Adventures in Pork

The End

2010-11-02T10:30:00.000-07:00

Pork and I have something in common now. It's that neither of us are special anymore. Having incorporated the forbidden brute into my diet so regularly, it's flesh no longer invokes the same criminal feeling it once did. And as a result, nothing I can say about it now will be as interesting as my first Adventures. I guess haraam has become routine.

Things are a bit different now. I've left my beloved Philadelphia for New York, and now I sit in my bed, in a basement apartment on the upper west side, surrounded, in varying proximity, by some of the most awesome prepared pork foods in the world, from every one of its corners. Thus far, I've eaten lots of it, and written about none of it.

Maybe it's because, when I look at it from your perspective, the novelty has worn off. Eating pork is no longer an emotional experience, undoing my conditioning and shocking me with every bite. I'm not "seeing if I like it" anymore. I've tried a lot, decided what's good and bad, and chosen my favorite things. I might snack on them from time to time in the future (right now I'm thinking about the pepper crusted salame in the fridge), but there is no longer a point in my writing about them. I'll start back up when I find something new to obsess over

Thank you for reading.

Abdullah

Teri's BLT

2010-09-13T09:58:00.001-07:00

Trying to cover all the staples attributed to an animal as versatile as the pig, I was bound to allow some things to fall through the cracks (Italian sausage and peppers, I'm looking at you too). One old favorite that I can't believe I glossed over is one of the simplest bacon applications; the BLT.

I always wondered what made the BLT a standard on diner menus. It always seemed like the main event, any sort of meat, was missing from it. After all, aren't the B, L, and T all just accompaniment? There was only one way to find out.

My old friend Cory was passing through Philly from Boston on his way to Baltimore and happened to be in town on Joey's birthday. This meant we spent the better part of the evening drinking, and by midnight Joey still hadn't realized that the six pack of Dogfishhead IPAs he downed in the past hour, coupled with several beverages earlier in the evening, would hit him like a ton of bricks as soon as he stood up. Following some temporary paralysis and several paragraphs of incredibly sad bitching, we managed to get Joey back to his apartment, or at least to his front steps from where he painted the sidewalk a barfy yellow.

Of course, this made Cory and I quite hungry, so we decided to stop at a place that I wrote off a few months back after waiting too long for my brunch. Since then, Teri's has changed its game up and become more of a bar than simply a diner. It being a neighborhood spot, it behooved me to give it another chance.

The first thing that caught Cory's eye was the cowboy tots. Being half of a cowboy band, I knew it had to happen. Teri's enhances a plate of tots with bacon, ranch, and cheddar, and lays it in front of you fully expecting you to attack it with zeal. We complied while waiting for our main orders, mine being a BLT; my first BLT.

Though I had nothing to compare it to, there was a near perfect balance to my sandwich. I realized quickly that the textures of the three components fit perfectly with one another. Once your top teeth sink through the bread, they hit the salty half-crunch of the bacon, followed by the light crunch of the lettuce layer, then a juicy hit of tomato, and finally the bottom piece of bread. The bread being toasted just right made that first bite all the better. I suddenly understood the hoopla around this sandwich. In the absence of a main meat event, one is able to appreciate the flavors that usually fade into the background.

I finished it quickly and decided that I'd have to try these from different places until I get one I don't like so that I can identify how anyone, if anyone, can mess up something so simple and so tasty.

The Favorite

2010-09-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

So, you think I'm some kind of pork crazed maniac? I come home and unlock my door with a key that's on a little pig key chain and come upstairs, take off my shoes and put on my fuzzy pig slippers, open a shrink-wrapped pepperoni and plod down on my couch and turn on the Food Network?

Well, you're wrong! Mostly wrong, anyway.

Nay, completely wrong!

I often hear the assumption that I love pork, and rightfully so. After all, I have dedicated a blog to it. But remember, as I told Sapna Magazine some months ago, I eat pork to provoke a reaction that inspires me to write. I, like most, have comfort food that I come back to time and time again. Ask my friends and they'll tell you flat out, it's pho. But what they don't realize is that pho substitutes for something even more special to me, a food that I grew up with in Thailand and could never satisfactorily find here in America. Only my mom can make this dish just right, just the way I like it. I learned the recipe from her and try my best to do it justice on occasions like tonight. It's been a long day of study and school (which I recently returned to) and all I want is a bowl of kwaey teow.

What I'm talking about is the Thai version of beef noodle soup. Back home, the finest example of this dish is found at street level, from kwaey teow ladies standing over giant bubbling vats of soup. You select the type of noodle you want (sen mee, sen lek, or sen yai from thinnest to thickest), perhaps some meatballs, and vegetable (phak kanaa, which you might know as Chinese broccoli) and the lady puts it all in a little wire mesh ladle and dunks it into the water to cook. Once they're done, she throws them into a bowl, pours in the soup and the meat, and you condiment-ify it with an array of items; chili in vinegar, chili in fish sauce, sugar, pepper, hots, crushed peanuts, cilantro leaves. You then proceed to eat two or three bowls and even finish off your brother's, prompting delight from the lady at how such a skinny little bitch can put away so many noodles. That's how I did it last time I was in Thailand, anyway.

Now the big vat of soup is the thing that I am missing. Churning and boiling day in and day out, this thin stew is packed with flavor. Its dark color is attributed to beef blood, something you can't exactly buy bottles of in the US. I have to make do with a stew pot brought to a boil with beef bones, raw garlic, cilantro root (the essence lies in the root, you fools!), salt, white pepper, and cubed beef. I remember well that Thais prefer textured beef in noodles, cuts that we often consider too sinewy. I use eye round, a cheap cut with a similar mouth feel to what I remember.

I always go with sen mee, the thinnest noodle. For the vegetable component, I use Chinese broccoli tips ('gai lan' tips). I am blessed to have multiple Asian groceries in my vicinity that carry these things. The condiment that takes the most preparation is fried garlic. For the first few months that I was making kwaey teow myself, I couldn't figure out what I was missing. Finally, my mom discovered that I hadn't been frying up sliced garlic in vegetable oil to top my noodles. She didn't say much, but I saw the disappointment in her eyes.

So, the noodles and greens go on the bowl, and in goes the soup and beef. This is followed by the fried garlic, some chili powder and cilantro leaves (merely a garnish). If there are surviving beansprouts in the fridge, they go on too.

Finally, I add amounts of fish sauce and vinegar, not so much with the chilies, to taste. This, pork fans, is my favorite food. There isn't a hint of pork in it, and it makes me so so happy. I am not exaggerating. There was a period of time when I would come home drunk and hungry and three in the morning and venture to go through this entire cooking process just so I could put on an episode of Futurama and chow down on the best thing I have ever eaten. It reminds me of Thailand, it reminds me of my mama, and it's something I make from scratch with my own hands. There are few eating experiences I find more pleasure in.

Dim Sum Garden's Xiaolongbao

2010-09-02T22:49:00.000-07:00

I cracked up at Hal's ridiculous mustache right when I walked into the place as if my mutton chops weren't equally as hysterical. He and Orest had lured me to Dim Sum Garden with promises of amazing dumplings, namely xiaolongbao: the soup dumpling, sometimes called Shanghai dumpling. The place is a certifiable hellhole, aptly surrounded by hell; right between every bum's favorite spot to pan handle outside Wawa and a Chinatown bus station where all US language and law ceases to exist, and right around the corner from the Greyhound bus station, the center for riff raff and human garbage in every major city in America.

The lunch crowd consisted not only of Asians, but white 9-5ers, and us, suggesting this place had been discovered time and time again, and I'm not going to try to Columbus this one. Craig Laban apparently wrote about it some time ago which gave it a little push. The dumplings revealed that the critical acclaim came well deserved.

