Tasting Paraguay: A Culinary Journey Through Lambaré's Markets and Restaurants

My culinary flight plan began at dawn at Lambaré's Mercado Municipal, where vendors were already arranging pyramids of mandioca (cassava) and setting up their yerba mate stations. Having lived in Mumbai for three years now, I've developed a sixth sense for navigating markets, and this one felt immediately familiar yet distinctly Paraguayan.

The market's layout resembles the organized chaos of an airport terminal – sections dedicated to produce, meats, and prepared foods all flowing in a pattern that makes sense once you're in it. What struck me immediately was how the vendors seamlessly switched between Spanish and Guaraní, often in the same sentence. This linguistic dance reflects the food itself – European techniques applied to indigenous ingredients.

My guide Marcos introduced me to Doña Elisa, whose chipas (cheese bread rings) are legendary in the neighborhood. Made from mandioca flour, these chewy, cheesy breads are Paraguay's answer to the Brazilian pão de queijo, but with a distinctive anise undertone. For just 5,000 Guaraní (about $0.70), I got three warm chipas and a small cup of cocido negro – a traditional Paraguayan drink made by burning yerba mate and mixing it with sugar, milk, and sometimes coffee.

The market's fruit section displayed varieties I'd never encountered before – the tart guaviyú berry, the citrusy yvapurũ, and my new favorite, the creamy chirimoya. I filled my packable daypack with these treasures for less than $5, making it the perfect companion for market shopping.

If there's one thing I've learned from my travels across South America, it's that each country claims barbecue supremacy. But Paraguay's asado has a distinct character that deserves its moment in the spotlight. Unlike the air traffic control tower where precision timing is everything, Paraguayan asado is about patience and feel.

Marcos invited me to his family's Sunday asado, an event treated with the reverence of a religious ceremony. His uncle Carlos, the designated asador (grill master), started preparing the fire at 10 AM for a meal we wouldn't eat until 2 PM. The meat selection was a carnivore's dream: vacío (flank steak), costilla (ribs), chorizo (sausage), and the crown jewel – tira de asado (short ribs cut across the bone).

What distinguishes Paraguayan asado from its Argentine or Brazilian cousins is the liberal use of sal gruesa (coarse salt) and the absence of marinades. The meat speaks for itself, with smoke from local hardwoods providing the only flavor enhancement needed. Carlos cooked everything at varying distances from the coals, orchestrating the meat's journey to the plate with the precision of, well, an air traffic controller.

The asado was accompanied by mandioca boiled then lightly fried in beef fat, ensalada paraguaya (a simple mix of onions, tomatoes, and bell peppers), and sopa paraguaya – which, despite its name, isn't a soup at all but a dense cornbread made with cheese and onions. The meal was washed down with terere, ice-cold yerba mate that provides welcome relief from Paraguay's heat.

I've documented traditional cooking methods across four continents, and Paraguayan asado ranks among the most authentic expressions of a culture's relationship with food I've witnessed. The entire experience cost nothing but time and good conversation – a reminder that the best culinary experiences often come without a price tag.

Between the structured meals and market visits, Lambaré's streets offered some of my most memorable bites. Unlike Mumbai's chaotic street food scene where vendors crowd every corner, Lambaré's offerings are more subtle – you need local knowledge to find the good stuff.

My favorite discovery was mbejú, a starchy pancake made from mandioca starch and crumbled cheese, cooked on a hot griddle until the edges crisp up while the center remains chewy. The best version I found was at a tiny stall near the central plaza, run by a grandmother who's been making mbejú for over 40 years. At 7,000 Guaraní (about $1), it was both breakfast and a cultural education.

For lunch on-the-go, nothing beats a Paraguayan empanada. Unlike their Argentine cousins, these are typically made with mandioca flour instead of wheat, giving them a distinctive chewiness. The filling of choice is usually seasoned beef (empanada de carne) or shredded chicken (empanada de pollo), but my personal favorite was the empanada de so'o so'o – a mixture of ground beef and corn.

