Blame it on Rioja

Writing from the 14th floor of the Chancellor Hotel near Union Square in San Francisco, on day five of a ten-day West coast trip. It’s been surprisingly brisk here for the past few days, a biting kind of cold especially at night that gets under your skin and just stays there. Or maybe it’s just that I didn’t pack enough layers….

There’s always a special joy that attends one’s first meal after a long journey. Last time I was here it was an exceedingly satisfying grilled steak burrito from Taqueria Papalote (http://www.papalote-sf.com/home.html) in the Mission, known for its smoky salsa and fresh ingredient-driven and vegetarian-friendly menu, and a six-pack of Negra Modelo with my brother Patrick’s family in the Mission.

This time it was also in the Mission, but even more “California-style”: lunch at Café Gratitude (http://www.cafegratitude.com/) at Harrison and 20th Street, a charming little organic, quasi-raw food corner café with a great vibe and a surprisingly tasty fresh vegetable and whole grain-based menu. My vegetable “Biryani” over red rice had little mountains of super-sweet snap peas, raw cashews, avocado, cucumber, carrots, cilantro, etc., etc., so much so that I couldn’t finish it. I was full, but it was a really happy kind of full, made even happier with a lemon and ginger infusion spiked with a little cayenne (why don’t I do this at home after every meal?!?) If ever food alone could get you high, this high-quality, earth-friendly cuisine is it. (Kudos to young Ms. Caroline B. for turning me on this place.)

Dinner at Beretta’s (http://www.berettasf.com/) the next evening was the first time all three generations of my family have been together in over 7 years, and they were kind enough to accommodate a huge group of us on a Saturday night. The all-Italian wine list was reasonably priced (Planeta’s tasty Cerasuolo di Vitorria was $40), the service was extremely patient and kind, and the Northern Italian-inspired food on the whole did not disappoint.

My only quibble was that the pizza crust could have been crispier, a bit more speckled with char; and my brother Patrick rightly pointed out that carciofi alla guidia (a Roman fried artichoke dish that originated in that city’s Jewish quarter) on our check did not accurately describe what was served.

But as with all special occasions, especially this one, my dear Mother’s “Sgt. Pepper” birthday, as long as a restaurant’s heart is in the right place, whatever’s wrong with an evening can be easily eclipsed by what’s right about it. It’s easy to miss magical moments when you’re spending too much time worrying about why the magic didn’t arrive exactly as you scheduled it.

More to come, including late-night taqueria excess, tapas and Palacios Remondo Placet on the water, and the best spicy scrambled eggs I’ve had since a stop in Austin, Texas in the summer of 2003.

. . . Without the Slaughter

By Taylor Cocalis

The second installment of Taylor’s dispatch of a piglet’s dispatch in the mountains of Ecuador, in which the animal meets its maker.

Halfway through the week, Berta, the woman running the dairy farm in Ecuador where I was fortunate enough to have found myself staying, informed us that they would be killing one of the piglets (age: 3 months) in our honor. I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone using that phrase in reference to an upcoming meal, but it seemed to merit gratitude, as well as anticipation of what was to come. She asked if we wanted to see the slaughter, and I thought it only appropriate that if we were going to eat the piglet, we should at least honor the creature at its death.

Now, we had already established some measure of intimacy with the pig. Although we hadn’t exactly rolled around in the pen with it, during each meal we would prepare a bucket of our scraps . . . crab shells, whey from cheesemaking, and the peels and pulp of the fruit that we juiced each morning . . . on which the pig could feast. So in a sense we had shared some meals together. Soon the animal would become our week’s most memorable meal.

The morning of the slaughter we awoke a few hours earlier than usual and rushed up to the barn when Berta indicated they were ready. I came prepared for some pomp and circumstance, but what we witnessed was swift and only slightly painful (for us and, more so, for the poor pig). Within 30 seconds of our arrival, Alvaro (Berta’s husband) punctured the pig directly under it’s left foreleg with a six-inch kitchen knife (for the record, I think an 8-inch knife would have more effectively reached the pig’s heart for a slightly quicker and less painful departure).

These next two minutes were the hardest to watch, as the bright blood dripped down the pig’s chest, in stark contrast with its white skin. But the shrieking squeals soon subsided as the pig was laid to rest. Within a few minutes, the farm hands had transported the pig to a wheelbarrow where they poured scalding hot water over its body in order to loosen the hair for removal. Their hands poured over the pig’s skin as they removed its hair by hand (for the record one of the farm hands did pull out a pink plastic Lady Bic razor further along in the process to ensure that there were no extraneous hairs left behind).

We then watched how, in a matter of minutes, they opened the pig up to remove the contents of it’s body, all saved to be used at a later date (”No, we would never let these good parts go to waste,” Berta assured us). My jaw dropped as the intestines literally poured out of the pig’s body, and I wondered how it all could have possibly fit in its belly just a few minutes before.

The whole process, start to finish, took a swift 30 minutes (perhaps Rachel Ray should do a special slaughtering episode), at which point they took the prepared piglet off to the tiny town of Pintag where a friend of the farm had an oven large enough to roast the whole pig at once.

Taylor Cocalis manages Murray’s Cheese Course at Murray’s Cheese Shop in New York City and should not be blamed for the death of this small animal.

. . .Without the Slaughter

by Taylor Cocalis

Enlighten me for a moment. Imagine that you open your front door to find a box on your door step. You curiously open it up to find a plate full of food: tender juicy pork, crispy potatoes, and steaming starchy white corn. What do you do? Do you eat it?

I can see it now . . . all of you shaking your heads, thinking that I am crazy. Who in their right mind would eat a box of food left on their doorstep? From where did it come? How did it get there? It would be crazy to just go ahead and eat that. Right?

But the truth is that is what happens almost every day with the food that we eat. You may go to a restaurant and trust them to bring good food to your plate, but do you really know from where it came? Do you think that your waiter or your chef knows the person that cultivated that corn or that killed the pork on your plate? We don’t seem to be scared of that, but we do seem to be scared of knowing from exactly where our food comes . . . even (or especially) when it comes from the most natural source.

Let me explain.

When friends and family peruse my photographs from a recent trip to Ecuador, they always seems to have the same response, “I could have done without the pig pictures.” Despite that fact that they gush over the mountainous landscape, warmly note the colorfully dressed locals, and even relish in the crispy pork skin feast, nobody seems to enjoy the documentation of the pig slaughter. Except me.

Don’t get me wrong. Taking an animal’s life is never fun, but this was not merely frivolous slaughter. When most people view the pictures they immediately think of guts and gore. When I see them, I fondly remember the culture surrounding the whole process. Hopefully with a little insight, you’ll feel as warmly about the experience (and the photographs) as I do.

Part 2 of “The Sweet Just Ain’t as Sweet,” with photos, will appear on BioR tomorrow, Tuesday, April 8, 2008; Part 3 on Wednesday, April 9.

Taylor Cocalis manages Murray’s Cheese Course at Murray’s Cheese Shop in New York City. She is also one of the grooviest people I know.