Restaurant review, Lima and Then Some.

Long ago, before the stern doctrine of locavorism took root in kitchens throughout the land, New Yorkers used to fantasize about the next big food craze from abroad. There was the great French invasion, of course, and incursions from far-flung destinations like Sichuan province, Tuscany, and Spain. A few whispers about Peruvian cuisine began circulating almost two decades ago, when Nobu Matsuhisa opened his famous establishment in Tribeca, after stints in Tokyo, L.A., and Lima. And why not? With its unique topography (mountains; plains; a long, bountiful coastline) and melting pot of gastronomic influences (Japanese, Chinese, Latin, West African), Peru has one of the most diverse food cultures in the world. But these days, the city’s food obsessions (burgers, pizza, fried chicken, etc.) tend to hew closer to home. So unless you enjoy pisco sours (a favorite of the bewhiskered-mixologist set) or certain basic forms of seviche, the best way to get a taste of Peru’s evolving brand of fusion cooking has been to hail a cab for the airport and hop a flight to Lima itself.

But now comes Nuela, a boxy, slightly awkward-looking place, which opened late this summer on a scruffy stretch of 24th Street, in the Flatiron district. Nuela isn’t being billed as a Peruvian restaurant, exactly. The name is short for “Nuevo Latino,” and the chef, Adam Schop, grew up in Arizona and learned to cook in Chicago and New York. With its impersonal lounge area and flaming-orange color scheme, the room feels less like a first-rate restaurant than a randomly decorated nightclub in Caracas or Rio. But the eclectic, overstuffed menu contains edamame salads shaved with queso blanco, and yakitori-like anticucho skewers stuck with octopus and soft bits of pork belly. There are eighteen seviches available, many of them doused with unexpected Nobu-inspired fusion ingredients like Asian pear, pickled chiles, or yuzu. And if you’re in the mood for a robust feast, you can dine on an entire suckling pig (for $250), or a whole chicken marinated in the Peruvian style in aji-chile paste and roasted on a spit. “We say our cooking is 60 percent from Peru and 40 percent from everywhere else,” said our courteous waiter, who came from Colombia and was dressed, according to local Manhattan custom, in all black.

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