We started out with some sticky rice dumplings, which is not something I usually go for off the dim sum cart. It was nice to have something a little heavy to accompany the dim sum. The shrimp dumplings had definitely come out of a freezer recently and spent too short a time steaming, but this little mishap was quickly forgotten when the Shanghai dumplings came out.

This was my first time with soup dumplings. Hal demonstrated the process;

1) Place the dumpling face up in your spoon.

2) Carefully bite off the very top of the dumpling.

3) Resist the urge to eat it at this point because it will scald the living shit out of your mouth if you go for it too fast.

4) Douse it with dumpling sauce

5) Blow on it awhile.

6) Put bliss into your face.

Yes, these were damn good. The soup tasted like a slightly salty meat broth. We ordered two trays, one filled only with minced pork, and the other with pork and crab meat.

Now, it's a little hard to judge the flavor of a dumpling, because I often consider it to be a textured vessel, the dumpling sauce dominating most of the flavor with its dual salty-tart flavor. The most fun thing about this particular dim sum is the multitude of these textures. First the thin, nearly translucent outer dough, then the slightly thick soup, and finally the minced meatball. It's a bite you can savor for an extended moment. I did several times.

One stereotype held true here, and I was hungry again a couple of hours later. I seriously considered trekking back to the fringe of Chinatown for more.

Honey's Hype

2010-09-01T19:01:00.000-07:00

Sabrina's is totally my spot for brunch. It's in my favorite neighborhood, the service is almost always great, and brunch menu is diverse enough to accommodate any degree of sweet or savory I desire. This also means that I have to give myself a little nudge to check out other places. Morning Glory is also in the neighborhood and has great pancakes, but there is a host/server who works there who is just fucking rude. It's beyond me how such a dick remained employed there for so long. It's solely his potential presence at that diner that keeps me away from it. Green Eggs is a pleasant place, but I was never really wowed by a meal I had there, though I plan on giving them another shot soon.

So, let's leave the neighborhood. I found myself venturing to NoLibs yet again with Sunny Ali and our boy Imran. Our destination was Honey's, a brunch spot so popular that it remains packed throughout the week, leaving the beer intensive eateries of the neighborhood empty by comparison. I had been hearing Honey's come up in food conversations for ages. Lot's of 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' from the scores who have been satiated by their fare. What kept me from it, aside from the alleged crowds, was the possibility that a friend of a girl I once pissed off worked there. Having allowed a sufficient latency period by now, I thought I'd go for it.

There wasn't much pork in my breakfast. Just the side of 'handmade honey dean sausage' which looked more like it was made using feet. A dry, crumbly, crusty little slice of overdone sausage to accompany an absolutely mediocre example of buttermilk pancakes made with berries and walnuts. I would have much sooner opted for any kind of Slam at Denny's for half the price.

One of two things happened here. Either I just happened to get one of the few bad breakfasts doled out by this local favorite, or the gears of hype are running on fuel comprised mostly of bullshit. Right now, I'm feeling the latter explanation, seeing that Sunny's chicken fried steak wasn't looking too hot, and the only worthy meal on the table was Imran's bagel and lox, which can't really be attributed to the chef.

Am I wrong? Let me know if you think I should give Honey's another try.

Abbaye's Ancho BBQ Pork Sandwich

2010-08-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you went outside yesterday, but it was absolutely beautiful in Philadelphia. The sun was out and felt just far away enough, the air was dry and cool, and the weather in the shade was just perfect. The day's eating needed to be done outside.

While there are a handful of places to eat outside in South Philly, we had exhausted most of them. I was with Sunny Ali and his girlfriend Caitt, who had to go work at Cantina later that afternoon, so that spot was out of the question. Sabrina's and Paesano's I've done and done again, so those were out. We thought it prudent to venture out of our neighborhood to Northern Liberties, a haven for outdoor seating.

I'd only come to the Abbaye previously for their killer beer selection, but this time I was just hungry. Not quite in the mood for alcohol, I was kind of bummed that a place with such a good list of craft beer had no beer of the birch or root variety, not fancy or standard. Of course, I know that I'm on my own with this. I get shit from friends and servers alike when I'm not in the mood for America's drug of choice. I just hope to one day find a spot that doesn't make me feel silly for just wanting a really good soda with my lunch.

Before looking at the menu, I wasn't expecting an adventure for the day, but I saw a sandwich that fit the bill; ancho bbq pork with chorizo corn relish. Ancho is a dried poblano pepper, which carries flavor without much bite. That being coupled with pretty mellow sounding sauce, I was expecting a mild flavored sandwich with a focus on the preparation of the pork.

The pork was visibly braised well and piled high on a bun that could hardly handle the load (this is a trend). I personally prefer as few lumps of pork in a BBQ sandwich as possible in favor of stringy strands, and to that end this sandwich abode. I don't know if that's a standard measure of quality, but I know I like it for its uniqueness to pork. Though in several of its forms the meat of my endeavor can mimic so many others, pulled pork can't be mistaken for anything else if it's done just right. The closest thing, in my experience, is brazed goat meat which is something absolutely distinct.

Flavor-wise, it could have done with a little more punch. Mild flavor is one thing, but this sandwich left me very little to focus on besides its texture and preparation. I attributed the lack of heat to the often benign poblano, but a weak savory component detracted from the idea of it being a BBQ sandwich. Even the chorizo half of the relish wasn't quite salty enough, and the corn sure as hell wouldn't pick up the slack.

All in all, a satisfying sandwich for its heft, but perhaps not a repeat adventure.

Cosmi's Antipasto Salad

2010-08-25T08:27:00.000-07:00

This is terrain I love to navigate. Just ask my mom.

As a kid, my brother loved meat and chocolate. I think that's fairly acceptable for a growing lad. I, on the other hand, was a mother's dream because of my obsession with vegetables. When we would return home from school, fresh out of our two hour minivan ride from the other side of Bangkok, Ahmad would request pretty normal fair, while my craving was for any combination of veggies in a strong, vinegar-heavy dressing that I later tweaked to perfection and still make to this day (expect to see Granddad Abdullah's Old Fashioned Vinaigrette in stores soon). At first, I would simply accept whatever combination of vegetables my mom or our maid Sony (yup) would put together for me. Soon, I was making requests. Isolating each vegetable was one fad. I was the only kid on the block who came home and asked for a huge bowl of string beans floating in sour acid.

When I came to America at 13, I discovered two things in the salad realm. The first was the infamous ranch dressing. I don't hate ranch, but I don't trust it. At first, I marveled at this wonder condiment that could complement the flavor of any vegetable. Slowly, I realized that it simply masked any other flavor I combined it with. You could slather that shit on a Snickers bar and it would just taste like ranch dressing. It's a good thing my compassion grew with my devious thoughts or I would totally have been feeding my little cousins dog turds under the guise of mighty ranch.

The other, later discovery was not a supermarket staple. In fact, you shouldn't buy feta cheese from a supermarket unless it's your only option. I have the fortune of living close to the Italian Market, where quality feta and plenty of other Greek salad fixings are available. The Greek quickly became my favorite salad and now I demand that all the ingredients be in place for it to be up to par; kalamata olives, anchovies, hots, the whole nine (I should note here that I'm referring to the American permutation of the Greek, no offense to any Greek readers). Most recently, I discovered a Bulgarian feta that can be described as 'too strong for some'. I highly recommend.

The strong flavors of this salad are what appeal to me the most. I find it pleasing to go through the intense saltiness of the cheese and anchovies, and the tartness of the dressing, the punch of garlic, all in one multi-textured bite. That's why i always looked at the antipasto salad with interest.

