HANDS DOWN, my young urban professional friends, the best roadside food in Puerto Rico is approximately two miles outside of Bayamon, nestled in the elbow of a wide bend in a winding side road, overhung by trees and overlooking a river, and far from the tourist hunting grounds. The best pernil, the best sancocho, the best cabrito, the best cuchifrito you’ll ever have.

Two things to note though—it’s only open at night. And they only take cash.

Oh, yes, and the proprietor is a chupacabra.

I discovered this frighteningly good place by accident. Arriving late from a delayed flight to my hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, late in the afternoon, I realized I was starving marvin. My mouth dripped with hunger, my stomach growled in sorrow. There was Taco Bell and Subway and Pollo Tropical everywhere I looked. But I knew from my amazing experiences as a world traveler that the best foods are always served in small, humble, out of-the-way joints known only to locals. I’d promised myself that my first meal on this trip would be some out-of-this-world local vittles. So I asked an older woman at my hotel, and she told me, Take the road to Naranjito. But beware! And then she cackled for a really long time. Before I could ask her what she meant, she was off to vacuum the next room. Although I could still hear her cackling.

So I hopped into my tiny rental car and zoomed away from the tourist-crowded confines of San Juan. It was quite late in the afternoon before I came upon just the kind of joint you see on Food Network. Cute, clean, quirky. Unfortunately, I noticed that the person who seemed to be the head chef was closing shop for the day. Was there not one bifstec, not one more tostone he could offer me?

No, he said in a heavy accent, but if I waited until sundown, his business partner would be there soon to start the night shift.

The night shift? How ever more charming. Even though I was ready to bite into my own neck and drink the blood, I resolved to stay.

The chef shut the gate with a loud clang, and I went to my car and waited. The Sun went down slowly, very slowly. Increasingly famished, I looked for crumbs in the seat on my rental. After finding some wedged in between the passenger seat cushions, I looked up and realized it was pitch black outside the car. I shut off the overhead light just to get a feel of the darkness.

Stars were overhead, just visible through the trees, but all around me there was nothing but blackness and the insistent chorus of coquis. As time wore on, the thought of a well-lit and well-stocked Pollo Tropical appealed to me. But then—

the coquis. They were suddenly silent. As if they were on radio and someone had snapped off the power.

Then I saw: Two glowing orbs above me. They seemed to hover in the air and then float slowly down. I heard—or thought I heard—the sound of fluttering, heavy, leathery wings, like a bat's or the underside of a my mother-in-law's arms.

The gate screeched open. A small dim light appeared inside the joint, and I saw the night shift chef moving around inside. I could not get a good look at him until he turned on the flames of the stove, and there he stood, illuminated by the red flames.

My first thought was that his incisors protruded from his mouth and were unnaturally long. They must have been hell to floss. His eyes were large orbs, oval and shimmery, like sequined footballs. And he had a very neatly trimmed fauxhawk.

I exited the car and approached him. I noticed under his apron he wore a t-shirt that read, La Isla De Encanta. Nervously, I inquired, Are you open?

He said, Five minutes. I went back to my car.

Seven minutes later, I went over and asked, May I have—.

No open. Five minutes.

This time I resolved to stay in the cafe, which had some charming plastic tables. I noticed then that hanging behind this new chef was a vast quantity of freshly butchered meats that were not there when I had come at the end of the day shift. Goat, chicken, goat, rabbit, goat, pork, goat, beef, goat, and . . . also something large and pale and bloody . . . it looked almost hum—. . .

ah, the smell of food this chef was preparing excluded thoughts of anything else besides food from my mind. I was on the verge of going insane with hunger—

when suddenly he plopped a over-heaping plated of food in front of me.

Buen provecho, he said.

Thank the Lord! Succulent pernil and carne guisada. Crispy fried chicken and pork rinds. Even a huge piece of morcilla, almost forearm-sized. That was maybe a smidge dry, as if all the juice had been sucked out of it. But no matter. Everything was the best I'd ever eaten.

Gorging myself, I asked him for a drink.

Five minutes, he said.

As I was getting my fill, my face slippery with juices, my teeth eviscerating some chunk of meat, I felt for a second something behind me. It felt and sounded like someone, something, perhaps of the exact size and shape of the night chef, fluttering behind me in mid-air, huge razor-sharp incisors extended to . . .

or it could have just been one of the aggressive local mosquitoes.

In any case, I turned quickly and nothing was there. Just then a tourist couple drove up and came in. Sigh, nothing good stays hidden for long. Still, the chef seemed quite excited to serve them.

In short, I highly recommend this chupacabra's charming roadside cuchifrito cafe. Tis better than any freshly-prepared, classic Paris brasserie cuisine. And very much worth the trouble.