A few words on the world

Coy about cuy

“One guinea pig, de-haired, gutted, and cleaned,” I read aloud from the recipe. Attempting to disguise my incredulity I added lightly, “Followed by the rather more mundane ‘Half a cup of flour’ and ‘Seasoning.’” Grinning at my discomfort, Miguel pulled out a rickety stool for me with the panache of a maitre d’. “¡Vámonos!” he cried. “Let’s begin!”

We clinked our 1950s-esque soft drink bottles together across the narrow table. “To your first taste of cuy,” Miguel enthused. I just nodded; for someone accustomed to thinking of guinea pigs as pets, the thought of eating one was confronting. My attempts to rationalise cuy as ‘just another meat’ were soon tested: this was not meat as a city girl from Australia was used to finding it! Served on a simple metal plate with bread and a pile of tomato salad was a whole rodent, its fur singed off but its teeth and tiny claws intact. Marinated, skewered and barbecued, the creature was rigid and had a dark, waxy sheen to its skin, rendering it unpleasantly comparable to a Natural History Museum exhibit. Understanding the immense cultural significance of sharing food in Peru, and that many Peruvians cannot afford to turn food away, I tried to keep my thoughts from manifesting in my face or gestures; instead, I gamey indicated that Miguel should carve the meat.

Delicately dissecting the animal, my host briefed me on the history of cuy. Requiring only small amounts of space to roam and scraps to eat, the animals had been domesticated as they also proved good to eat and quick to breed. I looked at the pile of stringy meat with reluctant acceptance. I managed to consume my portion of meat and found it - almost - to my taste.

Emboldened by the success of our meal of cuy, Miguel excitedly suggested, “Wait until you try chicha.” I concurred; the idea of sampling the locals’ homemade alcohol appealed to me more than eating roasted guinea pig. “Yeah,” Miguel continued, “It’s made by fermenting corn with saliva.”