This thing is a hell of a salad, and with three kinds of pork in it, I'm shocked that it didn't dawn on me to try it sooner. I got my first antipasto from Cosmi's Deli, an absolute gem of a deli that's been at 8th and Dickinson since the 1930s. Aside from spectacular hoagie selection and killer salads, this place has the best damn prosciutto pepper shooters I've had, but that's talk for a different post.

Over a bed of romaine and tomatoes are piled roasted peppers, black and green olives of somewhat ambiguous quality, croutons, and crumbled Italian tuna fish. The tuna didn't strike me as appetizing at first, but combined with the stars of the salad, it did quite well. Laid over all this is a liberal helping of three kinds of Italian cured meats rolled up into little tubes, looking like three walls of three different log cabins made of different trees: prosciutto, salami, and sopressata. The first thing I appreciated was that this presentation makes it nice and easy to puncture it with your fork to pick it up, combine it with whatever other ingredients, and eat it all in one bite. I tried my best to differentiate between which meat I was eating, but it wasn't long before I was mixing it up and lost track. The prosciutto was familiar, having been my first conscious pork experience ever just over a year ago. Paper thin and just a little sour, it fell in well with its surroundings. The saltiest and most textured of the meats was the salami, with little fatty white deposits that you find in a lot of cured pork. This texture is one that really grossed me out at one time, but has grown on my much as beef tripe did, the reason being that it's all about interesting mouthfeel. The sopressata had a slightly coarser texture than the salami.

The meats being the main event, this was a pretty good salad. It would have been nice to have a few other flavor groups in there traditional to antipasto in Italy. Especially missed were pepperoncini and artichokes. These are things I might consider adding myself next time I pick up an antipasto salad. Another thing I'd venture to handle myself is the dressing. Whoever invented creamy vinaigrette should be shot. One thing I still, after 13 years, don't understand about American food is why dressings have to be goo. Unless it's thousand island or ranch or gorgonzola, it doesn't have to be so thick. I don't blame Cosmi's for catering to the wider taste for packaged dressing, but I definitely won't use it again. Combined with my own concoction, this salad has immense potential. The obsession lives.

Swine Flu and Tofu

2010-08-19T19:25:00.000-07:00

I met Pierre and BK during my stint in Japan, 2005. It was our first week there and on one of several field trips required to get our foreign asses registered, my roommate Dave and I ended up across a table from these white boys over ...some kind of food, don't remember what, but you can bet it was Japanese and I was avoiding pork. After some talk we learned that these two kids lived in the room directly above us. This circumstance led to some interesting communication practices later in the semester.

Surely, mayhem ensued during our foursome's adventures in Tokyo and surrounding areas. When it all came to a close that December, Dave and I returned to earth and Pierre and BK remained in the future. Today, they are only occasional visitors to Philly, but when they are here, we always eat well. It's the effect of spending so much time together in one of the world's greatest food countries. But for today, I suggested Chinese; Han Dynasty in Old City, based on their out of this world pork belly, my favorite cut.

When I hopped in the back of Pierre's 2004 Ford Focus ZX3 hatchback (which resembles him as a dog would its owner), I discovered that there were prizes for me stashed in the piles of life items strewn about the car. Firstly, Pierre handed me a Blue Scholars CD, a group he always raves about, but warning me that it might not work (it didn't work, if you're reading this, thanks for nothing you son of a bitch). The next prize I found myself. Due to undeniable appropriateness, it was promptly granted to me. What I received was swine flu. Not quite the all-bark no-bite pandemic that just swept areas of the globe last year, but a plush reflection of it. Pierre works for Giant Microbes, a CT company that makes stuffed animals, if in your mind the 'animal' category includes botulism, HPV, and bad breath. I'm guessing the little cute swine flu cell plushie was a hot item in the wake of the disease. I just love that it's actually pink. What are the odds of that?

After being un-promptly seated by the inept lanky white kid who inexplicably still works at Han Dynasty, we ordered the pork belly, the cumin lamb, hot beef tripe, and something new to me; Ma Po Tofu. It reminded me of Korean jigae in texture, though not so much in flavor. Though there was pork in this dish, it was dissolved, all stewed in with super soft tofu and a striking blend of a few flavors that are unmistakably Sichuan. Speaking of stand-out flavors, I got hit with a Sichuan peppercorn real bad somewhere through the tripe. It numbed my mouth right around when the owner walked over to tell us that we had ordered all his favorite dishes. Whether or not it was a fluke decision, it struck up some pretty entertaining conversation.

We wrapped up our meal with a little grub to spare, which the out of towners kindly left me so that I could crave it late at night, eat it, and spend the next 20 minutes in blissful agony from my mouth being on fire.

O Sandwiches' BBQ Pork Banh Mi

2010-07-16T11:22:00.000-07:00

I just ate the first half of this, thankfully without the tangy zip of Miracle Whip. O Sandwiches brings a level of finesse to banh mi that you don't always find in a lot of South Philly sandwich joints, particularly when it comes to the preparation of the meat. I've often been turned off when my teeth hit a chicken knuckle, or something inexplicable in the middle of my sandwich. It leads me to expect one in each subsequent bite and I slow down, chewing ever so slowly and using the various components of my mouth to sift through their present contents. This takes a fair amount of concentration, so whoever I'm with begins to notice that, though I may be staring intently and slowly moving my jaw in an interested fashion, I'm not actually listening.

That's never a problem at O Sandwiches, where the meat is finely chopped and packed in neatly underneath a liberal serving of carrot and radish pickles, cilantro and hot green peppers that I always forget to tell them to hold. I like hot food, I'm not a bitch, but those little bastards always do a number on my esophagus. You can judge my age by the pile of Tums wrapper bits on my desk, a collection that grows with my fits of pained desperation.

I'll leave you with that as I eat the rest of this thing.

Try harder

2010-06-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

So where the hell have I been for the past month? The short answer is, working on this

My band, Sunny Ali & the Kid, just independently dropped our first EP. It's available on our website sunnyaliandthekid.com

Below this item on my list of excuses are an increase in other work, preparation for my brother's wedding, a new found affinity for the ukulele and a whole season of Big Love that I completely missed.

I know I messed up. All I can promise is that I'll

Try harder.

Enjoy.

Korean BBQ Pork Belly at Bobo's

2010-06-03T14:29:00.000-07:00

Bobo's was at the top of my list before I ever went there. If there's one international pork adventure I wish I'd snatched up when I had the chance, it's the BBQ pork belly I missed out on in Seoul in 2005. I've been to a handful of Korean BBQ places in the US, including a higher end New York joint, and nothing has come close to what I had at Bobo's, an unassuming restaurant that has lived right across the street from my favorite Brazilian joint for quite some time, unbeknownst to me. I will have to make it out the Northeast twice as frequently since discovering it.

The Korean obsession with side dishes is right up my alley, especially when one of them is soju. Ben, our Korean boy, made sure the bottles of sweet rice vodka made it to our table before the food. Shortly after our first shot, tiny plates bearing cocktails of vegetables, pickles, and sauces began arriving. As we were sampling each little miracle, the main event arrived; a plate piled high with pork belly. A small drawback was that we were working with frozen meat here. The proprietor apologized for the inconvenience, but it turned to to be a non issue. She did the bulk of the grilling for us, and we tossed our condiments into the heat pit.

