Hay Pique?

Jul 7

Written for “Las Caras Lindas” zine, XicxZine Collective.

From the Mountains of San Lorenzo to the Heart of Chicago: A Boricua’s Pique Journey

I came straight from the island—specifically, the mountains of San Lorenzo. When I say that to my Latinx friends, it often doesn’t matter where on the island I’m from. But then I remember how my ex's cousin once introduced me to her partner with, “She’s from el campito... her Spanish is different.” Oh yeah. Hell yeah. I gangsta-remember—it makes a difference.

It makes a difference because they were also from the island—but from San Juan. You see?!

Here in Chicago, even my Puerto Rican cousins don’t believe I’m Boricua because of how I dress (whatever that means). Still, many of my compatriotas know I’m from “la isla.” And no, not just Puerto Rico—the phrase “la isla” in our context means the mountains. And that? I carry that with deep pride.

Being raised in the mountains has been a blessing, especially in the Diaspora. Like the time I was having dinner with a beautiful bunch of Latinx folks and my Mexican friend said, “Your people can’t stand spicy food,” and someone next to me agreed: “Yeah, not your thing!”

That’s when the Boricua-Jíbara-Goddess from San Lorenzo in me rose tall and said, with a bicha tone:
“‘Ej’pera ej’pera, papa! We have pique. Good pique, indeed!”

Of course, no one knew what pique was. They just stared at me.

So began my mission: to prove to the world how to make pique del bueno—the way my grandma taught me.

I hit the supermarket with a plan: grab a small pineapple, fresh oregano, and garlic. I asked the clerk, “Where are the caballero peppers?”

Blank stare.

“You mean Thai peppers?” he asked.

“No way Thai! Mera, I came here because this ain’t no white people’s supermarket, sabes?”
He admitted it wasn’t and proudly showed me they had recao, as proof it was "ethnic."

I gave him the look... but he got me with the recao. So, I bought five bags. Might have time later to make sofrito to freeze for the year—you never know.

Still on the hunt for the peppers, I figured I’d get started. I left the pineapple skins fermenting in water for at least 24 hours. My crystal bottle was prepped with oregano (with the stick, oye—don’t forget the stick), salt, and peppercorns. Still, no caballeros.

I called my mom.

“Ay nena, not the same without caballeros,” she said, of course.

Thirty-six hours passed. The pineapple water smelled beautifully fermented, so I gave in. I bought habaneros (they soundCaribbean, at least) and jalapeños. They went into the bottle, I strained the water, sealed it, and left it all to infuse for 5–8 days by the window before moving it to the fridge.

Could I have added pineapple or mango slices for fun? Sure. But after not finding my caballeros, I kept it simple.

All week, I hear my mom’s voice in my head:
“Ay nena...”

The struggle is real with these ma’is, I’m telling you.

After a week, I bring small bottles to every party I go to. People love it. People talk about pique. They try it. My homies say, “Ohhhh... you meant this?”
(Eye roll.)

My Mexican friends still say it’s suavesito, but they get it now. It’s pique. And it’s from my people.

In my head, I whisper back to my mom:
“This is Boricua Diaspora Pique, ma’i. Just like my life here in the States—never quite like home, but you make the best with what you’ve got. And hey—it still counts.”

And to this day, I still have no idea how to translate “pique.”

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