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National Geographic

Why Puerto Rico should be your next food destination

Steam rises off the mound of fried green plantains in front of me. Pablo Pont Ruiz, my guide here in Old San Juan, instructs me to grab my pilón y maceta (mortar and pestle) and start mashing. I have Puerto Rico's unofficial national dish, mofongo, lying deconstructed on my plate — and with the plantains piping hot and marinated, cooked chicken and traditional ajillo garlic sauce at the ready, it's time to start assembling. I'm at El Patio de Sam, a restaurant just steps away from the towering Catedral de San Juan Bautista, the second-oldest church in the Western Hemisphere. Pablo and I get to work, surrounded by families and holidaying Americans seated at yellow and blue tiled tables in the venue's titular open-air patio. 'Mofongo is a blend of Puerto Rico's historic identities,' Pablo explains. The first of these influences can be seen in the tools we're using to create the dish. The tall wooden mortar, known as a pilón, and its wooden pestle, the maceta, he says, date back to the Taínos, the Indigenous people who inhabited the island for hundreds of years before the Spanish arrived in 1493. The Taínos used these tools for mashing medicinal herbs and they remain everyday kitchen essentials. Crushing the plantains is tougher than expected. We're aiming for a consistency that's similar to mashed potato, Pablo says. As they come together, a sharp garlic smell of the ajillo wafts up from the bottom of the pilón, merging into the mash. The plantains used in mofongo have their origins in the Spanish colonists who brought the starchy vegetable to Puerto Rico from the Canary Islands in the early 1500s. Puerto Rico was under Spanish rule for more than four centuries before the island was ceded to the US in 1898, and this influence is still very much visible in Old San Juan, from the rainbow-coloured, colonial-style architecture to the impressive coastal fortifications. However, the dish itself is African, brought to Puerto Rico during the Atlantic slave trade and based on the West African staple, fufu. Pablo tells us that mofongo was a hearty dish built to sustain enslaved Africans in Puerto Rico, often constituting the only meal of the day. The bar at Cocina Abierta in San Juan serves refreshing cocktails inspired by the area. Ask for the Wild Card, and the bartender will create you a surprise drink. Photograph by Marisol Pesquera Mofongo is originally African, brought to Puerto Rico during the Atlantic slave trade and based on the West African staple, fufu. It was a hearty dish built to sustain enslaved Africans in Puerto Rico, often constituting the only meal of the day. Photograph by Giovan Cordero Nowadays, Puerto Ricans save this laborious recipe for holidays and special occasions. 'Something that was created out of necessity is now eaten purely for indulgence,' Pablo says. We begin the next step in our process, pushing the maceta into the middle of the garlicky mash and creating an even crater for the pre-prepared chicken. With the chicken added, it's time for the hard part: Pablo instructs us to flip the pilón over quickly, to release the mofongo onto the plate. Feeling the pressure, I take the pilón, flip it and then carefully lift it away. The mound I've left on the plate stays upright, but the walls of my plantain castle look more like ruins. There's a hole on the left side, leaving my chicken exposed, and I spot a fully intact plantain round left behind in the corner of my pilón. Not perfect, but still enticing. I take a bite of the chicken coated in plantain and enjoy comforting flavours of meaty mash, garlic and salt. To complete the meal, there's a hearty side of rice and beans, and icy pina coladas as well. Another Puerto Rican invention, the cocktail's combination of white rum, coconut cream and pineapple juice is a celebration in its own right. It's a proper festive feast. Flower power: Frutos Del Guacabo 'This is going to be a two-minute roller coaster,' warns Efrén David Robles, owner of small, family-run farm Frutos Del Guacabo. He hands me a tiny yellow bulb plucked from one of the bushes lining the farm's entryway and, with his encouragement, I cautiously bite into half the flower. A moment later, the numbness sets in; it feels like I'm at the dentist. The flower is called a lemon drop, Efren explains. He grows it here at Frutos Del Guacabo in Manatí, on the north side of Puerto Rico, and sells it to restaurants across the island. Chefs create a sorbet with the flower, which acts as a palate cleanser between dishes. As my mouth starts to recover, I can see why — the numb, fizzy sensations subside and I'm left with a clean, citric taste. Flowers became a major focus for the farm following Hurricane Maria, which struck the island as a Category 4 storm in 2017. Growing the plants helped pollinate the farm's produce after the hurricane, Efren explains, noting that the vivid colours and sharp flavours are popular with chefs and bartenders. He hands me a bright orange nasturtium, which he suggests eating, stem and all. For such an elegant-looking flower, the fierce, peppery flavour is quite shocking. Standing in the hot sun of the farm's driveway, we cool off with scoops of mango and goat's cheese sorbet, topped with toasted passionfruit seeds. Everything grown here has a purpose, nothing goes to waste. We sample pickled watermelon rind — making use of the white flesh sitting just underneath the fruit's green skin — and spicy watermelon chutney, made from the juicy red centre. Finally, Efren shows me the greenhouse, where the team grows purple lettuce, mustard greens and coriander using hydroponic methods. What began as a small farm now acts as a cooperative for other farmers on the island, aiming to reduce Puerto Rico's dependence on importation. The island imports 85% of its food — an issue that became even more apparent after Maria. 