It was Semana Santa, or Holy Week this time, and the markets and streets were full of peddlers. There was a lot to see, even more to eat and I was in Guatemala.

"Cuando tienes ochenta y siete años, no compras ninguna banana verde," she mumbled as her red shawl brushed against me. Her hands squeezed a dozen bananas, one at a time, and she looked over with a grin. One I returned, as her fingers moved quickly to a vegetable I’d never seen.

"When you’re eighty-seven, you don’t buy green banana," the vendor offered with a thick accent, assuming I was del norte and didn’t speak their tongue. "But she always buy them green," he added. She might never see them change to yellow, I thought.

The old woman had black hair and eyebrows that looked like caterpillars in winter. Her face was wrinkled and reminded me of old leather, cracked and dry. Her hands were rough with dirty nails, and her features were traditionally Mayan. Broad shoulders and dark, deep-set eyes. She’d spent her life working. Hard. She was half my height but twice as wide, the result of a belly that never went hungry. Her friend, who was a few years older, shoved two large yams into plastic and asked me to move aside while she dug for change in her pocket. I obliged, and she walked off with a muffled thank you.

My friend and I slipped through the market taking in everything we couldn’t get back home. We wound through the aisles touching and smelling and found our way back to the main street where we saw the first vendor three hours before. This time, my hands were full of trinkets and fruit I had finagled from local vendors. In my most bona fide Castilian—the truest Spanish—I asked him where we might find an authentic restaurant. Familiar with tourists, he recommended a good place to eat. It was a name I recognized from my guidebook.

"La Fonda. It no cost mucho. Es barato. You know, cheap?" I knew it. It was part of my search—to find the most authentic place I could eat without spending mucho. A place where I could get good wine, good tortillas and maybe a tamale or two.

As we left, I saw what I thought were green bananas. In fact, they were plantains, or "potatoes of the air." A type of banana more starchy than sweet and ones that must be cooked before eating. They are a commodity in much of Latin America and Africa, and are served boiled, baked or fried. They, like the fresh cut watermelon displayed so beautifully in the market, are a popular food on the street.

Across from the plantains I noticed the old woman’s yams again. The only thing different about them is the marshmallow sauce my mother adds every November. I passed rows of natural, raw foods that reminded me of how foreign I was. I walked over to the eggplants. Smaller than what I see at home. They’re the same shape but have a more rich, beautiful color. I’ve eaten those before, baked in the oven with breadcrumbs and butter. They sit along side snap peas. I’d eaten those before, too. One by one and with my fingers right off the plate and without a fork.

My stomach told me I was hungry. Forgoing the traditional fruta americana, I opted for a zapote, chunked in five pieces in a plastic bag and scorched after hours in the sun. Its meat is orange and tastes a little like pumpkin pie. The skin was peeled off but whole ones with brown leathery skin sat in a basket on the ground.

We followed the cobblestone streets back to the hotel and I grabbed my tour book. I flipped to the eatery page and saw the large star I’d marked before my trip began. A friend also recommended La Fonda—The Inn—for traditional Guatemalan cuisine.

"If you get robbed, it’s worth it. It’s really cheap and their food is the best," he told me. A risk I was willing to take. And he should know. He’d moved to Guatemala in his teens, and his stay would last thirty-five years.

Dark-skinned children offered candies and fruit on every corner. Mixes of sweet, bitter, spicy and bland. Previous trips led me to San Marcos and Huehuetenango—small towns in the western jungles that bordered southern Mexico. The foods here were the same. And we didn’t dare visit the capital fearing terrorists and carjacking. But this time I heeded his advice on a trip to Antigua, a town thirty-five miles outside Guatemala City.

I didn’t quite know what I was looking for. He suggested pollo pepián—chicken in pumpkin sauce, and something most Guatemalan—and kakik, a turkey soup. I was looking for something original, and I knew it wasn’t cojones de toro—the bull’s masculinity—or callos—tripe with garbanzo beans slathered in tomato sauce.

I’d meandered down tiny streets before trying to find the best artisan crafts and foods the town could offer. But this time, I was looking for "La original," and not "La nueva." There’s something sacred about the words "La original," especially when they refer to food. And I’m two thousand miles from home. I would find out there are three La Fondas, and I was sent to the first and not the newer, more touristy ones.

Living in Mexico City, I savored tamales and arróz and mole. And melons of all textures and sizes. Tastes that made my eyes clinch and my tongue curl. I wanted something different. Something picante—not caliente—something traditional that I hadn’t eaten or couldn’t find at home. Picante, incidentally, means spicy hot. Caliente means temperature hot. Or horny. In which case, I wanted all three.

