I spent my entire first day in Quito flinging about the phrase "Que bello!" Well of course I meant "Que lindo" or "Que bueno," but blank stares were hardly a source of correction. Was my pronunciation off? Was I expressing too much enthusiasm? An evening date with my Spanish-English dictionary ended in a slap on the cheek; you nimwit Emma, bello is Italian. Must. Forget. Italian.
In light of this mildly embarrassing experience, I cast away all dignity and decided to carry a little red notebook with my at all times where I would write down new words for later translation. I had the opportunity to try this new method with my family at a restaurant in el centro historico. The topic of the day was food. We meticulously named each item on our plates in Spanish, ending at my little pile of vegetables tucked between a cascading mound of rice and peas, trout, and a healthy does of fingerling potatoes (since working on Millstone Farm, these were the first I'd seen in months that were not decomposed by wire worms, though I hear the Andean weevil is a deadly potato pest). With my fork I pointed to a miniature slice of garlic adjacent to a mushroom. "Ahhh, un hongo" said Martha. "Un hongo?" I repeated. "Si, es un hongo."
The next day for lunch, Martha asked me for a recipe. From the ingredients at hand, the only dish I could conjure was a vegetable stir-fry with spicy peanut sauce. I listed the ingredients I would need for the sauce: peanut butter, sugar, water, fresh chili, and hongo, don't forget the hongo! Unfortunately, Martha had everything at hand but the hongo, so the sauce went hongo-less, though was still tasty.
The following day for dinner, Martha wished to make a tomato sauce for spaghetti. I reviewed the ingredients necessary: onions, tomatoes, olive oil, spices, and hongo. Capers, olives and tuna were optional. Again, no hongos. Such dismay. Martha said she never buys hongos. I told her that on the contrary, my Italian mother infuses most dishes with hongo, and not to mention, its good for your health! Must. Eat. Hongo.
Now, at this point I had became a bit suspicious of the ever-lacking hongo. I could have sworn I'd tasted it in some of Martha's dishes. Had my little red book failed me? That evening, I had a date with my mother on the telephone. I endured several fits of laughter after which she informed me that hongo was mushroom. Ajo was garlic. Once again I went to bed with fiery cheeks.
