“Parrillas”, aka grill-outs [Venezuelan style]

It’s fascinating how new experiences in a somewhat familiar yet relatively new environment can – when the circumstances are right – bring you right back to the core of your memories, your childhood. It’s beautiful how by simply narrating back your own story to someone you love, your mind can perfectly replay vivid memories that fill your heart with joy, and maybe a little melancholy.

La parrilla

This trip down nostalgia lane began with our dinner tonight – grilled steaks and grilled corn on the cob.

When I was growing up, being invited to a grill out — a “parrilla”– was one of the biggest deals in anyone’s social life. You wouldn’t be caught dead eating ground beef hamburgers or hot dogs at the Venezuelan parrillas of my childhood: it was a veritable feast of top-notch cuts of steak, chorizo and morcilla (blood sausage), chicken, all garnished with tangy, fresh guasacaca, hallaquitas made of white corn meal, melt-in-your-mouth boiled yuca, and salad (though I always stayed away from this last one because back then, “I didn’t eat flowers”, as my friend Jorge would say).

It's not a parrilla if there aren't at least 3 different kinds of meat.
It’s not a parrilla if there aren’t at least 3 different kinds of meat.

And of course, if you were a grown-up, booze in the form of ice cold beer or güisqui (Whiskey/Scotch) flowed freely to your heart’s content. My dad, “Hectico”, sometimes used to drink his Scotch on the rocks, with coconut water.

The grill master, usually a charming man –not necessarily the host, would be the star of the show. But not everyone was good at their task. Many a beautiful steak were the victim of a disastrous grill master who never learned the art and the rhythm of a good parrilla. Impatience and lack of common culinary sense could ruin a perfectly planned parrilla.

My oldest brother, Hector, learned the tricks to making an excellent parrilla early on. To this day, the mere mention of steaks cooked by Hector on the grill make my mouth water.

Hector watching over the steak during my graduation party in 2011. We already had bellies full of beer, chorizos and chicken by then. Como Dios manda.
Hector watching over the steak during my graduation party in 2011. We already had bellies full of beer, chorizos and chicken by then. Como Dios manda.

Here’s the basics: for a good parrilla, you have chicken, fat-rich chorizos, morcillas and/or brats, and steaks. You only need salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and guasacaca at the end. Get out of here with that Heinz 57/A1 or Barbecue sauce.

You light up your charcoal and let the fire die down to red-hot coals. You cannot use lighter fluid!!! If you need something extra to get the fire going, use something like vegetable oil or animal fat.

Chicken takes the longest to cook, it goes on first. Chorizos and brats keep the coals going strong, as they drip delicious fat while they cook – and they are an appetizer, so they go along with the chicken. Once your first batch of chorizos is cooked, cut up in thick chunks and served to your somewhat buzzed guests, and your chicken is at least halfway done, ONLY THEN can you even think about putting any self-respecting steak on that grill.

The juicy piece of meat touches the hot grill and sizzles, as everyone’s senses are tickled by that distinctive aroma of freshly grilled steak. The party’s on, the steaks are going. Turn them over enough times so that they cook evenly, all the way to medium pink, succulent perfection. Find a grill assistant (trust me, at that point, people will be in line to help) and have him or her cut up the steak in large chunks as they come out of the grill, to smiling faces eagerly waiting to savor the parrilla.

Hector ingrained this process in my brain, and so these days, I can grill –or broil, if it’s winter– a pretty kickass steak. Fast forward to today: when Mike brought home two 12 oz ribeyes from Whole Foods, you bet I did my brother and my country proud when I served up our dinner.

Buen provecho!

Plaza Altamira -- one of my absolute favorite spots in my hometown, Caracas, Venezuela.
Plaza Altamira — one of my absolute favorite spots in my hometown, Caracas, Venezuela.


Published by vcmarcano

Vanessa C. Marcano-Kelly is a native of Caracas, Venezuela. She is a certified court interpreter in Iowa and a translator. She is a member of the Iowa Interpreters and Translators' Association and the Midwest Association of Translators and Interpreters, with significant experience in community interpreting, translation, and journalism in English and Spanish. Vanessa has interpreted in community meetings with the Polk County Sheriff, the US Department of Labor, former US Congressman Tom Latham, and at the Food Sovereignty Prize 2014 in Des Moines. She graduated with honors with a BA in Global Studies and French from South Dakota State University, and received a judiciary interpretation and translation specialization certificate from Des Moines Area Community College. She works as a court interpreter in the Des Moines metro, and as a translator for Principal Financial Group, a Fortune 500 company. She has written for several publications, including the Venezuelan magazine Estetica y Salud, and has a passion for linguistics/languages, photography, community involvement, healthier living and travel. Vanessa runs a bilingual, bicultural household with her husband, Michael. Her immediate family lives in Venezuela, Lithuania and the US.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: