When I think of all the strange, exotic food I have encountered in my travels, I recall eating Cuy (spit-roasted Guinea Pig) in the shabby central market of Banos, Ecuador, where the proprietress of the three stooled stall I lunched in gave me relationship advice. She was a cheerful, stout woman, who looked like a well-fed reveler, more aptly suited to be lazing in one of the many hot springs surrounding the town than sweating over the smoldering coals of her tiny grill. Even in poverty the simple side of glee is not contained to one specific culture. When she served up a hulking plate (“don’t eat the eyeballs” she informed me) I was astounded at how similar to chicken the taste was, nearly indistinguishable.
I think too of Manaus, the lush smell of moisture and jungle, and the first Brazilian churrascaria (grill house) I entered. Well dressed jovial waiters constantly patrol the dining area in search of empty plate space for the huge shish kebabs of meat they wield. To someone who’s both inept at the language and unaccustomed to such generous solicitations, it’s quite common to end up with a plate full of mysterious body parts from unknown animals. I probably ate 12 chicken hearts before I worked out the translation, coracao (pronounced “core-uh-sow”) de frango, only slightly different than Spanish. To be honest though, I thought they were giant, Brazilian, grilled olives.
However, these past gastronomical undertakings pale in comparison to the Japanese cuisine currently gripping my attention. Odori Zushi/Gui, or dancing/jumping sushi when emphatically translated, is sushi that is still living when you eat it. Ebi (shrimp) is a common choice for this type of sushi because it’s small enough to fit into your mouth without having to cut it into pieces. The course’s preparation begins with what at first glance appears to be a humane last rights ceremony. The shrimp is submerged in sake to intoxicate it. However, this is not in fact to ensure a less painful passing, but rather to keep the shrimp docile enough to not jump right off the plate. Next the chef, with a few swift slices of his knife, skillfully removes the entrails and flays open the meaty back of the crustacean. Seconds later the dish is placed in front of the customer and, assuming they have the bite confidence of a rabid mosquito, is consumed briskly. It’s said that one of the most alluring aspects of this meal is to feel it wriggle all the way down to your stomach. In a land where seafood freshness is praised almost as highly as drinking ability, Odori Zushi/Gui never raises questions of quality.
In the spirit of one-up-manship however, it must be mentioned that the Koreans have their own take on dancing sushi. Sannakji is made from a live nakji (small octopus) which has been cut up into small pieces, lightly seasoned with sesame, and served immediately. What the customer is presented with is a chopped mountain of octopus bits, usually still visibly squirming on the plate. Now you might be saying, “that’d be way easier than eating a live shrimp; you don’t get a sense of the whole” but eating Sannakji is much riskier than eating Odori Ebi. The reason is because the suction cups on the tentacles are still active while you’re eating them. So if you’ve been on the sake wagon all night and perhaps forget to properly chew the writhing mass in your mouth, there’s a chance that suction cup will find a place in your throat to call home. Several cases of choking due to a blocked airway have been reported in connection to Sannakji, a small risk to take in order to check it off the list of things to do before I die…
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