Backstory: Incan fusion at a cevichería near you.

"Experts say Peruvian food is the third best in the world," explains taxi driver Fermin Correro, striking up a midnight conversation with a tired new arrival at the airport. "French is the best (though I have not tasted it myself to confirm), Chinese (if you like that sort of thing) is second, and we are third." Of course, he adds, "I don't think the experts tasted great tacu tacu."

"Peruvian cuisine ... is one of the most cultured, varied, and exquisite cuisines that humankind has created on earth," half whispers food sociologist and restaurateur Isabel Alvarez Novoa, sitting at the bar of her El Senorio de Sulco restaurant, sipping a purple drink made of traditional red corn and cinnamon. To begin with, she explains, there is the country's enormous biodiversity: Peru is home to some 80 types of the world's 104 biological zones, which produce an amazing assortment of fresh ingredients.

But beyond that is the "historical process," she says. With all due respect to Machu Picchu, the most lasting contributions of the Incas to the world were potatoes and chilies, she says. Incan cuisine, over time, became fused with new ingredients - such as olives, grapes, rice, chicken, and dairy products - introduced by the Spanish conquerors who arrived in the early 1500s and the African slaves who came with them.

After independence in 1821, European immigrants added French, Italian, and German twists. Chinese laborers, who arrived in the mid-19th century as cheap plantation labor brought new frying techniques and soy and ginger. And, finally, the Japanese, at the turn of the century, imported a love for fresh, raw fish and seafood, and opened the first of the now omnipresent cevicherías that Acurio hopes to export worldwide.

It all came together, says Ms. Alvarez, when the years of Shining Path terrorism abated and restaurants in the capital started opening, showcasing all these different tastes and influences.

"In the '90s we began to blossom and feel proud of ourselves, of our architecture, our designs, our cultural heritage - and our food," says Acurio. "The secret ingredient to this whole revolution was believing in what you have. Loving it."

It was only a matter of time before modest neighborhood cevicherías became mod ceviche bars, with Latin lounge music and attractive waiters with black bandanas around their heads. Simple shrimp-and-rice dishes became shrimp-grouper-mango-avocado-caviar and-rice teasers.

"Seductive, no?" smiles Acurio.

The most mod of the mod, La Mar opened a year ago. Tradition is served here with a twist: A dash of olive oil. A pinch of mild chili. A drizzle of coconut milk. But, similar to Lima's thousands of old-fashioned cevicherías, La Mar has a thatched roof, is open only for lunch, has reasonable prices, and never takes reservations. The atmosphere is loud and fun. Meals take hours.

A group of retired ladies with large hairdos are spearing black sea scallops drenched in lemon and chili. A little boy, out with his parents for a birthday treat, is getting into dessert: crunchy, chocolaty profiteroles, filled with light green ice cream made of lucama, an Incan fruit with a bright yellow pulp. In the corner, a young man takes out a small ring and proposes to his girlfriend. A pastry chef, watching from behind a blender, blushes. A slow, Latin love song comes on.

In three months, a second La Mar is scheduled to open in Lima. Then Mexico, where four franchises have already been bought. Panama and Brazil are next. And by 2007, San Francisco and London will have their own La Mars.

"It's going to happen, it's happening. Cevicherías are going mainstream," says Acurio. "Sushi bars have nothing on us."

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