So. . . I ate the Cuy (Guinea Pig)

Actually this happened a couple weeks ago back when we were still in Arequipa, land of beautiful restaurants. I am not sure whether it is common knowledge that Cuy (actually a slightly different breed of Guinea Pig than is used for pets) is a traditional food in the Peruvian/Andean highlands. Leigh and I had seen them running about live in small pens by people´s houses, but I hadn´t been really tempted. We also saw one resting post-oven when we were in Pisac, but that also hadn´t caused my palate to beckon.

Unfortunately the evening in question, we hadn´t brought our camera with us, the cuy (pronounced kwee) did completely mesmerize a British couple sitting next to us who began to take photos. . . they promised that they will send us the pics once they return from their trip. So, it is true, the picture of the cuy on this page is not in fact my own, however, it is no sort of blog-fiction. I cannot tell a lie, I ate the cuy.

Luckily? the restaurant where we were eating was a pretty up scale place in Arequipa. (our dinner cost nearly 20 dollars which was more than our hotel). This, I figured, assured that the cuy was fresh, and would be less likely to have plague, hantavirus, or any other sort of rodent-to-human communicable diseases. However, this also meant that the kitchen was glassed in and we could watch the food preparation, much to my sudden chagrin.

Luckily? the slaughtering of a rodent that I was sure I was about to witness, did not take place. Instead, one of the chefs disappeared into a back room and almost immediately appeared with what looked like a cross between a rat and a whippet http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whippet, luckily the cuy appeared to have already met its maker, and been skinned in pre-preparation. The chef, with a knowing look towards me, proceeded to splay it open, plop it into a large wok-like pot, and place a large stone on top of it. (I was later informed that without the weight on it´s back, the cuy tends to return to a semi-fetal position, which is considered unappetizing (perhaps due to the general homology shared by all mammalian fetuses?)

Although its initial appearance was a bit off-putting, after I did a bit of gawking, elevated my plate, and slowly rotated it to get a view from a few different angles, I began to be able to conceptualize eating this small beast. Like all deep fried things, it emitted a savory aroma, that seemed to beckon, "don´t worry, I am crackly and tasty." A glance into the kitchen did not improve my confidence, however, as the the chefs and waitstaff were now alternately pointing at me through the glass and laughing openly. In order to try to salvage some dignity, I tried to casually pick up my knife and fork and cut off a small piece from one of the rear legs. It looked sort of like a chicken leg, I reasoned, and therefore it seemed the most manageable.

I even prepared my taste-buds. . . "everything tastes like chicken," I silently intoned, "this must taste like chicken". . ."everything tastes like chicken, this must taste like chicken". . . "everything tastes like chicken, this must taste like chicken." After repeatedly muttering this mantra under my breath with each saw of my knife I was ready for the first bite. Leigh looked on dubiously (my attempts to have her and I take a first bite together had failed - saying disdainfully "It looks too much like the rats that I do my experiments on," she had dismissed my invitation.) I raised the fork towards my mouth, saw a blur in the kitchen, which I figured was one of the waiters doubling over with mirth, closed my eyes and began to chew. The taste was very similar to duck, not bad.

But wait! As I opened my eyes, I saw that the chefs and waitstaff in the kitchen were no longer laughing in a good natured way, instead they leaned towards the glass looking somewhat concerned, peering intently at me as the blur, which I had mistakenly identified just before closing my eyes, suddenly loomed larger in my peripheral vision, and I recognized it as one of the waiters, speed walking towards me, cloth flapping in the breeze behind me.

My one thought was, I haven´t swallowed yet. As he covered the last few leaping strides to the table my mind raced, 1) I have eaten a mouthful of the poisonous part of the cuy 2) I have eaten a mouthful of small bones which will immediately cause appendicitis 3) I have mistakenly eaten the bowels, which are impossible to entirely vacate before cooking. . . other ideas too disgusting to mention also washed over me much like the terror the cuy itself must have faced in its final moments.

As I nervously chewed my first bite of cuy, it was now far more than adequately masticated, and I was concerned that I would need to move the bolus into one cheek, thereby beginning to resemble the very food that I ate, the waiter arrived. He leaned his head towards mine conspiratorially while the staff continued to peer at me ominously. "¡De mano, señor! Por favor, no come un cuy con tenedor y cuchillo. ¡De mano!" (With your hands! Sir! Please, don´t eat the cuy with a fork and knife. With your hands!)

Mostly out of relief, but trying not to show it too obviously, I swallowed, did my best to casually replace my knife and fork on the table and gingerly reached forward to hold a front leg with my left hand, and rear leg with my right. As though having just witnessed a small baby crawl into the middle of the road only to appear unharmed after passing underneath a truck, the kitchen staff visibly seemed relieved and sagged back from the window, no longer frozen, their easy banter soon returning, occasionally jerking a thumb in my direction and eliciting a snicker.

I will not wax poetic over the remainder of the alternating joys and awkward moments that arose during the ingesting of the cuy. I am sure that you can imagine more than sufficiently the complications which can arise when eating a small rodent. If you are having trouble imagining, come to Peru.

Andrew