On this journey through the mountains, Fómeque gets things started at dawn, when the roosters crow and the ovens are already blazing. Its baking tradition stirs nostalgia, releases dopamine, and whets the appetite; it is the perfect prelude to a getaway. But it is Choachí that takes the lead and rolls out the best lineup: the energy shifts, and the feast begins.

In this picturesque town, just an hour from Bogotá, the table is the living countryside: what is grown, raised, and remembered is served with bold, tempting flavor—the kind that makes you order more, the kind that makes you want to stay. It is a reminder of food’s importance as a source of happiness.
Take note: at Asadero Los Arrieros, that spirit comes through from the very first spoonful. Their homemade soup is a signature dish, bringing together beans, fava beans, corn on the cob, and peas in a thick broth hiding a chopped mixture of beef, giblets, spine, and heart, a combination that gives it character and deep, powerful flavor. It is the kind of soup that comforts and pampers the soul and brings the past rushing back: many diners agree that it tastes like home cooking, like the slow, patient dishes that now survive in only a handful of kitchens. That is precisely why tasting it feels like such a privilege.

Continuing through the town center, at the corner of Carrera 2 and Calle 4, Casa Grande Picada Típica Artesanal holds another story of endurance. The business was born from the determination of a grandmother from Santander who, after arriving displaced by violence, found in the making of chorizos and morcillas—a sausage made with rice, coagulated blood, spices, and pork fat—a way to support her six children. Today, that legacy lives on in a kitchen where nothing is industrialized and where bay leaves and pennyroyal still perfume the dishes just as they did back then. Their free-range chicken, served with potatoes and cassava, finds its distinctive note in the house hogao, a preparation that remains grandmother Celmira’s great secret and gives the dish both identity and depth.

Another option at the same place is chicharrón cocho, a local version of pork rinds with a soft, gelatinous texture that departs from the usual crunch, and which you can order with cassava or plantain, showing how every corner of this country reinvents familiar recipes with its own signature.

So, among hearty soups, artisanal sausages, and dishes made for sharing, Choachí reveals itself as a destination where eating becomes a way of getting closer to family histories, to displacement transformed into livelihood, and to knowledge still alive in every preparation. And the flavor is second to none.

In eastern Cundinamarca, and in Choachí specifically, lunch begins long before anyone sits down at the table. At Asadero Los Arrieros, the show is right out front: skewers loaded with cuts of meat sway gently while the firewood crackles, sings at full volume, and perfumes the air, drawing you in almost by instinct. The panceta keeps its promise with crackling skin turned into pork rinds, then a juicy middle layer holding its generous fat, and finally tender meat that falls apart effortlessly. On Sundays, the stew pot adds its own special call, with pork bones riding alongside potatoes, cassava, arracacha, and rice—a generous combination that, as Marta, the owner, says with a laugh, always finds balance in a salad “to clear the conscience,” a small green gesture that lends its own note to the revelry. Keep in mind that Marta, her family, and her team are there to welcome you in this three-story establishment from Friday through Sunday, as well as on holiday. They absolutely knock it out of the park.

Farther along, at kilometer 23 on the Bogotá–Choachí road, La Casa en la Piedra offers a pause where the table enters into conversation with the landscape. Balconies lined with ferns look out onto a monumental rock and mountains stretching away in silence, while cocido chigüachía takes pride of place, evoking older dishes that once celebrated the arrival of visitors and the meeting of neighboring territories. The version served in this haven of peace brings together cubios, chuguas or ulluco, along with pork and beef, corn on the cob, and, while it simmers slowly, fresh cow’s milk is added, resulting in a warm, lingering dish. Around it, mixed grills and cuts of pork or veal extend the pleasure of the experience for those who prefer lunch to drift into a long, leisurely after-meal conversation.

When your diet, lifestyle, or craving leans toward the garden, La Montaña Restaurante offers a vegetable ramen whose bowl comes generously filled with leek, red cabbage, bell pepper, zucchini, and celery woven into an aromatic broth with soy sauce, ginger, and sesame oil, while the egg—depending on your preference—adds softness and rounds out a vibrant, light preparation that restores your faith in the idea that simplicity, too, can be unforgettable.

