A Vegan's Nightmare

 When my brother was in the seventh grade he successfully coerced my mother into letting him bring home a guinea pig from school. Scooter was both an albino and an Abyssinian (hair that resembled a maze of long, unruly cowlicks) and arrived in our house much to my great delight – and the marginally veiled horror of my mother. However, in the armory of mandatory childhood pets, a two-pound guinea pig was considered tame fare when compared with the twelve-foot boa constrictor and its den of feeder rats that one of my brother’s not-so-close friends enjoyed. And though it was never spoken, I’m sure acquiring the rodent was done under the guise of raising a well-adjusted, adolescent male.

Nearly forty years later, while I was traveling in Ecuador for a seemingly benign story about farmers and fibers, I had another up-close encounter with a guinea pig. This time it was not so hairy and it was delivered á la carte.

I had traveled for two hours in the back of a pickup truck to Chimborazo, one of the highest peaks in Ecuador, along with Don Moore (my cherished photographer,) and Sarah Guerette (my equally invaluable translator).  Our guide took us to nearby Casa Condor so I could interview some of the indigenous people.

By great fortune(?) our visit coincided with a cooking class that was being sponsored by the equivalent of Ecuador’s Department of Tourism. More than twenty villagers had gathered to learn how to prepare cuy (pronounced kwee), or guinea pig, in a manner that would appeal to tourists. Cuy is a special treat and usually reserved for holidays and festivals. Innocently, I walked into the “classroom” just as the first cuy was being suspended over a pot of boiling water by a man wearing a tall chef’s hat, which seemed mildly out of place amid everyone else’s traditional garb. (To say nothing of my Goretex parka and polar fleece lining.)

For the next hour and a half, I sat at a long table while Sarah patiently translated my incessant questions and the volley of responses. Apparently my luck was running strong that day as my chair was positioned directly in front of the open-faced brick oven where one “Scooter” after another was being smoked before my very eyes. Like passing the scene of a bad traffic accident where that human instinct makes you look even when you know you shouldn’t, I couldn’t help glancing at the eviscerated guinea pig on the marshmallow stick.

I did my best to stay focused on my line of questioning but I will admit that in the back of my mind I feared the worst was yet to come. Finally, the mighty chef appeared in the doorway and with slightly less charisma than Julia Child he uttered something in Spanish that I assumed meant either “Bon Appétit” or “The guinea pig is now served.”

Our hosts had thoughtfully arranged three soup bowls of cuy guts (and that’s exactly how it was translated) along with a fully roasted guinea pig in the center of the table that was garnished with sliced tomatoes and a few lettuce leaves. I took my seat and within seconds I could feel the entire village huddled behind me, anxiously awaiting my first taste of their “special” meal. (Oh, it was special all right.)

I looked down at the bowl, and I looked over at Don, who was already poised with spoon in hand, and then I looked at Sarah (who is a recovering vegetarian) and noticed that she was also looking to Don for her cue. After my many years of intensive etiquette training, I knew my challenge would not be about choosing the proper spoon, but swallowing the soup without immediately gagging up guinea pig in front of everyone.

I gave one last glance over to Don who was already on his second mouthful; he gave me a gentle wink and a nod that said, “Just keep telling yourself it’s chicken.”  

I ate my soup. I didn’t eat it all, and I didn’t eat the little white squiggly things floating on the top. But I ate enough to satisfy the eyes and hearts of the proud chefs surrounding me. But I can assure you, it didn’t taste like chicken.