You eat like El Salvadorans

Alternate title: But how much ceviche can you really eat?

I could eat a lot of ceviche.

A surfer's diet in paradise is set by routine. You get up at 5. This is 15 minutes after Sam has been up checking the surf and discreetly making noise to wrest his friends from their hammocks. At 5am the surf is perfect: offshore wind, glassy, and no other assholes are out yet. Breakfast is a plantano or manzana that you grabbed last night from a fruit vendor in town, at the cost of a nickel. You eat it before putting on sunscreen and hitting the surf.

At about 10am Noah and Keith hit the beer stand (Sam surfs on for another hour or three). First comes a full litre aqua. Then a plate of huevos rancheros. Two dropped eggs covered in picante sauce, over a bed of frijoles negras. Tortillas on the side, smaller and thicker than their Mexican counterparts, are great covered in hot sauce. The eggs doubtless came from one of the chickens running underfoot. By now the wind has changed, and we eat under a tin or cement roof looking out at the point break, watching a now crowded field of surfers jockey for position and wipe out on mushy waves.

Then come the cervezas. Icy cold Pilseners keep rolling in for the rest of the day. Sam shows up and is eager for vendor food. We pack up the camino naranja, and cruise the CA-2 looking for vendor food. It's the heat of the day now, though we alternate windows down and AC. The landscape is too beautiful to cut yourself off from it for too long. Either way, reggae and Dropkick Murphy's are pumping.

Sometimes we seek out the most modest streetside grill we can find. "Se comida vende?" we ask. "Si, Si", and a plump El Salvadorena eagerly points us toward a bench and table. Her husband sits in the shade and nods. Their daughter is sent to take our drink order, and the son bikes to a bigger stand to get more Pilseners. Watermelon trucks rumble a couple of yards past, flying through the cliffs and curves on the way to Honduras or Guatemala. The bottles shake on the table.

"Hice la tabla." The old man wandered over. You made the table? We look at the joints and slats appreciatively, dropping a couple buenos and muy amables. We invite him to sit and buy him a beer. Little is said. He knows no English, and our Spanish is limits us to few pleasantries and queries. He excuses himself when the food arrives.

"Tengo pollo o pescado." Chicken or fish, the woman told us. The fish was always a pescado frito, fried whole in oil. The chicken was seasoned and grilled. Everything was cooked over a simple fire grate. The quality and simplicity were amazing. Each meal came with a fried plantain. The tally? 15 beers, 3 meals; 17 dollars.

Other days we would opt highbrow. At the tops of overlooks, 2-story concrete structures dominated the vistas. The kitchen was below and seating above, always overlooking a pocket beach and point break 500 feet down. Here was more cosmopolitan. Ceviche brisas del mar came in a soup bowl with saltines. Fresh octopus was identified by suckers still strong enough to stick to the plate. The shrimp were 8" long. And each plate came with decorative, yet tasty, whole crabs. The tally? $50.

On other days, when we would need to stop for hielo, we would go into town for pupusas. The pupusa lady worked a piping hot griddle under a hot tin roof in the middle of the day. She would slap two circles of dough around a thin layer of chicken, cheese, or beans and pat them together. They were good, but they were hot. We took a bag home one day for dinner. Four hours later, I swear they were still too hot to eat. The tally? $8.

On the way back to the beach, we would stop for a bottle of anejo or a few packs of Pilsener. We would lounge back into the hammocks with a cocktail and cigar and pass the heat of the day. The fishermen would come in and unload their catch, and sometimes stop by for a chat and a smoke. The evening surf session would begin after 4, and conclude after sunset (530).

Then it was dinner time.

I enjoyed stepping out at dinner time. It was a time for formality, so we would wear flip flops and shirts. With the sun down, people would emerge and congregate in front of shops. It was no longer blistering hot. Kids played soccer in the street. Everyone would stop and give us the eyeball. In El Coco, the nearest doctor was a 3 hour bus ride away. Not too many gringoes came out this way; those that did never left the gated security of the lone resort. We were a spectacle indeed.

Teenage girls would cluster, point and giggle. The old men would nod. After we sat and our round of Pilseners arrived, a gang of boys would hang out in front of us and give us sidelong glances. Apparently they heard that Americans get drunk and go crazy. They were disappointed when we didn't, and soon returned to their games.

Dinner fare was more of the same. I was tempted several times by the Huevos tortugas, but couldn't bear the environmental burden. One night we found a whole fried red snapper stuffed with shrimp for $12. It was easily the best meal I ever ate. As the woman came to gather our plates, she looked at them with surprise and smiled. "You eat like El Salvadorans" (Ustedes come como Salvadornenos!) she said, picking up a bare snapper skeleton that had been nibbled to the cheeks. It was obviously a complement, and we were as pleased as she.

After dinner, the shopping would begin. There were some necessities, the morrows breakfast fruit and some more cold Pilseners. Occasionally we would buy a soccer ball for the kids, or a melon for a neighbor back at camp. We brought her a watermelon. We got cake.

Sometimes we stood around with the old men, who wanted to talk about cars. They were especially interested in what we drove (Senor, que coche usted conduce?). These are very practical people. They were happy with my Land Cruiser, and thrilled with Sam's dually dump truck. Keith's Camry though, failed to impress.

Naturally, by this time you may be wondering how we retained our stuff, especially in a region where becoming separated from one's possessions is a common occurrence...

Next: Perros playeros!