In my soup, letters from the alphabet floated next to an iguana’s foot. I ate the prefix and the toes; flesh and noodles were soft like that of a chicken boiled to destruction. Following that first bite of blue-gray skin and foot–after I had used my tongue to segregate the little bones from the meat–I took a sip of my Amstel Bright. This was the grill. On the island of Curaçao, grills are constant affairs, advertised around the … →
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