'Teaching people how to grow food, for us, that's a rebel act,' Efren says. The Hacienda Tres Ángeles coffee farm sits in the hills of Adjuntas, about two hour's drive from the capital. Every acre on the plantation holds 1,000 coffee bushes. Photograph by Getty Images, Brigster Coffee culture: Hacienda Tres Ángeles 'Everyone thought we were nuts,' says Naomi Gomez Robles, as we walk along the dirt road encircling the 100-acre coffee farm she owns with her husband, Juan Melendez Mulero. Naomi, a former nurse from the Bronx, and Juan, a mechanical engineer who grew up on the island, had never farmed before 2012 when they opened Hacienda Tres Ángeles. Meaning 'three angels' — an ode to the pair's three daughters — the farm sits in the hills of Adjuntas, about two hour's drive from the capital. It's been 13 years since Tres Angeles launched, and it's thriving: every acre on the plantation holds 1,000 coffee bushes. Naomi leads the way through rows of coffee bushes and plantain trees. She draws my attention to a cluster of green coffee pods hanging off one of the bushes. Among them, several red pods stand out. 'These are ripe and ready to be picked,' she explains. Harvest season lasts from August to December — overlapping with Puerto Rico's hurricane season (June to November). When Hurricane Maria hit, it wiped out 80% of the harvest and the farm went nine months without power. In support, people around the world placed orders for coffee. 'That's how we were able to survive,' says Naomi. The hacienda grows Caturra beans, a variety of Arabica. During production, they're separated by size, as each measurement creates its own roasting profile. Smaller beans produce a rich, chocolate taste, while larger beans yield bold, fruity flavours. We taste the farm's signature medium-to-light roast while sitting on the veranda, gazing out at the hills and breathing in the mountain air. The coffee is sweet, fruity and smooth — even a diehard latte fan like me has no trouble drinking it black. Naomi and Juan hope to change mindsets about farming — they want to challenge the idea that it's just a recourse of the poor or uneducated. 'Farmers are very important,' Naomi says, explaining that her grandfather's Puerto Rican dream was to own land and provide for his family. 'He was very proud of what we achieved,' she continues. 'It's something I hope to pass on to my daughters — the importance of going back to the land.' Puerto Rico was under Spanish rule for more than four centuries before the island was ceded to the US in 1898, and this influence is still very much visible in Old San Juan. Photograph by Getty Images, P. Lubas Coastal traditions: El Burén de Lula We drive through the quiet, rural roads of Loíza on Sunday morning, before arriving at a one-storey, wooden building. I look around confused, thinking we're making a U-turn. Instead, we're welcomed into a restaurant with a busy open-air kitchen and greeted by a team of women prepping for the morning ahead. Soon, cars begin filling the driveway, parking out along the road, and eager visitors order fried Puerto Rican classics. There are simple corn arepas, patties with a cornbread-like texture, and empanadas de jueyes, their juicy crab filling coated in a mix of green plantain and yautía — a popular island root vegetable with a nutty, earthy flavour. We sample homemade sweet tortillas, which combine sugar, vanilla, coconut milk and salt to create a thick, sweet crepe. They're perfect with dulce de coco — coconut candy — spooned from small plastic cups. Find empanadas de jueyes at El Burén de Lula, with juicy crab filling coated in a mix of green plantain and yautía. Photograph by Rafael Bisbal The piña colada has stirred controversy since 1954, when two rival bartenders at San Juan's Caribe Hilton Hotel both claimed to have concocted the drink. Photograph by Alamy, Andrey Pustyakin Located about a 35-minute drive from San Juan in the coastal municipality of Loíza, El Burén de Lula has been serving these dishes for decades. In the heat of the kitchen, one of the chefs keeps her eyes on the fried treats left on the grill, tucked into plantain leaves. Every so often, she lifts the leaves to check if the dough is perfectly golden and ready to serve. In an adjacent building, we find Lula herself sitting on the couch. 'The head still works, but the body, not so much,' she says. Lula, whose full name is María Dolores De Jesús, may cook less than she once did but she still has plenty of stories to tell. She speaks to me about her mother, who made these dishes when Lula was a child, and her father, who worked harvesting coconuts from trees. Her Spanish flows quickly and with so many interjections, my translator struggles to get a word in edgeways. But it doesn't matter; she's a magnetic presence and I'm captivated. El Burén de Lula only opens on Sundays now — and the occasional Saturday, when there's a national holiday. And it's best to get there early, I soon learn. Orders start coming in around 11am and by 1pm, they're sold out. This article was created with the support of Discover Puerto Rico. Published in Issue 28 (summer 2025) of Food by National Geographic Traveller (UK). To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).