I wasn’t just prepared to eat guinea pig on the Inca Trail, but actually looking forward to it – when in Rome, right? I was clearly disappointed when Adam, one of our assistant guides, told me it wasn’t on the menu, for he offered to take me to try it the day after the hike. Lucy, one of three awesome Aussie girls on the trek, joined me for the cultural culinary experience.

The three of us met in the main plaza around lunchtime yesterday. Lucy and I had thought Adam was taking us to a specific restaurant, but it was more like a neighborhood. As we rode in the taxi, he announced, “This is the pork area.” A few blocks later, he said, “Now this is for cuy.” Cuy is the Spanish word for guinea pig, and a “cuyeria” – you guessed it. That word was painted on literally every building, along with a drawing of the cuddly critters. Adam asked a local to recommend a restaurant, and the man pointed down an alley. He added, “All you need to say is: ‘I want cuy’.” Patches of fur on the ground told us we were heading in the right direction.

Adam made it clear to the lady at the restaurant that we wanted to learn about the process as much as we wanted a taste. She welcomed us into the kitchen, and put four roasted piggies aside to show us into a backroom full of live ones. It’s quite common to have a small room or section of the kitchen act as a pen. As we walked in, they frantically huddled in a corner and made high-pitched noises. The lady explained step by step…with visual aids:

1) Pick a fat fella and break its neck with your hands
2) Drop it in boiling water to remove most hairs
3) Cut open the mouth and stomach to stuff with herbs and such
4) Oven roast, smaller hairs get burnt
5) Garnish with spaghetti and potatoes

We returned to our table, regretting that we had requested a behind-the-scenes look. The lady brought our plates out, and we instantly noticed a black shape she hadn’t addressed before. The stomach lining, of course – “the best part.” That’s where Lucy and I drew the line.

It’s all about presentation. A chicken breast and beefsteak look appetizing, but there’s something about feet and teeth that just screams, “I WAS ALIVE!” Little black hairs further revealed the identity of our meal. Before digging in, Lucy asked the lady for a knife. She laughed, using her hands to show that no cutlery is needed; I followed her lead.

In the end, Lucy and I agreed that it tasted more or less like chicken, but repulsed us too much to be enjoyable. We were raised in societies where guinea pigs are household pets and classroom mascots, not main courses. Spot and Fluffy should be spinning in a wheel, not on a spit. We were glad we tried it, but went “Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!” all the way home.

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 6th, 2006 at 4:52 pm in XXI. Peru. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.