I eluded shrimp ceviche aware that uncooked food, especially in Latin America, is dangerous to my intestines. Small children and women without shoes begged me to buy food at each "business." I bought gum and cigarettes for seven quetzals (eighty cents). We walked on, cameras in hand, checking the map and noting our landmarks as the sounds of marimba filled the air. I didn’t know where we were headed, and each block looked the same. And the sun was beginning to set.

La Fonda was a non-descript building, a reddish-brown cement façade with wrought iron around the door and windows. The color matched my forehead after too many hours in the sun. The building’s exterior was rough to the touch, and paint chips clung to my hand as I ran it over the cement. An old bicycle—whose owner sat inside with his beer—guarded the door like a welcome mat. The front step was a solid slab of stone just inches from the cobblestone. Two stories up, I noticed two balconies shielded by geraniums that overlooked the street. I could barely see the large, wooden doors that caught the white sheer curtains dancing back and forth in the breeze. A small menu in handwritten letters was posted on the wall to the left of the main wooden doors. They looked like something from a cathedral and were full of dings and grit.

Just inside, a woman kneaded dough for tortillas. I heard the hiss of oil and something sizzling on the grill. I smelled the grease that fried them, oil that splashed around like children in a swimming pool back home. I could tell from the smells that they had the best food. The best wine. And the best of Guatemala. I paused for a minute and watched the old woman’s hands prod the dough. She could have been making pottery and she did it without looking as she spoke something indigenous to the drinking man.

A petite woman in her early twenties dressed in a long skirt and frilly blouse greeted us at the door. She had the same eyebrows and features as the old woman at the market.

"How many to eat?" she asked.

"Dos," my dinner mate answered with a hard D and S. He looked at me to make sure he used the right number, and I nodded in agreement.

We requested seats on "el balcón" and moved slowly to the back of the restaurant. She showed us to our table upstairs. The first floor included a small bar and some tables, but I noticed the absence of barstools. Each mesita boasted a candle, an ashtray and a vase with one daisy. A narrow staircase led to the second floor, and the stairs, like the seats, groaned with each step. She pulled out my chair and I sat. The tables were small and the chairs were unsteady. Each time I shifted my weight, it creaked, as if I were hurting it.

Sounds of Latin flavor rang softly through concealed speakers. Our table was layered with two tablecloths, one dark red that would match the color of my meal, and a crisp white one that crossed the table diagonally. On each was a small ashtray. There isn’t a "No fumar" section anywhere in Latin America, but there really isn’t any need to smoke, either, with all the pollution that filled my lungs.

I thought back to Aztec and Mayan culture, to the days before the rape and desecration by the Spanish. By A.D. 150, the Maya were already eating squash, beans, potatoes and chiles. I thought of the history of what would sit in front of me and how it came to be. The Maya were (and are, as forty percent still speak only indigenous languages) Indians of southern Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, and El Salvador who had developed one of the greatest civilizations of the western hemisphere. One of the greatest that didn’t include million dollar homes, four-wheel drive or the words Ivy-league. They were, in fact, known for their food preparation techniques and for using advanced methods in agriculture.

Yohanna approached and gave us menus. The front section appeared in Spanish, the back in misspelled and poorly translated English. We ordered, I from the Spanish text, my companion from the English. We both ordered pollo pepián, ensalada mixta and vino. A minute later, she brought two glasses of wine that looked like blood from a sacrifice. But tasted much sweeter.

Our salad was served estilo familiar—or in a large bowl in the center of the table, a manner that invites everyone to take part in the traditions of food. The mesera, or waitress (from the Spanish word mesa for table), asked if we’d like dressing. I knew there was no Italian vinaigrette or blue cheese. She brought oil and vinegar in a wooden caddy that looked two hundred years old.

"Provecho," she said softly as she left our table ensuring we would enjoy our meal. Something I had longed to hear, like the last school bell in June. As I finished all that was in front of me, careful to recall those outside who had gone days without much food, I thought about the advice our vendor offered, "You remember what I say about green banana." I couldn’t help but wonder when I’d be back. Or if I, too, should stop buying green bananas. I saved them for dessert.

The Guatemalan kitchen is a mix of Spanish, Indian and European. The food is just like Mexican—but entirely different. Here, foods are less spicy. They are a culture that uses everything, every part of the pig, every part of the corncob and every part of the Earth. The beans are forever black, the rice is white and the tamales are steamed in banana leaves, not cornhusks as in Mexico. Pepián (from the Spanish word pepas, or seeds) is a traditional Guatemalan chicken dish. You might see it spelled as pipián, which means "in a chile sauce" and mixes indigenous tastes with Spanish flavors. One quarter of a chicken, broth, a hint of salt, tomatoes, chiles of all kind—and ones I can’t pronounce. Sesame and squash seeds, red peppers and a whiff of cinnamon.

