The Sweet Just Ain’t as Sweet . . .
. . .Without the Slaughter
by Taylor Cocalis
The long awaited third and final installment of Taylor’s dispatch of a piglet’s dispatch in the mountains of Ecuador, in which our porcine hero transforms into a transformative meal.
Fast forward to the following afternoon: a festive celebration in the form of a shared meal.
At promptly 1PM, two little Ecuadorian girls, Margery & Sophia, knocked on the door to alert us that the feast was almost ready. Margery led me by hand to the preparation station, where the women were putting the finishing touches on everything. Nineteen of us gathered around to watch as they put the first plate together. On the plate they plopped a mound of boiled corn –more starchy than the sweet Jersey corn that I am used to . . . it tasted more like a fresh potato than anything else. Next were the potato cakes, cooked in a large frying pan so that the edges turned deep golden and crispy.
To accompany the starch, the ladies ladled a scoop of aji, an Ecuadorian salsa of sorts that had graced every table that week. Each aji I found was slightly different: some mild and cool, highlighting the fresh cilantro, others tending toward the spicy side; from a runny syrup to a thick paste.
And finally came the pork. They simply cut right into the pig, placing an enormous chunk of moist, juicy meat onto each plate. On top, they placed a decadent square of crispy skin, a gift from the gods. As I stood and watched, one of the ladies would turn around and gave me a small shard to taste, as if I was the well-mannered dog patiently sitting by the table during a holiday meal.
Imagine, for a second, the best potato chip you have ever had, or the crispiest french fry, or the best potato roasted in goose fat. Think about the crackling skin on the Thanksgiving turkey or the golden goodness from your mother’s roast chicken. Now imagine that times one hundred, and you will begin to understand the glory of this pig skin. The fat underneath the skin provided the perfect vehicle to disperse the flavor of the dozen or so indigenous herbs that they rubbed on the pig. When I bit into it, I registered the crisp crunch, and then a gush of flavor flooded over my tongue, almost as if there were little pockets of fat, the consistency of tiny caviar, that exploded as I bit into them. I assure you, this was a pleasure so simple that it could not be replicated with all of the fanciest food technology in the world.
The ladies set the table for us to eat first. Normally, it is against my food religion to eat before everyone is served, but they cared for us with such pride that I could not insult their generosity, and I began to eat. The plate was so large that I thought I could not possibly finish, but somehow, I managed, in a blissful trance from the crackling pork. I would take frequent breaks, walking around to see how the other kids were doing. Surprisingly, even the four-year-olds had plates piled as high as mine, and they managed to soak up every last bit of the celebratory meal, just like I did.
Afterward I snuck back to see the chef, and thank her for the unforgettable meal. She spoke even less English than I do Spanish (which I assure you is not even enough to find the bathroom), but somehow I think the elated smile on my face was able to express my sincere gratitude for not only the food, but the overwhelming hospitality that afternoon. The meal was nothing short of magical.
So when I see the pig slaughter pictures, I cannot see guts and gore. Rather, I remember the satiating feeling I got from sharing a meal with new friends.
Taylor Cocalis manages Murray’s Cheese Course at Murray’s Cheese Shop in New York City and has written here the finest description of eating crispy pork skin I have ever encountered.