On my first lettuce bomb, I piled a slice of pork belly, an impossibly thin slice of pickled daikon, some grilled kimchi, a clove of garlic also from the grill, and another slice of pork belly for good measure, topped with a dab of sesame oil and sweet miso sauce. I balled it up and devoured it in one bite. As usual, I made it too big and had to sit there with my gaze fixed on nothing, concentrating hard to break down the food ball. In that 30 seconds or so, every flavor makes itself apparent, dances with the others, and slowly becomes lost in the euphoric feeling immediately following victory over the challenge of chewing one of these guys. It is one of the most satisfying flavor combinations I've ever had, whether pork is in the mix or not.

This pork belly was a little more rubbery than I prefer in barbecue, but the texture did its job of the being the meat in the situation. The other elements are soft or slightly crunchy, and make for perfect layers encasing the meat. Ben advised me that each lettuce bomb should comprise a different combination of side dishes, making each one a unique set of flavors. Turns out the simple combos each have a charm of their own. My personal simple favorite was pork belly, grilled kimchi, and sesame oil.

I was surprised as to how empty and quiet Bobo's was on this warm weeknight, and I'd love to see their business bumping a little more, so I'm giving my highest recommendation of 5 pig heads.

Hot Dry Sausage from Claudio

2010-05-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

I cheated, once. It was Christmas of 2008, and I was spending it in a more Christian way than ever before; with a family of Catholics. Not that there was anything particularly Catholic about these Catholics. It was Christmas with the Hardys.

Joe Hardy is my old friend and, as some tabloids have suggested, my favorite. When we first met, I learned that he didn't like to be called anything other than 'Joe' by his friends and 'Joseph' by his elders, so naturally, I've called him 'Joey' for the past eight years.

Joey invited me to spend Christmas eve with his family, as I was to be trekking to my aunt's nearby the following day. My family has never been too big on Christmas, aside from it being an occasion for us to gather and irritate each other. Perhaps all other families in the world, including the Hardys, spent Christmas the same way. But there was a far more festive spirit in the air, and their varying gradations of British accents brought a sense of correctness to to the setting.

At the time, I lived right in Philadelphia's Italian Market. As a token of my regard for the Hardys and the ever-so-slight mutual loathing underlying the love that has kept me and Joey friends for so long, I decided to bring a token of my gratitude in the form of some hot dry sausage from Claudio. I felt it to be a fitting gift in that I would be unable to eat it, and so would have to ask them how it tasted, to which they would, bound by courtesy, tell me it was delicious. I would then spend my life obliviously believing that this tube of sodiumized animal meat tasted great, never knowing the true answer. This was my aim, but I thwarted it myself after a couple of drinks on that first night. In front of me sat a plate piled with slices of the links, and around me sat the Hardys, talking about most un-British things in their accents.

I was contemplating eating on of those little discs, hard. It went on for about ten minutes. I stared at it, sipping my drink, bending my eyebrows like hermetic kung fu master sizing up his newest pupil. Finally, I leaned forward and with an inward "Fuck it", I grabbed one and threw it into my mouth. This was immediately followed by my eyes darting around to make sure no one just notice the Muslim eating pork. It was, indeed the perfect crime, unless of course god was watching.

I forgot about this incident until just recently, when I was in Claudio buying olives and cheese. Along with a wedge of brie and some olives stuffed with almonds, mini jalapenos, gorgonzola, and anchovies (yes), I got a turd-looking sausage that I suddenly realized I'd purchased before.

Suddenly, there was an adventure more important than all the ones that came after it. The real first time I willingly ate pork; it had to be revisited. Arriving at home, I fixed myself a plate of cheese, olives, and...I couldn't do it. Not yet. I had to be in the perfect state of mind to recall everything I felt at the time. This was to be a jolt, and I had to prime myself for it. A day passed, then another, until the olives were gone and there was just a bit of cheese left. Finally, I was ready, and I fixed the originally intended plate, the only substitution mini dill pickles instead of olives. I threw a slice of sausage into my mouth.

Even though I'd cut off most of the rind, this thing was damn chewy, almost unpleasantly so. I wondered if this was the stuff meant to be cooked before eating. Alas, it was the same sausage I had had before. While the hot and savory curing was quite tasty, it didn't attempt to cover up the smoky taste, surprisingly similar to what I've tasted in some bacon. The flavor was disproportionately strong for the size of slice that I had eaten, and at first it was a shock to my taste buds. It only reminded me that the first time I had eaten this stuff, I was so focused on my stealth that I barely tasted it. I worked that slice over and went around the plate eating a slice of cheese and a little pickle. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the flavors. It was a bit too much saltiness happening at once, particularly with an entirely new type of saltiness thrown into the mix. As I ate more sausage slices, I began to get used to the flavor. The texture, on the other hand, gave my jaw a proper work out, and by the time I was done it felt like I chewed a whole pack of Bubblicious for four hours.

Sausage is a good snack along with other cheese shop staples, but I'm glad it wasn't my first coherent adventure. Prosciutto eased me into pork with its relative lack of offensive qualities. I might venture to try sausage from different stores, but again, eating pork at home in my realm of comfort isn't something I'm inclined to do any time soon.

Peter Luger's Thick Cut Bacon

2010-05-24T07:36:00.000-07:00

Now, that's more like it. Every standard bacon experience has been lacking something, a certain meatiness that you just don't get with ultra thin slices. I've learned that crispy bacon doesn't do it for me, and being the type for soggy, floppy bacon has left me famously disappointed. Bacon that I truly enjoyed was literally a birthday gift.

My mom asked me where in New York I wanted to eat for my birthday, and my answer spilled out instantly. Peter Luger is arguably the best steak house in the city, and I'd only heard tales of their butter like steak from my brother, far more of a meat connoisseur than myself. My mom obliged her baby boy and just a couple of days before my 26th, I was at a table with her, my meat-loving brother, my very-soon-to-be sister-in-law, and my oldest-friend Jes-hyphen-hyphen. One of three appetizers ordered had to be the bacon.

There's some dispute as to where the bacon they use at Peter Luger comes from. There is unanimous agreement, however, regarding what makes it amazing. It's the broiler. You can try it a million times, but simple fried bacon just won't have the same result. While it was the tenderness of smoked pork belly done BBQ style that originally endeared me to this cut, this thick cut bacon was the best example of anything I've had that reaches that rubbery consistency in preparation. There are few foods more fun to bite into. As this stuff gets cooked, the contrast between the fatty and meaty stripes begins to blur. They begin to distinguish themselves past your teach, when the fat begins to disintegrate quicker. It's overall a much meatier eat, sparing the slight level of greasiness.

And then there was the steak...but this is a pork blog. You didn't think I would go into it, did you?

Kraftwork's Bacon Krispy Treat

2010-05-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

I prejudge bacon desserts. Ones I've come across always seem to pander to the eyes and not to the tongue, relying more on the novelty of the ingredient than the ingenuity of the combination. You haven't seen much about desserts on Adventures in Pork for this very reason. I want to taste pork and not merely be told that it is present in my food. I finally went to the right place.

Kraftwork just opened up less than a week ago, and Brian, being the gastropub aficionado he claims so loudly to be, was there for a beer in the blink of an eye. Later that very day, I got a message from my friend Sean (who's in a real nasty band called the Spooks), who works at Kraftwork, informing me that they do a bacon rice krispy treat. My curiosity was piqued. A couple of days later Brian, Justin and I headed up Girard Avenue.

Following a satisfying chicken sandwich, we were presented with the dessert in question. It appeared simple like a rice krispy treat should, its only flare a little chocolate garnish that upon closer inspection concealed little bits of bacon (not bacon bits, mind you). At this time, I got a phone call from my mom. Being a courteous co-diner, I remained seated at the bar as my mom and I took turns raising the decibel level of our conversation, a banal one regarding cell phone plans, in a muddle of Urdu and English. When I got off the phone, Brian and Justin were talking to the chef, who had just emerged from the kitchen.

