Seafood, Wine, and Views: A Foodie's Journey Through Valparaíso's Culinary Scene

Valparaíso doesn't reveal its culinary treasures easily. The city unfolds like a well-crafted novel—you must turn each page (or in this case, climb each hill) to discover its secrets. My exploration began at Mercado Cardonal, where my early-morning arrival rewarded me with the authentic rhythm of local life before tourist crowds descended.

The market's entrance, with its Neo-Gothic façade, belies the sensory explosion within. Stall owners called out their offerings in rapid-fire Chilean Spanish that challenged my modest language skills. An elderly vendor noticed my hesitation and, with a knowing smile, offered me a slice of chirimoya (custard apple)—its creamy sweetness immediately transported me back to the street markets of my childhood in Busan.

'La mejor calidad, señora,' he assured me, as I filled my market basket with fresh sea urchin, razor clams, and plump avocados that would make any California farmer envious. I've learned that the best way to understand a culture is through its markets, where commerce and tradition dance together in beautiful chaos.

Moving between the hills requires strategy. While the iconic ascensores (funiculars) offer charming transportation with vintage appeal, I discovered that a comfortable pair of walking shoes and my trusty collapsible water bottle were essential companions. The bottle's durability proved invaluable as I traversed the steep inclines under the summer sun, allowing me to stay hydrated without adding weight to my day pack.

If there's one thing that connects my Korean heritage with Chilean cuisine, it's a profound respect for seafood. At 63, I've sampled ocean delicacies worldwide, but Valparaíso's offerings stand apart—perhaps because, like Busan, it's a port city where freshness isn't a luxury but an expectation.

My culinary epiphany came at Caleta Portales, the city's active fishing port, where I arrived just as fishermen were unloading their morning catch. The scene was gloriously chaotic—sea lions barking hopefully for scraps, pelicans swooping overhead, and locals haggling over glistening corvina and congrio (conger eel).

I struck up a conversation with Elena, a third-generation fish vendor whose weathered hands moved with hypnotic efficiency as she filleted a reineta. 'You must try our sea urchin,' she insisted in Spanish. 'It tastes like the ocean's soul.' She wasn't exaggerating. The erizo (sea urchin) served moments later with just a squeeze of lemon was a revelation—briny, sweet, and intensely complex.

For those less inclined to DIY seafood adventures, Restaurant Portales nearby transforms these same fresh catches into masterpieces. Their paila marina (seafood stew) arrives bubbling hot, concentrated with flavors that speak of generations of maritime tradition. I captured the steam rising from my bowl with my travel camera, which has proven perfect for food photography with its excellent macro capabilities and discreet size that doesn't disrupt the dining experience.

What struck me most was how Chilean seafood preparation honors the ingredient's natural flavor—similar to Korean cuisine but with different aromatic profiles. Where we might use ginger and sesame, Chileans employ cilantro, merkén (smoked chili), and generous squeezes of lemon.

No culinary exploration of Valparaíso would be complete without venturing into the nearby Casablanca Valley, a cool-climate wine region that has, in just a few decades, transformed from farmland to world-class wine country. At my age, I've learned to appreciate how young regions can sometimes produce the most exciting innovations—perhaps because they're less burdened by tradition.

I booked a small-group tour with Casablanca Wine Experience, preferring the intimacy over larger commercial operations. Our guide, Matías, a former sommelier with encyclopedic knowledge, tailored our journey to focus on boutique wineries producing limited quantities of exceptional wines.

At Viñedos Orgánicos Emiliana, Chile's largest organic vineyard, we walked through biodynamic gardens where alpacas and geese serve as natural pest control. The winemaker explained how the morning fog from the Pacific creates ideal conditions for cool-climate varieties like Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay. Their G Limited Selection Syrah—with notes of blackberry, violet, and white pepper—reminded me why I've always found wine to be liquid poetry.

Lunchtime brought us to Casa Botha, where South African winemaker Jean Botha has created a sanctuary for slow food and methodical winemaking. Under a pergola overlooking the vineyards, we enjoyed a farm-to-table lunch paired with their small-batch wines. The highlight was their unfiltered Pinot Noir alongside a dish of slow-roasted lamb with herbs grown steps from our table.

I've visited wine regions across five continents, and what distinguishes Casablanca is its accessibility. Within 45 minutes of Valparaíso's urban energy, you're surrounded by vineyards that feel worlds away. For capturing these landscapes, my polarizing filter proved invaluable, cutting glare and enhancing the vivid colors of the vineyards against Chile's impossibly blue skies.

Valparaíso's historic hills of Cerro Alegre and Cerro Concepción form the city's gastronomic heart, where century-old mansions have been transformed into restaurants offering cuisine as spectacular as their views. As someone who has dined from Seoul to São Paulo, I can confidently say that few cities merge location and gastronomy as memorably.

Reservations are essential at these hilltop establishments, particularly for sunset tables where the Pacific glows golden as the city lights begin to twinkle below. I learned this lesson the hard way my second evening, when I arrived at Fauna Restaurant only to find every terrace table booked. Fortunately, the maître d' took pity on this solo traveling grandmother and squeezed me onto a corner of the balcony.

