[This is a sequel to 'Cavia porcellus vs. Ursa pacificus.' Read that post first]
Just after my encounter with the cuy in Huaraz, my friend Harold invited me to his house to celebrate his birthday with him and his family. I lived with Harold, his brother, and his mom in 2007. Their taking me in is a testament to the incredible generosity of Peruvians. I recognize that everyone says that about every culture; but it is really hard to imagine inviting someone you've known for three weeks to come live in your house, to cook meals and provide a bed for them, and to take care of them when they (along with everyone else in the household) are quite sick. To do so without asking for anything in return is amazing beyond words. I would like to say that I have the generosity, trust, and would to do the same, but I'm not sure.
Harold has also known since 2007 that I'm a vegetarian. It's become a running joke that I love tacu tacu, the exquisite Peruvian version of rice and beans. His wife, however, planned to make ceviche de pato. Ceviche de pato is a spicy duck stew. Although it bears the name of the sweet and spicy ceviche made with uncooked fish, ceviche de pato is cooked quite thoroughly. In this case, the ceviche is a reference to the addition of aji peppers in the stew, the very same ones used in fish ceviches. It's also one of the iconic dishes of this area. Like regions of the Southern US with their local barbecue recipes, regions, cities, and even villages in Peru have their own local specialties. People will drive far outside the city to taste local specialties, often served at restaurantes campestres, country restaurants.
Harold had told his wife ahead of time that I don't eat meat, but I had also mentioned that perhaps I would try the pato. Like cuyes, ducks are also typically grown and fed right in someone's yard. The domestic ducks in this part of Peru are usually Muscovy ducks (Cairina moschata), which are native to the region. Harold and his wife Susana raised a bunch of them in their backyard and killed the two largest to feed his friends and family.
I watched happily as Susana cooked the duck, boiling rapidly, over a moderate fire in their backyard candela. Candelas are country stoves made of a pair of adobes, poured concrete, or a metal frame into which long logs and canes are progressively fed.
When it came time to eat, it was just the three of us, as Harold's suegros (in-laws) would be late. Susana was a most gracious and amazing host (and cook). In addition to ceviche de pato, she prepared zarandejas (a light-colored bean), yucca sancochada (steam/boiled), rice, sarsa criolla, and bought a lovely orange package of aji. In Peru, aji comes in clear tubular bags of varying lengths. It can be various colors and always smells incredibly delicious and fragrant when you approach the aji lady in the market.
Dutifully, Susana piled us each a huge plate of pato, rice, and beans. She cut me some sarsa, flooded it with lime juice (key lime, remember), and anointed it with a roughly cut ring of fiery aji.
"He's not gonna eat it," said Harold.
"I'm gonna try it. I told you I would," I said.
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| Susana's lovely plating and place-settings for Harold's birthday meal |
It was a lot easier to eat the duck. I had a lovely and large breast portion, stewed to obvious perfection with sweet onions in spicy red juices. Susana had done an excellent job and, while Harold was both amused and concerned that I might challenge my philosophy, I was determined at least to do all parties dignity by cutting off as much as I could, placing it in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and swallowing. That is a form of eating that I probably never do. Now was the time.
I ate a few bites indeed. A good cubic centimeter or two, which is exponentially more food than the centimeters squared of cuy I had eaten earlier in the week. Yet, I could not eat very much. There's something in the juices and fats, the flavors and textures of meat that doesn't yet agree with me. I can chew and swallow it, but then my body - or mind or both - begins to tell me that something isn't right.
I explained to Susana and Harold that I was grateful for the delicious duck that they had raised, killed, and cooked not 10 meters away in their yard, next to the cuyes, in the shade of the quincha cane walls, and in the shadow of their recently-planted garden of maracuya (Passiflora edulis or "passion fruit") vines, banana (Musa sp.) and guayaba trees (Psidium sp.).
I had eaten all I physically could. I didn't think I would 'get sick' so to speak, but I also didn't want to risk it. Which is worse? Eating just a little of a cut - enough so that it can be salvaged and saved - or eating a lot more and then potentially vomiting in front of your guest, not because the food is bad, but because my body is bad?
Susana and Harold took it in stride. Harold already knew I wouldn't eat any of it, and I suppose that I did more than expected of me from his perspective. Susana may have remained somewhat unsure of the whole event; but she nevertheless smiled a big, honest, and kind smile, "I don't mind at all, it's barely touched, I'll save it for later."
No matter how far I am willing to push myself outside my boundaries of comfort, it turns out that there are deeper structures in me that set certain limits. There are probably lots of ways of explaining this with respect to brain areas, psychological structures, and biological reflexes. I'm not much interested in those explanations. For me and the duck, it's enough to know that I simply cannot eat very much meat, even if I were to want to do so.
And I wanted to eat that entire duck breast, not because I like or desire meat, but because I believe(d) there was something valuable to be experienced there between me, Harold and Susana, and the duck.
[Continue to Part 3 of 3 - Round 3: La Gringa]
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