It’s a rust-colored stew, like the color of an old car abandoned in a junkyard outside of town. It joins potatoes, squash, chicken and green beans. There were scents of pumpkin and something spicy, smells that my nose recognized from the market.

"It’s good," my companion uttered, "but it’s bland."

I cringed as he loaded his dish with Manhattan splashes of salt and pepper and asked for butter and bread. I kept the "you’re not going to get it" to myself. The pepián was accompanied by a tamale the size of my fist and a bowl of rice with bits of carrots and peas. A basket of tortillas made by the woman downstairs sat under an artisan napkin. As we ate, the smells of pepián slid across the table and up my nose, clearing my sinuses and opening my eyes.

For dessert I ordered café con leche and a plátano frito—or fried plantain. Minutes later, Yohanna appeared with a small dish in which sat a fried plantain cut lengthwise, with a hint of green, and drenched in caramel sauce. Different from a store-bought banana in size, texture and taste. The caramel was thick and sweet like honey my grandfather pulled from beehives when I was small. The coffee was as dark and as culturally rich as the man who sat next to me on the bus to Africa years ago. I savored these minutes with small bites and slow sips.

At a nearby table a woman breastfed her child. My only recourse was to watch. The child was hungry like me and needed to fill his belly. I looked on in horror, not because I was interested, but because I felt uncomfortable and had nowhere to go. I was the one who was unnatural, like at the market hours before.

The scene was interrupted by fellow americanos sitting nearby cackling and downing Gallos by the pitcher, an amber beer that after two or three would send me—and God—over the edge.

"They say Bill Clinton ate here," her eyes rolling about as she enjoyed something that wasn’t fast food or from a convenience store during morning rush hour.

"Oh," I answered, hoping to avoid conversation with non-locals and thanked them for knowledge I’d already had. My dinner companion continued this conversation, and I continued to take in the scenery of the street below. And the nursing baby.

I ordered a vino tinto. And by the time the meal was over, I had drunk three more. Known in the US as red wine—it’s always ordered as "tinto" throughout Latin America and Spain. The mesera cleared our ashtray after each cigarette and quickly dusted tortilla crumbs onto the floor. She took dirty dishes to a small workstation in the corner of the room and quickly disappeared downstairs.

My friend wanted to know what we had eaten.

"De qué es?" I asked Yohanna.

"Es de todo, pero lo más importante es a-chi-o-te," she said spelling out the last word. Known as annatto seed in Europe, achiote was first used by Mayans and was of culinary and cultural importance in the Yucatán, where it has a history for coloring food. The Maya related achiote seeds with rain and used them in most of their agricultural rituals, not only to season stews offered to the gods, but to adorn their bodies and paint their clothes. Achiote was also used as currency and is often called "poor man’s saffron." The brick-red seeds—which contributed to the pepián’s color—are also flavorful but taste bitter. They’re hard, and cooking with them involves dissolving them in hot water, or grinding them into a powder.

I asked Yohanna for a basic preparation of pollo pepián. As quickly as she spoke, I scribbled down the process in Spanish. Cook chicken in salty water for "un rato"—a while. She wasn’t specific about times, and I wasn’t in a hurry. So I listened.

Cook tomatoes, tomatillos and chiles. Toast sesame and squash seeds, cinnamon stick and chile flakes in a dry skillet. Make mixture into a smooth paste. Add bread, achiote, broth and flour to the chicken. Simmer over low heat until sauce is thick. Serve with rice and tortillas.

I wanted to stick my head out hoping to find some of these ingredients. I wanted to be a cooked chile in the mix with everything else. The next day we went back to the market, and I saw what happened to the chicken that would stick his head out. He ran in a circle until a dark-skinned boy grabbed him. He was about fifteen and the chicken wouldn’t live that long.

I went back to the market three times over the next few days. Each time, I saw Javier—the short vendor from the first day—and gained more understanding about local cooking. I shared my story of La Fonda and he of his sister who cooks there. I hung on every word like the Lord spoke to me. And on the last day—Palm Sunday—he asked if I wanted to take the next step in my Guatemalan venture.

"A cortar?" he asked as he pointed to caged chickens a few feet away. "You make your own pepián."

"Cut? No gracias," I answered.

Something I might never again have the chance to do. To kill a chicken. I graciously declined, and he offered me this in return. Something I will always recall about time and about Guatemala.

"You remember what I say about green banana, chico."