I return to Boragó a week after my botany-driven foraging expedition. The restaurant lacks formality and fancy linens, but serious stuff is taking place in an open kitchen behind soundproofed glass, where cooks hunch over prep tables, deep in concentration. Each bite of the 18-course Endémica—or native—menu highlights Guzmán's resourceful network, which stretches from indigenous communities in Selva Valdiviana that send him spice blends and herbs to ranches in Patagonia, where he sources venison and lamb. Guanaco (similar to a llama) is cooked with the season's last murtilla berries, which resemble cranberries and taste faintly like strawberries. A "breadstick" arrives, made from ulte—that kelp we gathered at the beach. Then a dish of piure, an invertebrate that hides inside a hard-as-rock shell, its lipstick red skin resting on a stark bed of black pebbles from the same shoreline. Puréed succulents float in an earthy kolof root broth. Even the pebre, a typically bland Chilean salsa that sits like ketchup on dining tables everywhere in the capital, ready to be spooned on meats or eaten with bread, is curiously creamy, with a depth of flavor that hints of char and toast.