Sitting in the wood-clad, dimly lit dining room of the Miraflores restaurant, I begin to feel like I'm planning a year volunteering abroad. A glance at the Peruvian flag on the wall, the figurines on the bar counter and the map plastered across the door, and I imagine gleefully imposing myself on whichever rural village most needs a new school or well. My mind soars. For a fleeting moment I'm perched atop Macchu Pichu, legs tucked up to my chest against the bracing wind, surveying the sun-soaked vistas.
In my bones, though, I know this isn't even remotely realistic. A four-day haul up a big hill to see a pile of old stones isn't my idea of a good time, because to be honest, I'm barely up for even a gentle stroll in the country unless there's a pub lunch at the end of it.
A better reason to visit Peru would be the cuisine. Of course, I'm making this judgment having eaten only at Miraflores (28-3 Sakuragaokacho, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo; 03-3462-6588; www.miraflores-shibuya.jimdo.com). This may seem hasty, but I just have a feeling in my gut that it's likely to be Tokyo's best approximation of the ubiquitous picanterias (eateries) that dot the length of the country — places of far more intrigue than any pile of Inca ruins — where you'll find steaming plates of roasted cattle hearts and bowls of pounded papa a la huancaina — sliced potatoes enveloped in a spicy yellow pepper sauce with a silky, Bechamelesque consistency.