The reward was worth the mild embarrassment: a plate of reineta (pomfret) with native potatoes and seaweed butter that perfectly balanced delicacy with depth. Paired with a glass of Casablanca Sauvignon Blanc, it created one of those travel moments where time seems to pause.

For more casual dining with equally impressive views, La Concepción offers creative small plates in a converted Victorian home. Their octopus carpaccio with merkén (smoked Chilean pepper) exemplifies how Chilean chefs are reimagining traditional ingredients. The owner, Claudia, shared stories of how her grandmother's recipes influenced their contemporary menu—a reminder that the best culinary innovations often have roots in family kitchens.

My most memorable meal came at Tres Peces, a tiny seafood-focused restaurant where Chef Pablo Valdés prepares just twelve covers nightly. His five-course tasting menu changes daily based on what fishermen deliver to his door. The intimate setting allowed me to watch him prepare my ceviche of corvina with local citrus and flowers foraged that morning—a performance as much as a meal.

Between restaurants, Valparaíso's craft beer scene offered welcome refreshment. At Cervecería Anfiteatro, I sampled their Valpo IPA while watching the sunset paint the corrugated metal homes in shades of pink and gold—a perfect moment captured with my smartphone gimbal, which has revolutionized my travel videos with its smooth stabilization and compact size.

Between fine dining experiences and wine tastings, Valparaíso's street food offered some of my most authentic culinary encounters. As someone who grew up with Korean street food culture, I've always believed that a city's soul often reveals itself through simple foods served in unpretentious settings.

The empanada stands near Plaza Aníbal Pinto became my regular breakfast stop. Unlike the baked versions common elsewhere in Chile, Valparaíso specializes in fried empanadas de mariscos (seafood empanadas). The contrast of crispy exterior with savory seafood filling—typically a mix of shrimp, mussels, and white fish in a light sauce—creates a perfect handheld meal for exploring.

For lunch on the go, the completo stands scattered throughout downtown serve Chile's answer to the hot dog. But forget everything you know about American hot dogs—the completo is a meal unto itself. The classic version comes loaded with avocado, mayonnaise, diced tomatoes, and sauerkraut. At Completos Dinamicos on Condell Street, I watched in amazement as the vendor assembled this tower of ingredients with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a magician.

'You must eat it quickly, señora, before it falls apart!' he advised with a wink. He was right—eating a completo is both an art and a race against structural collapse.

My sweet tooth found satisfaction at Emporio La Rosa, where ice cream flavors like rica-rica (a native herb) and ulmo honey offered a taste of Chile's botanical diversity. The rose-flavored ice cream reminded me of the floral desserts from my childhood in Korea, creating an unexpected bridge between continents.

Perhaps the most charming culinary discovery came from the alfajores sold by an elderly woman near Paseo Yugoslavo. These delicate sandwich cookies filled with manjar (Chilean dulce de leche) and dusted with powdered sugar paired perfectly with a thermos of tea from my travel mug, which kept my drinks hot during long days of exploration. The woman explained that she had been making alfajores from her grandmother's recipe for over forty years—a testament to how food preserves family history across generations.

At 63, I've learned that the best souvenirs aren't things but skills—especially culinary ones. Chilean cooking classes offered not just recipes but windows into local life that no restaurant meal could provide. As someone who bridges two cultures daily, I'm always fascinated by how food serves as a universal language.

I discovered Chilean Cuisine Workshop through a recommendation from my B&B host. The class takes place in instructor Paulina's home in Cerro Bellavista, where her kitchen opens onto a terrace with sweeping harbor views. Our small group of six—representing four countries and spanning three generations—gathered around her wooden table to learn the secrets of Chilean home cooking.

'Chilean cuisine is honest food,' Paulina explained as she demonstrated how to prepare pastel de choclo, a comforting corn and meat pie that's considered Chile's national dish. 'We don't hide ingredients behind complicated techniques. We let them speak for themselves.'

We each took turns kneading the dough for sopaipillas (pumpkin fritters) and chopping herbs for pebre, Chile's ubiquitous condiment of onions, tomatoes, cilantro, and ají peppers. As we worked, Paulina shared stories of how these dishes evolved through indigenous Mapuche traditions, Spanish colonial influence, and waves of European immigration.

The most valuable lesson came when preparing ceviche. 'The secret is in the timing,' Paulina demonstrated, showing how the acid from lemons and limes 'cooks' the fish just enough while preserving its delicate texture. It reminded me of similar principles in Korean raw fish preparations, though with entirely different flavor profiles.

After three hours of chopping, mixing, and storytelling, we sat down to enjoy our creations with glasses of local wine. Something magical happens when people cook together—barriers dissolve, and connections form through shared creation. I've found this to be true whether I'm making kimchi with my daughter in Cleveland or pastel de choclo with strangers in Valparaíso.

To document these culinary adventures, I've been using a recipe journal that lets me collect techniques and flavors from around the world. Its dedicated sections for ingredients, preparation notes, and even wine pairings have helped me recreate these Chilean flavors back home—the ultimate souvenir that never expires.