Wanderlust

It’s good for my Spanish, I keep telling myself, because I am constantly negotiating. And it occasionally produces a pleasant surprise. “It” is the fact of traveling while vegetarian. There was, for example, the restaurant in Mérida where, when I started my usual explanation of being a vegetarian and therefore only wanting cheese in my enchiladas, the waiter picked up on the vegetarian part, starting saying things like “¿Jitomate? ¿Cebolla?,” I nodding consent, then emerged a while later with three tortillas stuffed with chopped and cooked mushrooms, tomatoes, onion, green pepper, and black olives—a real treat. I did equally well in Valladolid when I misinterpreted a menu as offering a vegetarian burrito and after a confused conversation with the waiter got just that.

At the other extreme was the day of my arrival in Ticul, a small town south of Mérida. I was hot and tired, the pizzería was closed, so I wandered into a restaurant offering Yucatecan specialties, asked to see the menu before sitting down, explaining my limitations, looked at the descriptions and then asked for a particular dish without the turkey. They brought out a plate with tostadas with a number of ingredients, including turkey, I sent it back with a patient explanation, they brought out a container of tortillas, a bowl of what looked to me like black bean soup, much more liquid than beans, a plate of salad ingredients, and, mercifully, a little bowl of guacamole. I tried making a taco with the beans but they were too liquid and ran all over the plate, so I ate the beans as a soup with a spoon, gobbled up the guacamole, and asked for the check. When the check came the second line had been crossed off, I was only charged for the limonada. Horrendously embarrassed, I left as quickly as possible.

Sometimes the solution is to eat totally out of synch with the culture of my surroundings, in Granada (Spain) eating at an excellent Indian restaurant near my hotel or in Havana walking over to the Barrio Chino. Indian and Chinese restaurants are always safe because many Indians and Chinese are Buddhists and therefore vegetarian. Italian is another possibility because there is always pasta with a tomato sauce.

Frequently the solution is to be bored, falling back on cheese enchiladas in Mexico or moros y cristianos (black beans and rice) in Cuba (using the little bottle of salsa picante that I always take to Cuba to make it less dull). Some cities of course have vegetarian restaurants, but these are not a guarantee of good food and tend to lean heavily on textured vegetable protein, which I don’t like. Some not-vegetarian restaurants are sufficiently oriented to tourists and sufficiently aware that some of them don’t eat meat to include palatable meatless offerings in their menus; my best meal ever in my travels was a parrillada vegetariana (grilled vegetables) in Antigua in Guatemala. The chile relleno stuffed with goat’s cheese at an Italian restaurant in Mexico City was almost as good.

We veggies of course don’t have the luxury of being able to take a leap into the unknown and order something without being sure of what it contains. Our vocabulary leans heavily to “¿Qué trae?” whatever and “¿Relleno de qué?” We thank the waiter for a vegetarian main dish and then patiently explain that the mashed potatoes with bits of ham in them have to be taken off the plate. We try not to sound peeved that the world’s restaurants are not more in synch with our atypical tastes. We feel a great relief when we are in Mexico City’s Zona Rosa and can go to a restaurant where the food is not only vegetarian but also excellent. And we wonder: Is it really necessary to eat?