I joined the conversation and naturally, things turned to pork. The chef described the make up of the treat I was about to bite into. He kept things simple; the same store bought marshmallows you'd get in the supermarket acted as an adhesive, but something quite different composed the body of this square. Not a single rice puff in there, just a lot of pork rinds.

Biting into it revealed both the saltiness and the sweetness I would have expected, but they complemented each other cleanly, like all rice krispy treats could do with a dose of breakfast meat. While you'd think that the fluffiness of marshmallow and the slight crispiness bacon would clash unpleasantly during the chewing process, it was as gooey as anything fresh out of your grandma's oven and didn't skimp on the bacon (wow, that sounds gross). Though pleasing, it required a self preparedness to dive into. I finished it in the standard four bite sequence, then took over a week to write about it. I know.

The bacon krispy treat opened me up to the prospect of desserts successfully infused with bacon. Not long after my meal at Kraftwork, my dear friend Jes read my mind and gave me a bag of assorted bacon chocolates for my birthday. This ain't over.

Cantina Los Caballitos' Roast Pork Empanadas

2010-05-10T13:19:00.000-07:00

The question before this last little adventure was; is there something Mexican and pork-xican that will make me love it more than I love Puebla's el pastor? Not bloody likely. But I'll be damned if I won't give it a chance.

As I've long maintained, Mexican is not my favorite style of food, pork or not. What most concerned me about the early Mexican pork dishes I tried was the lack of seasoning to cover up that porky essence that stops me mid-bite on occasion. The plantains packed into the roast pork burrito I had at Pico de Gallo a little while back didn't do enough to mask this flavor, in hindsight.

Believe me, I've considered what an asshole I am for seeking out foods that cover up the taste of roast pork. I know that by doing so, I'm shadowing the reality of the roast pork I consume, and I might as well not pursue such dishes if they keep making me fell sick. But despite my desire to make the Adventures easy on myself in this way, forging forward is the only choice. I can't very well avoid a whole category. This blog is about eating pork from the perspective of a Muslim, and this is how this particular Muslim chooses to deal with roast pork...I know, I know, if that last sentence made you feel angry/confused/sad/fearful, please, just write your thoughts in the comments section.

I was just getting back into town from yet another multi-hour stint in my less-than-tidy car, and I hit up Sunny Ali, who happened to be sitting outside Cantina Los Caballitos about to order some grub. As I arrived to join him, the sun was suddenly obscured by half-menacing clouds. The wind started to pick up as I approached the table as if we were about to have a shootout, or at least words leading to one. Whatever the weather suggested fizzled out as I sat down across from him and heartily greeted my partner in crime. Just then, Sunny's girlfriend Cait, a waitress at this Cantina, brought us a couple of beers. Perfect way to end a shitty drive on the NJ turnpike.

Initially, I didn't feel like experimenting. I just wanted something familiar that would go down easy, the quesadillas I ordered being almost too deep in that category. The pork empanadas were actually Sunny's choice, but the configuration of our plates demanded that we make a partial trade. The picture would have been perfect if that bastard hadn't gotten salsa all in the sour cream.

Because I'm used to empanadas being either the frozen snack or of the corner store variety (which I am suspicious might be the same thing), having a hand crafted one with the shell cooked just right was a treat. The filling was decent at best, not much by way of standout seasoning. The unwelcoming essence of roast pork was at about 40%, especially with a dallop of sour cream. The pork was a little stringier than normal, either the cooking method or the pig being at fault. Overall, the bite match my mood: a little tired and craving a change.

I like both Cantina's in Philly for their atmosphere and layout, not to mention the Tecate and Tequila drink special that pleasantly ruined a few summer days last year, but there food has always left something to be desired. There's something un-Mexican about preparations that I can't quite put my finger on. In a town that has a serious Mexican diaspora and plenty of eateries serving its need for authentic food from home, it seems unnecessary to travel to a hip block for dishes that come off as a very slight attempt to differentiate. Don't be surprised if you see me chilling at Cantina on a hot summer day drinking a Pacifico, but if I ever feel the hankering for something south of the border, you'll find me on 9th St.

Bukowski's Pork Belly Sliders

2010-04-30T09:28:00.000-07:00

This past week was one that illustrates the irregularity in life. Now more than ever, I feel like a part of the growing mass comprised of those who make things work despite the fact that every facilitating mechanism in our civilization is broken.

I left for Massachusetts on a Friday, picking up my brother and his fiancee on the way. My father was throwing them an engagement party, of course one separate from the one my mother threw last summer. Neither was invited to the other's.

Following the weekend party, I planned on staying on for a couple of days so that I could see my doctor one last time. You see, I'm turning 26 next month, and that's the age at which our system of government has decided I no longer need health insurance. I'm lucky I got as much as I did. Thankfully, I'm able to work from anywhere and didn't miss too many steps as a result.

While I was at it, I figured I'd see the dentist. Or rather, a dentist. I didn't know who this person was, and her friendliness seemed genuine until she started tacking on recommendations for dental work that would end up costing me over a thousand dollars over my insurance limit. If you're not getting a visual of this situation, picture an insurance company and a crooked dentist fucking my ears from either side until money falls out of my ass.

My closing mission in the state of Massachusetts was to bring the Kominas back to Philadelphia with me to play a couple of shows with my band Sunny Ali & the Kid. As it went, we ended up meeting at a place I'd been before to meet a guy I've known for a long time. Cory, bass player for Boston metal band Black Thai, sat across from me in Bukowski in Cambride and told me what I'd missed.

The Boston Bacon and Beer Festival happened last Saturday, and by missing it I hurt myself and anyone who enjoys my pork musings. Without regard for my feelings, Cory continued to relate tales of the delicious experiments he'd witnessed and tasted. I sought to redeem myself quickly, and staring at Bukowski's menu momentarily revealed an immediate pork option.

Both Cory and I ordered the pork belly sliders. I should note here that technically, these weren't sliders. A slider is not the same thing as a miniature burger. Rather than having me paraphrase, hear it from a guy who really cares and knows.

These little bastards looked pretty damn good next to my Maker's Mark. Piled with homemade red cabbage cole slaw, the layering of textures in these tiny sandwiches was very close to perfect. Though the pork belly felt a little overcooked at first bite, the resulting slight rubberiness fit just right between the chewiness of the mini brioche bun and the crunch of the slaw.

Because pork belly is uncured, some chef's can get a little seasoning crazy and over spice it rather than allowing its natural flavors shine. The danger of over salting pork belly was expertly avoided at Bukowski's, each sandwich a picture of balance. They went down fast, as did the bourbon depicted, as well as the one that followed it.

Interview with SAPNA Magazine

2010-04-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks back, I was interviewed by a writer from SAPNA Magazine, a web based publication targeting South Asian American women.

Here's the interview

Hoping for some feedback from these lovely ladies.

Bebe's Pulled Pork Sandwich

2010-04-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

How could I have traversed the porcine path for this long and not have had a pulled pork? Well, for one thing, this food has one of the least appetizing names a sandwich could have. While it may still be funny to me, many stand by the pulled pork sandwich as the finest example of American barbecue.

During my non-pork life, there were those who repeatedly spoke of pork's deliciousness to me, suddenly realized that I don't eat pork, then pitied me greatly, apologizing to me for my own discipline causing me to lose out. Only one always got away with it without a lecture from me. Tony is an old friend of mine, and by that I mean that he's my elder brother's boy from college and both of them are old as hell compared to my youthful, agile self. I've known Tone since I was 13, and since then he has, in equal parts, trained me in the ways of life and busted my balls, often for not eating his favorite meat. While I'm sure he misses the days when he could elaborate with great vigor on the magical flavors we were both sure I'd never experience, he has been an encouraging figure for my Adventures in Pork.

