Pass the Guinea Pig (or It Definitely Doesn't Taste Like Chicken)

The kitchen is in the back parking lot.

There’s nothing like traveling to foreign countries to test your culinary limits.

Fran is an adventurous eater and has even been on the show Bizarre Foods. She once told me that she tried coconut covered caterpillar, but she didn’t like it because of the coconut.

When I was growing up, my grandfather once gave me $100 for Christmas, and I spent it all on pizza deliveries when I didn’t like what my mom made for dinner. That was fairly often. I was pretty picky.

Tonight, I thought back to my childhood and playing with my best friend David Butcher. He got a pet guinea pig when he was about five years old. I was pretty jealous. I had a pet dog, Trouble, but he died when I was three. I spent the rest of my youth without a pet.

Butcher loved that guinea pig, which was kind of a weird fur ball that didn’t seem to do much. I tried to like it, too, but I’m not sure I ever got the joy out of playing with it that Butcher did (for the record, I’ve always referred to him by his last name, and I always will).

Pretty sure he's cozy. I know he's toasty.

That’s good. The reason I was thinking about Butcher tonight was that Fran made me eat cuy. It’s a delicacy in Ecuador. But in American English, it translates to roasted guinea pig.

We had to stop into the restaurant this afternoon to let them know we were coming, because it takes at least an hour to prepare.

After we sat down, the waiter approached the table and asked if we wanted to see how our dinner was prepared. Of course, we said yes.

He led us out a side door and to the parking lot in back. In the open-air kitchen, there were 6-7 guinea pigs roasting on rotisseries over hot coals. It was an amazing sight.

Our dinner arrived on one plate with the entre sliced into five parts. The hind quarters and front quarters were split in two with the kidneys and ribs still attached. And staring at me, mouth gaping open, was the head.

PLEASE stop staring at me, Mr. Guinea Pig.

I tried. I really did.

Fran told me that I should pretend it was chicken. We often buy rotisserie chickens at the grocery store, and I slice them up for a delicious dinner.

“I can’t pretend it’s chicken when I’m holding it by the paw,” I replied.

Then I turned the plate so the head was staring at Fran. I just couldn’t take it, thinking about eating Butcher’s pet guinea pig (yes, I understand there’s irony with the name).

There were delicious potatoes and corn dishes served with the cuy, and I made sure I monopolized the bottle of wine we bought.

Fran kept offering to buy me ice cream. I’m pretty sure it was meant to get the gamey taste out of my mouth, but I couldn’t help but feel like it was her way of apologizing for making me eat something that should have been in a child’s bedroom. Would it have been worse to eat a roasted Teddy Bear? I’m not sure.

Just in case you're in Cuenca and want cuy.

A friend asked me if it tasted like chicken. It absolutely did not. It tasted like rodent. I’ve never eaten rodent before, but it tasted exactly what I imagine it would taste like.

I do not regret trying something new. But please don’t ever serve it to me again.