, and while they were delicious, they completely paled in comparison to these Chilean morsels of delight. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sweeter or creamier oysters than these. We had fish ceviche in a creamy dressing, with avocado, roasted corn, and sweet potato chips; I could have drank all that sauce by itself without the fish. We ordered fried bao with roasted tongue beef: the bao itself was slightly crisp on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside, while the tongue was incredibly tender and well seasoned.

And for our mains, we shared the duck confit with sweet potato puree and orange dressing, plus the scallop linguine. Both were delicious, as we savored every bite, but I will say that the linguine was quite exceptional. Some of the scallops were served in their shell (which I LOVE; I usually only see this in Australia or certain parts of Asia, and we NEVER see this in the U.S.), and the sauce was so buttery yet light. We nearly had to fight Kaia to get just a couple bites of this linguine.

We also had three different wine flights: one was Carmenere for both of us (since it seems to be the specialty in Chile and not common outside of the country, though this grape did originate in France), and the second, we split: we had one “author’s flight” and one “classic” flight. I didn’t come to Chile knowing much at all about Carmenere or Chilean wine in general, but I can say that 1) I can’t believe how relatively inexpensive they all are, and 2) they’re truly delicious and underrated — lots of pleasant complexity and fruitiness in each sip. Somehow, we managed to get through all that wine and food without Kaia squirming out of her high chair too often. It was like a little miracle.

I’m so happy I found a special place for us to eat here that had delicious food, a crazy large selection of local wine, and good service in a relatively casual setting for all three of us. Maybe for our future trips, I should look for places that are more like Bocanariz, though it does still seem to be quite a gem, even in Santiago today. In a time pre-Pookster, I loved finding one splurge or tasting menu-type restaurant for us during our trips, but now, we have to adjust and find other delicious places that will accommodate her. And clearly, different places are not lacking for these at all.

The first time I had a pisco sour cocktail was when I was 21. I was dining out at a Peruvian restaurant in Somerville, Massachusetts, with my then boyfriend and his then roommate and friend, and they introduced me to the pisco sour. The roommate was Chilean, originally from Santiago, and was at Harvard doing his PhD in astronomy. He told me he missed Chilean food, and since there weren’t any Chilean restaurants he could find in the Boston area, he had to settle for Peruvian to get his “home food” fix, as it was the next best and closest thing. Pisco was one of the best things to come out of Chile, and he loved making them and drinking them.

The pisco sour is a fairly simple cocktail: pisco (a brandy-like, grape-based liqueur), fresh squeezed lime juice, simple syrup, topped with a fresh frothy egg white and a dash of bitters. It was a revelation in my mouth, as I was experiencing two new tastes and sensations at the same time: it was the first time I was tasting pisco, and the first time I was enjoying a raw egg white in a drink. And I was in heaven. It was frothy, luscious, sweet, tart, smooth, with just a hint of bitter (from the bitters, duh). I couldn’t believe how delicious and complex this drink was!

Pisco is essentially an un-aged brandy that is the result of distilled fermented grape musts and juices. Some say it’s like the Italian grappa since both are made from grapes. But what I did not know then, which I know now, is that pisco (and the pisco sour) are not just Peruvian, but they are also considered Chilean. There is quite the rivalry when it comes to the question of which country does it better.

A few differences exist between the two: Chilean producers grow grapes in desert conditions with very low humidity. Peru requires producers to use only grape eight varietals, while Chilean producers have 13 different varietals to choose from. Chilean producers can use semi-fermented young wine as their Peruvian counterparts do, but they prefer to use fully fermented wine. Chilean producers can also age piscos in wooden barrels for a more cognac-type color and flavor. Chilean producers sometimes add water at the finishing stage to bring down alcohol content. In Peru, pisco can be distilled only once, and no water is allowed to be added. Because of this, the purists argue that Peruvian pisco is better. I don’t have an opinion on this matter because 1) I have no particular loyalty to either country and 2) I have not had enough of any pisco to have an opinion. But so far, my opinion from age 21 onward is that pisco is delicious, and the pisco sour is likely one of the best cocktails on earth. Simple.

I suppose what we could do is to try to do a tasting of Chilean pisco and Peruvian pisco side by side, straight up, to see how they compare. But this would be pretty tough given there are so many varieties and ways of distilling, aging, etc., that I mentioned above, so you’d need to do a lot of research to do a true “apples to apples” comparison. So instead, while we’re here, I’d like to just drink as many pisco sours as possible and enjoy how delicious they are, along with that luxurious frothy egg white top. Who would have ever thought an egg white, frothed raw, could make a drink so darn exciting? We each had a large pisco sour at a fun restaurant that was next to a major art museum in Lastarria today, and it was just as enjoyable and delicious as it looked. And I’ll admit: given it was so large, I left a bit tipsy — all worth it while in Chile!

Juice in the United States is a sad affair. It’s one I’ve mentioned a number of times on this blog in various capacities. But I think it’s particularly embarrassing to discuss and confront it when in the company of those who grew up in cultures and countries where, if one chooses to consume juice, one can get it fresh squeezed. If you grew up in that type of culture, you’d be disgusted and aghast to find out that in the U.S., while the label on your orange juice carton from the grocery store may say “100% juice,” what it really means is… an orange that has been completely deconstructed, pasteurized, squeezed, and broken down into so many different forms that it no longer has any flavor that resembles the original fruit. To recreate the taste of “fresh orange juice,” juice companies add “flavor packs,” which are essentially chemical flavorings that are derived from orange essence and oil. Somehow, these do not need to be labeled as separate ingredients since they are derived from oranges, and hence, your juice can be called 100% juice with only “orange juice” as the ingredient. Sick, right?

I’ve never been a big juice drinker as an adult, as I prefer to eat my fruit. But, I do enjoy the occasional fruit smoothie. I’ve gone through phases when I’ve regularly made smoothies at home. Sometimes while on work trips, I’ll get cold-pressed juice (usually green) as a treat. But, when in countries where the fresh squeezed juice culture is strong, like Brazil, Colombia, or in Southeast Asia, I am happy to enjoy them… because they’re freshly squeezed, not heavily processed. They actually taste like what the fruit should taste like.

When we arrived at the Santiago Marriott Hotel this morning, where we’ll be spending the next five nights, we were invited to breakfast. And Chris was excited to see that the “default juices” in the beverage section were passion fruit (maracuya) and cherimoya (custard apple). Both were delicious and tasted like the real fruit, even if they weren’t actually fresh squeezed. Because we are in South America during the Southern Hemisphere winter, we’re not here during peak cherimoya season unfortunately, which is during November-December. So I was a bit bummed about that given how much I love cherimoya, though I rarely eat it because it’s such an expensive fruit almost everywhere we’ve been. Cherimoya’s home is actually in the Andes Mountains, somewhere between Peru and Ecuador. It’s thought to be just a regular summer fruit here in Chile, so when you come here during their spring/summer, you can find it for cheap at any local market. It’s okay, though: I’m still happy to enjoy the juice!