Toni swears by the pulled pork, claiming it to be one of the most important experiences for a first timer like myself. When Bebe's opened up right between our two homes on 9th Street last year, Tony promised that this was one sandwich that did its genre justice. In the midst of all the recommendations I got after starting AIP, I overlooked the pulled pork from Bebe's...no longer.

I called in my order to an always exuberant Mark, the nicest shop owner in the Italian Market, perhaps due to his palpable southern-ness. Upon entering the tiny store, I was greeted with a "You're here for pork!" from the girl at the register. Happy to have my mind read, I acknowledged her claim and watched her assemble my order and fill my ice tea before settling up and heading back to my car. This would be an eat-while-you-work situation.

In my take out container lay a mound of deeply soaked, finely diced (or pulled, I suppose) pork shoulder cut. The pile dwarfed the little burger bun occupying the next compartment. The orange-brown sauce on the pork I was used to and fond of, the same stuff found on Mark's equally amazing chicken sandwich. In fact, the sauce made this sandwich nearly indistinguishable from the chicken sandwich. The texture of the meat was slightly less dry and less stringy, but overall the experience matched up pretty clean. I wasn't blown away by the sandwich because, I'd tried its chicken counterpart before.

I didn't think about it much, the haram aspect. I've gotten to a point at which I don't get turned off by pork merely at the thought of what I'm eating. It's only when there is a very apparent porky smell or taste, as there is in roast pork, that I can't stomach it. I've worn down my psychological aversion to the point that it is either dead or dormant. I did note that at Sabrina's the other day, I ordered ribs expecting pork and was surprised to find myself relieved that it turned out to be beef. I guess I was glad I wasn't going to have to test my dinner out to see if it would make me feel gross or not.

We All Have Our Moment of Truth

2010-04-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, I was sitting on the balcony of a four person apartment in a Temple University dorm called 'Towers', puffing away with my friend Sambones, as we often did. The front door opened and Anand was home. Anand and I were partners in hip hop, the two greatest MCs in the world (in our bragodocious 19 year old minds, anyway) and I knew just how to push his button on this unseasonably warm day that happened to be April 1st, 2004. He walked out to the balcony and plodded down on a milk crate.

"Yo, Guru died today, man."

"What!? ... damn man...How did it happend?" (distraught)

"Car accident this morning. Yeah, and it happened today of all days" (Sambones, shhhh, you'll give it away)

"Yeah...(sarcastically) 'April Fools'" (shakes head)

...

"BahahahahahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! April fool's, dude! Hahahahahahahahaha!"

Anand, who was a bitter son of a bitch back then, popped his cigarette in his mouth, stood up, grabbed the crate he was sitting on with both hands and flung it at my head at a range of about three feet. Being an alert and agile specimen of masculinity that I am, I quickly batted the crate away. I don't remember how we resolved it, but I'm surprised one of us didn't end up going over that balcony railing. Maybe it was because we both knew within a matter of seconds that we'd look back and laugh on this one day.

As fond as that memory is to me, it strikes a sad reminiscence today, as Guru, influential MC and producer, half of Gang Starr and just about all of Jazzmatazz, has passed away. Cancer is a bitch.

Though he wan't known nearly as much for being a producer, he made some sick loops. Check out this Bahamadia track he made the beat for.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54E2kcdT_hE

Peace Guru. You certainly lived up to your name.

PORK RINDS: A New Column

2010-04-15T09:38:00.001-07:00

I just posted my first piece for a column I'm doing for the Tawqwacore Webzine. It's called PORK RINDS.

I decided to start this little side project to prevent my non-food related ruminations from bleeding into Adventures in Pork. Despite this, I'm not promising that Adventures in Pork will be limited to just food posts. PORK RINDS is just for when I go way off food topics.

The first post, entitled For Whom the Bell Tolls, just went up. It's my reaction to a news story I came across in my morning rummagings through the world's information sources.

I've got lots more ideas too. Stay tuned here, follow me on twitter @PorkAdventurer

Peublas' Tacos Al Pastor

2010-04-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

I never ignore legal advice. My attorneys told me ages ago to try the Al Pastor from Pueblas. Yesterday, in an attempt to feed my newly found chorizo taco addiction, I made a call to my new favorite taco joint only to find out that they were out of the delicious, spicy sausage dish that made me fall in love. In an instant I saw this as the opportunity to fulfill an earlier mission and ordered the Al Pastor. I jumped in the whip and cruised up there with anticipation.

The preparation of Al Pastor has an interesting history. Cooking meat on a rotating spit is not originally a Mexican method. Lebanese immigrants brought the idea, adapted from the Turkish doner kabab, in the early 20th century. Upon its integration into Mexican cuisine, what was once lamb became pork. The name 'Al Pastor', or 'shepherd style' stuck despite the fundamental change in meats. The result is tacos (or little kabab wraps) filled with pork sliced straight from the rotating spit and topped with onions, cilantro, and pineapple, presented with two kinds of salsa, sliced cucumbers, and hot pickled onions and peppers.

Right off the bat, the meat looked interesting. The pinkness in the center of each slice and the reddish roasted exterior were unmistakable signs of pork, but the way it had been grilled and sliced could have allowed it to pass for beef. Biting into it revealed a flavor far less cured than the chorizo, but with a more engaging meat flavor than any cured sausage could accomplish. Perhaps it was due to the texture, but it reminded me more of doner kabab than pork. A healthy dose of salsa verde gave the tacos a subtle heat, and the pineapple drove the whole concept home. Whoever decided to add a little fruit surprise to this meat dish is a damn genius, and I tip my sombrero to him or her.

Tacos Al Pastor are definitely on my list. The good list, not the bad one.

"Dude, is Pueblas paying you or some shit?!"

No, honest. I pay for my tacos just like everybody else. In fact, I don't think the waitress I'm slowly falling in love with even realizes that I'm writing about the tacos she keeps giving me. The language barrier would cause an attempted explanation of my blog to end in an awkwardly polite exchange of laughter as I back out the door and she backs into the kitchen.

As Catwoman once said, let's keep the mystery.

Repeat Offender

2010-04-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

I can't stop.

I treat my obsessions well, fueling them into eternity. My favorite thing to eat as a kid was Thai beef noodle soup (kuay teow) and today it remains a biweekly item on the menu at Abdullah's. Through the ages, there have been plenty of fleeting favorites, but very few of them survive the test of repetition. When I started the Adventures, I was positive that no pork dish could ever make it to my hall of comfort foods, but alas, doubt has been cast.

I returned to Pueblas today for my fourth order of chorizo tacos in two weeks. On my first trip there, I couldn't recall that the al pastor had come highly recommended, so I went with a familiarity. I'd had chorizo tacos before, but I was completely unprepared for what I was about to have.

Then again, I've already told this story. It's the subsequent visits that are a new experience. Yes, my friends, I returned there eagerly only a few days later seeking the exact same experience. Days later when my friends from out of town were visiting, guess where I took them...guess what I ordered.

I can't seem to stop. Today, I went out of my way to pick up a late lunch of chorizo tacos from Pueblas yet again and I decided that it was now a serious problem, one that I must disclose.

And so, I confess. I love a pork dish. I'm not sure if it will become a high priority standby, but I feel I've made a breakthrough in that I can consume pork without thinking about it too much. I knew that I could always stomach cured sausage because the indefinable porky essence is obscured.

As summer approaches, I see myself returning to Pueblas plenty for this authentic hot weather food. My one issue is that they don't always stock Mexican Coke.