If you follow this trail of hearths through Choachí, you will discover that traveling also means—or perhaps above all means—pausing, letting the scent of aromatic herbs and meats guide your steps, and allowing the sound of spoons around the table to become unmistakable proof that the journey here was well worth it.

When it comes to the artisanal picada típica, it lands on the table and makes the sensory experience a serious affair: creole potatoes and stewed potatoes, cassava, plantain, morcilla—the beloved blood sausage—chorizo, and different cuts of pork—loin, ribs, and bones—create the dance floor and a full-on celebration at Casa Grande Picada Típica Artesanal.

And once the mood is fully lifted, Choachímilco introduces another beat into your itinerary. The tortilla soup makes its entrance with flavor and texture; the cochinita pibil melts in your mouth at an easy pace and leaves behind a rich, savory trace in every bite; and the mole, a ceremonial recipe, appears as a knowing wink to those who appreciate its complexity. Then comes la piñata—melted cheese with house-made artisanal chorizo—bubbling away without a hint of shyness, calling impatient hands to come running, while the spice sets the tempo before you return to the local procession of flavors.

We also want you to write down that at La Montaña Restaurante, the recipes and dishes arise from the creative pulse of Héctor and Germán Cifuentes, two brothers who have spent more than a decade refining a simple yet radical principle: cooking only with what the land provides.
Here, everything is made in-house. Sauces are whisked from scratch, cheeses mature under their watchful eye, and the cured meats preserve the character of the region. Even the meat itself reflects its environment: Normande cattle raised in a cold climate, yielding broad, juicy cuts.

From that living matter emerges the grilled chata, a wide, aged cut that arrives straight from the fire, accompanied by roasted potato wedges or mashed potatoes, and a salad of pickled onion, cucumber, tomato, and oregano. Each dressing brings out new nuances in every bite because it, too, is prepared on-site, with no shortcuts.

Open every day, the restaurant offers a menu with names that echo the cosmology of Colombia’s mountains: eating here is not just about satisfying hunger, but about entering a geography you can literally bite into. Full belly, happy heart.

Indeed, if eating in Choachí is a celebration without protocol, then the sweet course is the pleasurable moment no one wants to miss. This cool-climate town invites you to change registers and follow the trail of all things warm and sweet, of what can be broken apart by hand and leaves behind joyful crumbs, of whatever prolongs the walk and opens the door to new temptations.

One block east of the main square—or half a block downhill from Banco de Bogotá—you will find Amasijos El Gato, a place that for more than forty years has devoted itself to keeping alive traditional preparations full with corn, sagú, fresh curd cheese, farmhouse butter, and other local ingredients. There, collaboration with rural families sustains a close-knit local economy and, at the same time, preserves the techniques that are kneaded every day into pandeyucas, envueltos, achira biscuits, mantecadas, cakes, and other delicacies.

They also have a branch they call the “way station,” where a whole entourage of women shape peeled-corn arepas and sagú arepas, and every twenty minutes a fresh round comes out, enjoyed to the sound of music and accompanied by masato, chucula—a thick ancestral drink made with cocoa, cloves, cinnamon, and corn flour—homemade yogurt, or coffee grown in the region. Look for it at Carrera 3 #1-37, and go hungry.

Among the facades surrounding the main square, there is an old house painted fuchsia and blue that does not go unnoticed. It is Choachímilco, and here the journey crosses borders without disrupting the rhythm of the outing. The choco flan—half cake, half silky custard layer—moves to a fine beat, and the passion fruit mousse, tropical with a subtle acidity, keeps pace between one toast and the next, asking the afternoon to drift on without anyone checking the clock.

By this point in the journey, at La Montaña Restaurante, true to its essence—“fresh, natural, and delicious”—the adventure finds another tempo in drinks with a local accent that awaken the palate, ask you to slow down, and are savored to the very last drop. The moon lemonade dances to the rhythm of mango, basil, and passion fruit; the sun lemonade sings with coconut, soursop, and cucumber; and both pose for selfies with honey. In the glass, everything feels bright and crystal clear, and the menu gradually confirms that here, the natural world has power in an atmosphere free of excess.

In short, we can only reaffirm that if eating in these streets is a celebration, then the sweet moment is the applause that leaves everyone jumping with joy. Clap, clap!