The most surprising street food was kivevé, a savory pudding made from squash, corn, and cheese. Served in small paper cups for about 10,000 Guaraní ($1.40), it's sweet, savory, and utterly unique to Paraguay. I found myself wishing I'd brought my food thermos to take some back to my hotel for later.

The evenings brought out vendors selling buttery mbeju guasu (a larger version of mbejú) and pajagua mascada – beef patties mixed with mandioca and fried to crispy perfection. Walking through Lambaré's streets as the sun set, following the scent of frying oil and wood smoke, I felt that rare traveler's joy of discovering authentic food that hasn't been sanitized for tourist palates.

While home cooking and street food form the backbone of Paraguayan cuisine, Lambaré has several restaurants that offer traditional dishes in slightly more formal settings – though 'formal' in Paraguay still means relaxed by most standards.

My top recommendation is Bolsi, a local institution that straddles the line between traditional and contemporary. Their vori vori (chicken soup with corn dumplings) transported me straight to comfort food heaven, while their surubí (a local river fish) grilled with herbs demonstrated that Paraguayan cuisine isn't all about beef. A full meal with a cold Paraguayan Pilsen beer set me back about 85,000 Guaraní ($12) – a steal for the quality.

For those seeking a deeper dive into traditional Guaraní cuisine, Ña Eustaquia offers dishes that are increasingly rare even in Paraguayan homes. Their ka'i chirú (monkey soup – don't worry, the name is traditional but it's actually made with beef) and pira caldo (fish soup) connect diners to pre-colonial food traditions. The restaurant itself is humble, with plastic chairs and paper tablecloths, but the flavors are complex and unforgettable.

If you're traveling with my travel water filter, you can safely refill at any of these restaurants instead of buying bottled water, saving both money and plastic waste. This has become my standard practice across South America, where tap water quality varies widely.

For dessert, I discovered Heladería Confitería La Paraguayita, where artisanal ice cream flavors include regional fruits like guavira and yvapurũ. Their dulce de leche-filled alfajores (sandwich cookies) make perfect gifts to bring home – if they survive the trip without being devoured.

What struck me about dining in Lambaré was the unhurried pace. Unlike Mumbai's bustling restaurants or Atlanta's efficient turnover, meals here are meant to be lingered over. No server will rush you through courses or drop the check until you specifically request it – a reminder that food is about connection as much as sustenance.

As an experienced traveler, I've found that cooking classes offer the most direct flight path to understanding a culture's relationship with food. In Lambaré, I was fortunate to join a small class offered by Cocina de la Abuela, where local home cooks teach traditional recipes to small groups.

For just 150,000 Guaraní ($21), I spent four hours learning to prepare three Paraguayan classics: chipá guazú (a savory corn cake), bori bori de pollo (chicken soup with corn dumplings), and kosereva (a sweet pumpkin dessert). Our instructor, María, spoke limited English but communicated effectively through demonstration and my basic Spanish – proving once again that cooking is a universal language.

The class began with a trip to the local market to select ingredients, where María taught us how to choose the perfect mandioca (firm with no soft spots) and the right cheese for chipá (the saltier the better). Back in the teaching kitchen – a converted home space with simple equipment – we dove into preparation.

What struck me most was how Paraguayan cooking relies on technique rather than exotic ingredients. The magic happens in the patient caramelization of onions, the proper kneading of dough, and understanding how to balance the sweetness of corn with savory elements.

I've documented cooking classes from Japan to Morocco, and Paraguay's stands out for its accessibility. These are recipes you can actually recreate at home without specialized equipment or impossible-to-find ingredients. I now make chipá regularly in my Mumbai apartment, much to my neighbors' delight.

The class concluded with us enjoying our creations together, paired with terere served in a traditional guampa (drinking vessel) with a metal bombilla (straw). I captured the entire process with my compact camera, which has become my go-to for food photography during travels – its macro capabilities perfectly capture the textures and colors of dishes without being as intrusive as a larger camera.