By the way, if you're eating at Pueblas, be sure to check out Mr. Rodeo, official outfitters of Sunny Ali & the Kid, just a couple of doors down.

Don't Mess with

2010-04-04T15:45:00.000-07:00

Image by Sunny Ali

Enough with the pork already. I had a non food-related thought.

I spent the last week thrashing around with four Pakistanis. Now, these guys aren't your everyday desi dudes. The one thing about myself, my bandmate Sunny Ali, and the guys from the Kominas, is that we're all musicians and music buffs. This one affinity somehow altered each of our paths, to the chagrin of most of our parents, whose respective upbringings were more concerned with the lower rungs of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Bringing their kids to the US meant opening up opportunities our parents never had, including the opportunity to explore our artistic sides and even value them over our education.

What a nightmare! Poor bastard born into a country like Pakistan, busts ass his entire life and makes it to America to start a family, only to see his son with bleached hair and a sweatshirt that constantly smells like weed. No aspirations, no drive, just music music music all the time. If you wanted him to be like you, you should've stayed in Pakistan, daddy-o. The world sees America as a land of opportunity, but you have to actually live here to see all its dimensions.

But not all desi parents are so unfortunate. Raising your kids with a strict regimen of salan-roti, Islamic Sunday school, and constant exposure to your 'communiTy' might also yield a perfect Pakistani American kid; one who focuses on his studies, doesn't drink, doesn't have hobbies, and remains a virgin living at home until he finishes med school or law school or his masters in engineering and marries his second cousin. It's this conception of the dream that I've been alienated from.

I identify as a Pakistani to some extent, but understand that to most Pakistanis, I'm the worst kind. My actions signal that of a self-hating Pakistani, rejecting whole sections of my culture, assimilating without looking back, casting away my heritage for the sake of ease. Ever since I started eating pork and being public about it, I doused the last ember of my ethnicity and have since descended into a gray area of the space between immigrant and second generation.

The scary thing for the 'communiTy' is that I'm not alone. There are plenty more first generation American Muslim kids who stared opportunity in the eye and banged its head like a drum. The cue ethnic identity takes from America is individual expression, and there's no standard for how much of your heritage you choose to keep. Who will define our minority in the next generation? I just hope it's not a bunch of nerds.

"ur a prick"

2010-04-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

I recently saw this comment, one of only two, on the online version of my article for the Philly Weekly.

2. Anonymous said... on Mar 24, 2010 at 07:13AM

“ur a prick, what a backward caveman, u kow why pork is forbidden to u muslims, because its scientifically proven to bee full of parasite and diseases, enjoy, n another thing what kind of paki plays country, n awful country 2, sunny ali & the kid, aload of shit. dnt come 2 the uk, ull ruin it for all the cool pakis here, n they wont be happy”

I knew that there would be a first time I got called a prick for doing this, but I never guessed it would be in such an inarticulate manner. I was hoping for someone with some ideological insight and a chip on their shoulder, but instead I got Anonymous, a guy (or girl) who apparently subscribes to a number of academic journals that I don't receive. With scientific fact on his side, Anonymous has earned the right to call me "backward caveman" which, incidentally, is my favorite sexual position.

One of my favorite things about this comment, which I clearly cherish, is that Anonymous gives himself away as a non-Muslim when he uses the phrase "u muslims". I can at least appreciate that such conviction is coming from a spectator. I guess Islam has a lot of great fans, even if the team hasn't won a championship in centuries.

And finally, someone connected my band to my blog! If you don't know yet, yes I'm in a band with another Pakistani guy and we both where cowboy gear while we belt out infectious yet simple punk-country riffs for audiences of all ages. We're called Sunny Ali & the Kid, as noted by anonymous (thanks dude :). I agree that we're "aload of shit" but calling our music "awful country" is just not fair. Have you heard what pop country sounds like today? That's awful. Besides, why would I trust a British guy's taste in an American artform? You don't see me over there in the UK telling your food how to suck and your women how to be ugly.

Jokes aside, I respect Anonymous' opinion as I would anyone else's. I just ask that if you're going to insult me, please do me the courtesy of making it funny. I promise to return the favor.

Denny's Lumberjack Slam

2010-03-31T18:16:00.000-07:00

Bands end up at Denny's. It's not always favorable, but it is inevitable. Since my high school days of photocopying fliers in the library, bumming rides to Guitar Center, and coming up with awfully clever song titles, nights have ended at the only 24 hour spot that welcomes this type of riff raff.

Sunny Ali and myself (the Kid) found ourselves in a Denny's in Alexandria VA at 3am with the Kominas and Omar Waqar of Sarmust. We were waiting for a call from punk legend Jello Biafra that would later lead us to a late night meeting in the lobby of the Silver Spring Crown Plaza where he questioned and advised us on the burgeoning scene dubbed Taqwacore at its inception.

But anyhow, back to the breakfast. I was never able to get a Grand Slam before and would always end up watching one from behind my short stack across the table. In an attempt to bridge my former favorite with this new Adventure, I got the Lumberjack Slam; a short stack, hashbrowns, two eggs, bacon, little sausages, a hunk of ham and some toast. The eggs and toast ended up being a charitable donation to Basim Usmani. The porcine components, I kept for myself...and enjoyed thoroughly.

Maybe it was my road nourished appetite, but I thoroughly enjoyed a full strip of bacon for the first time. Through this Adventure, I learned this about myself: I don't like it crispy! The greasy strips were positively floppy and for the first time it was perfect, although it wasn't the highlight. It finally made sense to me pork is such a major part of the American breakfast. Beef and chicken are hardly agreeable morning meats, but ham fits in perfectly somehow. The slightly rubbery texture contrasts with the softness of hashbrowns and eggs. Add in the rest of the pork elements and what you have before you is an amusement park of a meal. The ferris wheel is the glass of orange juice to my left.

Regarding the sausage: I'd like to conduct a blind taste test of beef and pork breakfast sausages. I was unable to identify any differences. This was a first. I was happy to note this parallel before thinking again and wondering if I've been buying the wrong Brown and Serve all these years.

Lilly's 'That Bacon One'

2010-03-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

Though I might not share it, I understand the affinity for bacon. I understand what it means to add it to anything, and I understand why people think it's delicious. I don't, however, understand what makes it an obsession. What allows bacon to become the centerpiece of so many experimental dishes?

As I continue the Adventures, I find less and less evidence of any actual substance to America's love affair with bacon. I'm leaning more toward believing that it's almost a rite of passage. What kind of American doesn't love bacon? Or football? Or the soggy smell of badly made light beer? Being an American who did most of his growing up outside the US, these are all things that I was more or less required to get used to in order to downplay my FOB status (look it up if you don't know).

It reminds me of something the Japanese swear is delicious but is notably not: nattō. This stuff looks and tastes like baked beans suspended in camel snot, and every Japanese person you meet swears it's delicious. If you ask me, it's the only Japanese food that will never blow up. Sushi may have gone Hollywood, but nattō will be Japanese and Japanese only forever.

Not that I'm saying bacon tastes like crap. It's good, just not great, and because I was never indoctrinated, that's the most objective perspective you'll ever hear.

So, while in Cleveland, I was told of a pastry shop that incorporated bacon into their cupcakes. This spoke volumes to me about the novelty value of bacon, and I had to try it, if only to debunk its appeal. When this pastry prospect came up, I was surrounded by Taqwacore bands, as well as the director of the film we were here to perform in conjunction with. Needless to say, we were rolling mad deep. We arrived only to find that they no longer carried the porcine confection. I was afraid that this trip out would end without fulfilling a peripheral endeavor. Luckily, the cupcake folk told us of a chocolate shop right down the street that had bacon truffles.

