Guinda, Gerbils, and Gritty Grapes: The Flavors of a Life in Motion
By Morris Heney
You really get to know a place—and a person—by what they eat, how they eat, and who they share it with. Travel long enough with someone, and you start to understand not just what flavors they like, but what comforts them, excites them, and reminds them of home.
For Rina and me, our story was told through bowls of concha negra ceviche, fingers dusted with paprika, and a wild search for a cherry liqueur called Guinda that we almost never found. Food became a kind of language between us—a way to argue, laugh, make peace, and fall in love over and over again.
This is a story about food, yes—but more than that, it’s about two people, a New Yorker and a fiercely clever Latina, tasting their way through the world and finding each other along the way.
Culinary Culture Shock, Part I: Spain
In the blazing heat of Cordoba, Spain, I was already sunburned, sweaty, and somewhat short-tempered when Rina and I stopped at a roadside restaurant. Our waiter, barely seventeen, appeared with a slab of salt the size of a laptop. Inside? A fish. Entirely encased and baked to perfection.
With just a spoon and fork, the teenager filleted and served it like a master surgeon. It was one of the most exquisite meals I’d ever had. I was halfway through a dreamy bite when I realized I had forgotten my manners (again) and snapped at Rina about sunscreen. She didn’t yell. Instead, she took a photo of me standing under a Spanish sign. Later, she translated it: “Pedro the Cruel.”
Touché.
And yes, I was still sunburned.
Culinary Culture Shock, Part II: Peru
We found ourselves in a tiny eatery tucked away in a mountain town in the Andes, still warm and a little foggy from our soak in the thermal baths. Rina looked over the menu, grinned, and said, “I’m getting cuy.”
“What’s cuy?” I asked, not looking up.
“Guinea pig,” she said, like she’d just ordered a salad.
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Wait. That’s… a rodent.”
She laughed. “It tastes like rabbit. And rabbit tastes like chicken. You’ll survive.”
I didn’t quite share her enthusiasm. I played it safe with something else, though I can’t even remember what I ordered—probably because all I could think about was the fact that she was about to eat what, to me, had always been a classroom pet.
But she dug in happily like it reminded her of something warm and familiar. Watching her enjoy it, I realized something: food isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s memory. Culture. A feeling of being home—even when you’re halfway around the world.
And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take a bite.
The Great Guinda Hunt
In Cordoba, we stumbled upon Guinda, a cherry liqueur with a flavor like rich velvet and wild nostalgia. We figured it was common enough and passed on buying a bottle then and there.
Big mistake.
Once we got to Seville, we searched every wine shop in town. We walked miles. Asked in broken Spanish. Got head shakes. Blank stares. “No tenemos.”
We finally tracked down a dusty bottle in a neighborhood store, swearing we’d never let a local gem slip away again. The lesson? European food and drink aren’t mass-produced experiences. They’re tied to geography, people, and time.
What you taste in one town might not exist in the next. And sometimes, the bottle you didn’t buy becomes the one you’ll chase for years.
Love Is a Shared Plate (Or Not)
One of my more painful lessons came in a Bavarian restaurant in Munich. I had my heart set on sausage, potatoes, and sauerkraut—an Oktoberfest dream on a plate. Rina, craving comfort, ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Except it wasn’t meatloaf. It was a massive slice of liver pâté masquerading as a main course.
She looked at her plate, then mine. “Trade with me,” she said.
I hesitated.
“Just half,” she added, eyes pleading.
I looked at my food like it was my last meal and, with a reluctant sigh, forked over half. She smiled and made it all worthwhile. But I mourned that sausage for days.
Marriage teaches you that sometimes the real feast is in the compromise.
Antacid Adventures and Hungarian Caviar
In Budapest, after a glorious seven-course dinner (for less than 20 bucks!), Rina had indigestion. “Can you find some antacid?” she asked, groaning.
I gallantly volunteered.
Half an hour later, I returned from a linguistic minefield of confused pharmacists and stern nods, armed with a cardboard box of mystery pills. Probably horse tranquilizers. I still have no idea what I gave her, but they worked.
She laughed and said, “You’re not going to find Rolaids in Hungary.”
No, but I found a hundred new reasons to admire her courage—and my own persistence.
The Flavor of Us
Our travels took us from sushi bars at bar mitzvahs to crepes stuffed with chestnut paste on Parisian streets. We ate from food trucks, five-star restaurants, airport vending machines, and roadside stands.
Rina approached food with joy, curiosity, and just enough daring to try grilled gerbils if it meant experiencing something new. I approached food with a bit more suspicion—but always with a willingness to let her lead the way. That, in the end, might be the best recipe for any journey: one heart full of fire, the other full of reason. One fork leading, the other following. And both of us hungry—for more than just food.