Eating Your Own Guinea Pig

Anyone who lives in Calgary, lived in Calgary or has ever even passed through Calgary, has almost certainly been to the legendary Peter's Drive-In. It's just one of those places that EVERYBODY has been to, hot on the trail of what is probably the most famous burger in Alberta.

Or what about Lacombe's own iconic Independent Creamery? In the good old days, people drove from all over Aitch Ee Double Hockey Sticks' half -acre to splurge on what EVERYONE knew was the best soft ice cream in central Alberta.

The best burger. The best soft ice cream. The best something. There are places all over the world that serve the BEST whatever. If you're on the "altiplano", or high plain, in the Peruvian
Andes, there's only one place to go when you've got your heart set on the BEST national delicacy: the town of Tipon. Tipon! Every weekend, all year round, locals from Cusco and all over the high country flock to Tipon for what is acclaimed as the best darned guinea pig in all of Peru!

Guinea pig. Or, to be absolutely specific, "cuy al horno". Guinea pig...baked.

Personally, I think our Peruvian guide, Cecilia, turned it into something of a little-boys-in-a-locker-room kinda dare when she suggested that we all head out to Tipon to indulge in an unforgettable lunch. Two of the women instantly turned green, shrieking things about beloved housepets and preferring to eat their OWN flesh instead of cute critters, and fled the bus, in search of a McDonald's or KFC. The rest of us, wearing our biggest and bravest "when in Rome" faces, agreed to take her up on her offer.

So...eating your own guinea pig. Gathered around a table in a Tipon restaurant courtyard, our orders are placed. Not that it takes long...guinea pig is the only thing on the menu. Oh yeah,
and with lots of beer to wash it down, thank god...or to dull every sense you ever had. Seconds later, a woman appears with a gigantic tray, loaded down with our--thankfully--no longer furry friends, who somehow look kind of rude in all their pinkish-white naked glory. Each one roughly
the size of a rather anaemic loaf of bread and the innards replaced by a serious wad of leafy green stuff, the ENTIRE and scarily complete guinea pigs are loaded into the Peruvian equivalent of an outdoor pizza oven. And there they bake. And here we drink.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, although impressively longer than it takes to whomp up a reconstituted Big Mac or Quarter-Pounder, the main course, the only course, arrives. Your very own hot and freshly-baked guinea pig. Staring up at you.

Now come on, we eat chickens! True, they ain't purty, but they do come with a remarkable number of intact and indentifiable bits if you go for dim sum on Sunday mornings. We eat beef,
and don't forget how soulful those great big brown cow-eyes can be. We eat cornish hens, which just about rate on the cuteness level, and there are even those who indulge in the pleasures of bunnies, frog legs and fish with heads. But...

It's just not the same as those little guinea pig eyes staring back at you from the plate. It's bad enough that the baking process results in the eyes popping open. Worse than that, however, is that as the flesh contracts, the little guinea pig mouth is pulled open into a grotesque Jim Carrey grin, and a mouthful of teeny tiny gnashing teeth are giving you their best come-hither gleam.

Trust me, ya gotta get past the orthodontically-untouched teeth, the accusing bulgey eyes, the little piggy-went-to-market toes, the "they'd make a great back scratcher" claws, and the fact that it doesn't look like something that came from Safeway...and then you're set.

Whatever your reservations, you dig in, more with your fingers than your knife and fork (Colonel Sanders would be proud), and finally, with some trepidation, you pop the first bite into
your mouth. And chew. And swallow. And it's surprisingly good, tasting like something between chicken and pheasant. Now, I'm no Gail Hall, but I'm surprised by just how delicate the meat tastes, and wish only that getting at it wasn't quite so finicky: remember, guinea pigs aren't particularly big or breasty, and pretty much every bite demands a fair amount of scraping, picking, shredding and accumulating. And all the while, those beady little eyes watch you with horror and disgust from the plate.

There's a lot of gnawing and munching going on around the table, although a noticeable lack of lip smacking leads me to believe that I'm not the only one chalking this up as a culinary and cultural adventure, and that no-one is planning on racing back to open up a MINI-GUINEA franchise in their home town. Still, we're manfully--and womanfully--working our way through each pile of pig in front of us, and getting ever closer to laying down the final little clawed foot, announcing,
with some relief, that another bite cannot be eaten. Suddenly, Peruvian Cecilia, at the far end of the table, cries out that we've all forgotten the BEST part of the guinea pig...the BRAIN! Before
anyone can either stop her or flee from the table, she jams one finger up into the cranial bowl of the wee thing's skull, wiggles and jiggles and pokes the offending digit around a little and, like some deranged Little Jack Horner...pulls out a brain! And pops it into her mouth. And clearly
enjoys it. Without missing a beat, an entire table of gringoes put down their forks and knives, now genuinely unable to take another bite...possibly never again. The feast of the guinea pigs is over.

"I'll try anything once" is a great mantra to live by, and I really hope to always be open to, and game for, new adventures. Methinks, however, that even if Tipon does the BEST ever, I've probably had my one and only go at guinea pig: the meat really is pretty darned good, but my Baptist-Bible-Belt Libran Protestant guilt just can't shake those sad little eyes...and even sadder little teeth. No regrets, and never say never, but probably not again until something first freezes over.