A Peruvian Adventure at MIL
Polly Wang
After a 10-hour flight from NYC to Cusco, a night in Urubamba, and a 40-minute drive through the Andes, I arrived at MIL Food Lab, a Peruvian restaurant known as the highest-altitude fine dining establishment in the world. Sitting 3,568 meters above sea level, MIL is known for its partnership with Central in Lima, which was ranked 1st by The World's 50 Best Restaurants in 2023. Located right next to the Moray archaeological site, the entrance was packed with tourists—who, one by one, took off their shoes as a way to connect with Pachamama, the Inka’s earth deity. The area was covered in cornfields and local plants, with sheep grazing and small homes scattered across the mountains. No alpacas are found here, though—they prefer even higher altitudes, where the soil is richer and the grains more flavorful.
Stepping out of the car, I saw a single building—an ordinary house, no different from the other residences I’d passed in the mountains, with a greenery-covered rooftop and grayish walls. Where is the restaurant? I wondered. But the moment I stepped inside, I felt transported to another world.
The interior wasn’t fancy or ostentatious,just a four-sided structure encircling a courtyard where a tree stood, its branches reaching skyward. The entrance hallway was lined with dried plants and herbs. A turn led to a table displaying preserved ingredients, another turn to the kitchen and bar, and finally, to the dining area. The symmetrical design reminded me of a Zen monastery, where energy is centered and contained within the architecture. The warm, earthy tones of the space were calming—exactly what my body, still adjusting to the altitude, needed.
I had booked the immersive experience: a two-hour botanical tour followed by the tasting menu. The tour was led by a local Inka farmer, Mercedes, and a translator, who commutes 45 minutes by foot to work at MIL every day. She still farms the same land we were about to explore. The translator, who also came from the Sacred Valley, asked if I worked in tech—apparently, many of MIL’s guests are American tech workers. I said no, explaining that I study anthropology (intentionally omitting my economics major). He was delighted.
We began with chirika, a kombucha-like fermented drink made from sprouted corn and natural yeast. Before drinking, Mercedes taught me a ritual: we thanked each direction of the world—east, south, west, and north—before pouring half the drink onto the ground as an offering to Pachamama. After the ritual, we took our first sip.
"It’s also called the ‘aha’ tea," Mercedes said with a smile. "Because it’s so delicious, people always say ‘aha’ after drinking it." I found myself doing exactly that.
She explained that chirika is a staple of Inka reciprocity. When people gather to help on a neighbor’s farm, the host offers them chirika before they begin their long day of labor. "Inka people value reciprocity greatly," she said.
As we walked through the landscape, Mercedes explained the terraced topography that allows this region to cultivate an astonishing variety of plants. She frequently stopped to pick leaves, crushing them between her fingers and explaining their medicinal and ritualistic uses in traditional Inka culture. As a keepsake, Mercedes pressed different types of potatoes into the pages of my notebook, each with distinct hues, shapes, and textures.
To my surprise, the Inka classification of plants bore a striking resemblance to traditional Chinese Medicine. Both systems categorize plants into binary opposites: the Inka classify them as “fresh” or “warm,” while the Chinese use yin and yang. Both systems link these properties to masculine and feminine energies. The key difference? The Inka method is more intuitive—you can recognize a warm plant by its strong scent when crushed. MIL, in its experimentation, has not only preserved these traditions but also incorporated them into culinary innovation.
We continued around the mountain, stepping on the soil that had nurtured the food I was about to enjoy. The sun cast a golden warmth over the valley, and for a moment, I felt fully connected to the land.
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"Aha."
Again, that was my reaction when I first sat down at my table. The window in front of me framed a view of the mountains and an open sky. A few cows grazed in the distance. Though I wanted to say it was the best restaurant view I’d ever had, I had to admit—the table to my right had an even better one, catching more of the Andes' peaks.
The wooden table was decorated with dried herbs, images of local ingredients, and a special kind of freeze-dried potato called chuño, dyed in vibrant colors with natural pigments. Mercedes had mentioned this potato during the tour—it has a decade-long shelf life, crucial for times of drought. The first course honored this ingredient: a tortilla made from its starch.
The most beautiful presentation of a napkin.
First Moment - Preservation: chuño / corn / uchucuta sauce / oxalls
Closer look to the beautifully decorated oxalis-flavored butter
Tortilla made from chuño
Second Moment - Highland: cabuya / lamb / kañiwa / cushuro
Third Moment - Extreme Altitude: alpaca / black quinoa / multigrains / ayrampo fruit
Fourth Moment - Corn Diversity: piscorunto / chullpi corn / urubamba corn / fresh cheese
Fifth Moment - Central Andes: potatoes / stems / chaco clay / markh’u leaves
Sixth Moment - Andean Forest: terwi / duck / callampa / rocoto pepper
Seventh Moment - Frozen Cordillera: qolle / muña / tuber ashes
Eighth Moment - Sweet Huatia: mullaska / cacao / maiva
Later in the trip, I dined at Central, MIL’s renowned partner restaurant in Lima. After experiencing both, I understood why the two tables next to me at MIL had said, "I liked MIL much better."
Central operates like any other world-class fine dining restaurant. To me, it felt like the Noma (Copenhagen, Denmark) of the Southern Hemisphere. Like Noma, Central constructs a national identity through cuisine, using hyper-local ingredients and indigenous cooking techniques. Both have become cultural symbols for their countries. Locally, they foster an ecosystem—former chefs open bakeries and restaurants, artists collaborate with them, and a national pride in their culinary heritage grows.
View of Central’s Kitchen
But there’s one problem Central (and high-end restaurants in general) has that MIL does not.
At Noma and Central, the open kitchens showcase the chefs in action—but instead of a sense of wonder, it often feels like watching a pressure cooker about to explode. Waiters, too, are often rushed, rattling off descriptions at lightning speed, careful not to "mess up" or delay service.
Is that really what we want from dining?
MIL presents a decisive answer to this question through an alternative philosophy.
With just eight tables instead of 50, the experience was unhurried. The chefs weren’t rushing, the servers took their time to explain each dish with genuine pride, and I felt welcomed, not scrutinized. Instead of an environment where individuals fight for prestige, MIL radiated collective spirit—perhaps because of their shared belief in the mountains, in Pachamama.
Even though I try not to go too much astray, the experience at MIL inevitably made me reconsider the purpose of high-end restaurants. With those recent visits to MIL, Central, and the east-coast Eleven Madison Park, in comparison, our Chicago local pride Alinea seems to lack some essence. Chef Grant Achatz pioneered molecular gastronomy, but now that his techniques have spread worldwide, what remains unique about Alinea? This raises the question of distinction and technique versus the importance of evocative feelings from culinary experiences.
Currently, I’m writing this on a train from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu. Mist drifts over the mountains, occasionally parting to reveal their full majesty. The Amazon River rushes below, merging with streams of different colors.
Though I’d love to simply enjoy the view, the high schooler next to me—busy typing on her laptop—reminds me that I should probably start writing. The faint smell of the train’s emissions pulls me back to reality.
Yet, at this moment, I begin to understand why Peruvians hold such deep reverence for their mountains. The woman across from me, eyes closed, sits surrounded by the Andes, the river, and a rare burst of sunshine in the rainy season.
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