Shattering the Preconception
We were about a half hour outside of Cusco, in search of a uniquely South American dish. We wanted to try some Cuy, better understood as guinea pig, a dish best served at restaurants specializing solely in the somewhat disconcerting Peruvian delicacy.
Thankfully our taxi driver knew just the place.
A woman, in her tall, black, traditionally brimmed hat stood on the side of the road, squinting into the sun in the hopes of luring customers to her family’s restaurant. She held crude wooden sign, indicating fresh cuy further into the little village. She beckoned us over and gave directions. We followed the dusty road past several houses, deeper into neighborhoods. I was confused, as we only seemed to propel further and further away from public places and deeper into residential dwellings. After several minutes we arrived at what appeared to be an ordinary home, save the presence of multiple cars in the driveway, an unusual occurrence in these neighborhoods.
This building was both a home and a restaurant, boasting the best cuy around. The mother of the house ran the endeavor, in a simple black apron that she wiped her hands on after tending to the poor beasts. She stood next to a raised adobe oven, light brown with a wide mouth, blackened on the edges, as were the upper walls of the shelter it stood in. Inside rested a tray of bald, reddened cuy, appendages and teeth still attached, while potatoes lay further behind. Next to the oven were a dozen stacked bodies of the cooked creatures, ears blackened and bellies stuffed with grass, their corpses rigid as they’d gone from furry to shiny, various shades of red yellow and brown. The amount of bodies suggested a large customer turnout, though only one other table of three was there.
To the right of the oven stood the family home, to the left a seating area, half indoors. We chose a spot outside, with an incredible view of the Andes, jagged and diagonal along the top, like mountains protruding from mountains. They were moss colored, against a brilliantly clear blue sky.
Our feast arrived with the cuy’s teeth bared at me, eyes blackened, angry slits, claws splayed; an animal I’d previously regarded exclusively as a pet. Alongside was a heaping of white noodles, a stuffed green pepper and two baked potatoes. Disturbed at looking into the face of my meal I was a bit apprehensive to dig in. Yet it tasted surprisingly good, a mixture of chicken and pork, with a chewier texture.
After, the mother let us into the cuy’s shelter, a dark earthen shed of a room. They could’ve been pets save one vital difference. When a cuy is picked up, it squirms violently, demonstrating its unwillingness to leave, clearly understanding their inevitable fate.
My perception of which animals make pets and which make meals has been forever changed, opening my world to a whole new realm of experiences.