We caravan-ed down there, myself at the helm, moving with the quickness and trying to get this excursion over with. And there it was: 'That Bacon One'. I got two of them, exchanged a few pleasantries with the cashier, who must've been a little freaked out by the entourage I was traveling with, and bit into the first one. Some chocolate, some sweet yellow goo, no bacon. I popped the second half into my mouth as the lady behind the counter explained that in the center of this chocolate was a tiny piece of bacon and that the substances encasing it were meant to bring out the smokey flavor. It was a nuanced, balanced, and delicious chocolate, but the only evidence of bacon was the momentary crunchiness that disintegrated a moment after it was discovered. Nothing really bacon happened at all. I ate the other one, thanked the folks at Lilly's, and headed out.

The next thing I ate stuck in my memory a little more. I got 3 up from this place. Beef franks, making it not an Adventure, but amazing.

The Cleve

2010-03-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a couple of days off of pork writing to be in Cleveland. My band, Sunny Ali & the Kid, is playing at the Cleveland International Film Festival with our friends the Kominas, who did the soundtrack for a film playing here.

While this trip is keeping me from diligently maintaining the Adventures as I usually do, I'm allowing it for the love of something I cherish more than food experimentation; playing music. I hope you'll forgive me just this once. I will be back in Philly and snacking in a couple of days.

Los Taquitos de Puebla's Chorizo Tacos

2010-03-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up in Thailand, my mom had to struggle to get us packaged American food. Though I was rather unfamiliar, having left the US shortly after my birth, my brother had all the unhealthy hankerings of an American kid. Because of its scarcity, our encounters with such items became a welcome treat, and my mom found herself making more trips to the incredibly overpriced supermarket for expatriates on Sukhumvit.

The items she trekked into the city for were as basic as bread and milk (neither of which were an integral part of the Thai diet at the time), and as novel as canned peaches, apple juice, and Oreos. In her quest to inspire an appetite in her two skinny, gangly sons, she brought home something she had loved in the US: Tacos. We treated that family pack of Old El Paso taco fixings like a regular trip to Pizza Hut (in Thailand, Pizza Hut is an actual restaurant and not simply a purveyor of circular garbage like it is in the US). Of course, the good folks at Old El Paso led us to believe that hard shell tacos were authentically Mexican. It wasn't until I came to the US, and even then not until I ventured past Taco Bell, that I discovered what a real Mexican taco was like...and I was disappointed.

Something about the authentic soft shell taco didn't give me the same satisfaction as the build-your-own hard shell experience my mom had created for us. As I experienced more and more authentic Mexican food, I found that it used some of the same spices found in Thai cuisine (cilantro, hot peppers, etc) but in far less appealing series of homogeneous preparations. Never did the suggestion of Mexican food meet an exuberantly positive reaction from my taste.

When I discovered the wonders of Philly's Italian Market years later, I found that there was a growing presence (albeit not a welcome one in the perspective of the entrenched Italians) of Mexican establishments. It was the first time I'd seen a Mexican diaspora with a concentration of restaurants, and I damned my previous notions regarding the cuisine and started anew.

La Lupe was my early favorite, although inconsistency in food quality (particularly the sometimes perfectly mushy and sometimes impossibly dry plantains), increasingly shitty service and price increases on the menu led me to abandon this standby for Veracruzana just up the street. Gradually, I found myself tiring once again of the various forms of tortilla-meat-beans.

It was a small squad of unusually boisterous attorneys that urged me to venture into the wonders of Mexican pork at a newer joint on 9th street called Pueblas, or 'Black Awning Joint' for ease of reference. My old friends (and likely my future legal council) Tony, Niev, and Jon noted that my blog was lacking in the true Mexican dish of chorizo tacos. On a beautiful day in South Philadelphia, I set out to fill the void.

I walked into an empty Pueblas and ordered from a menu filled with animal parts. I ordered the chorizo tacos with a side order of scallions. Waiting in the tiny orange table area, I perused the photography on the walls, pictures from Mexico and of Mexicans in Philadelphia, dressed in indigenous garb, celebrating, parading, cooking in kitchens, sitting on stoops, gathering, laughing, and before I got to the end of the series, my food was ready. To my order, I added two little glass bottles of Coke (unfortunately the American variety sweetened with high fructose corn syrup and not sugar). With the spoils of my journey in hand, I scampered home.

The tacos were very basic, the diced and cooked chorizo laid out on top of three overlapping taco tortillas with a single fried scallion to top it off. My side order revealed a dozen more of these green onions. I squeezed the limes provided over everything and began. The first bite revealed a texture not unlike ground beef, but far chewier and more pleasing. The slightly rubbery portions of the chopped sausage mingled with a purely meaty texture to completely eclipse the tortilla, which was simply a vessel for the filling. The combination between the inherent saltiness of the sausage, the added peppery hotness and the tartness of lime completely zapped any potentially off-putting pork flavors. Once again, dry sausage made it happen. Chorizo beat the crap out of most beef tacos I've had (although I'm still partial to beef tongue tacos).

As I ate, I periodically bit into a scallion. It's preparation left it crunchy in all its layers, making it one of the most pleasing cooked vegetables I've had the pleasure of biting into. My teeth cutting through each layer as I bit down and the explosion of sour-salty flavor that followed is a sensation that could, on its own, bring me back to Pueblas on a regular basis.

I was finally satisfied to have tried some real Mexican, and this category of food has risen out of obscurity in my mind. I'm excited about the prospect of all the great Latin American traditions of pork. I'll have to trek out to the Barrio soon.

Fado's Irish Breakfast - Happy St. Patty's Day!

2010-03-16T22:04:00.000-07:00

Tom told me I was missing out, but it didn't look like it from where I was sitting. In a little restaurant just off the main drag of the Temple Bar district in Dublin, I watched his hangover woes disappear from across the table. He braced himself for the joyous meal and began prodding the tray of oddities laid out in front of him. Meanwhile, the old Irish man serving us brought me my meatless breakfast, little more than eggs and toast. Tom looked up momentarily and, with a mouth full of what appeared to be both black and white pudding, let out a cackle that pierced my whiskey smashed ears. I weakly lashed out by telling him that his breakfast looked like eight different kinds of animal shit laid out on a lunch tray. As always, he returned with a quip that left me stutter-laughing, and continued devouring the least appetizing pork dish I've ever seen.

If you remember from earlier posts, this is the same Tom that I was with in Rome, the one that fed me that first sinful bite. In the summer of 2007, we clobbered our way through five European cities, beginning and ending in Dublin. He influenced my pork eating with a two pronged attack; inflating my temptation, and ridiculing my falterings. Needless to say, it worked and Tom hasn't made any statements of encouragement since, at least in regards to my eating pork. That is, until two days ago when he reminded me of the upcoming Irish holiday and the breakfast that complements it.

I'm not sure where to go for Irish food. Edibles hardly seem to be the focus of most Irish establishments in the city. I decided on Fado downtown for its proximity to Brian's house. We both got the same thing; a full Irish breakfast; two eggs, two bangers, black and white pudding, ham, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, toast, and a triangular piece of drywall I was told was a potato pancake of some kind. And of course, no breakfast is complete without alcohol. We ordered pints of Guinness to wash it all down.

I went at the puddings first. Tom had mentioned that these were his favorite components, and I was curious to feel out something called 'pudding' that appeared completely solid. I started with the black, tinted enough by the pig's blood in it to make it a little intimidation. The texture, and even the flavor to some degree, reminded me of falafel: a crispy outer layer concealing a soft interior, each layer as grainy as the preparation allows them to be. The white was about same, only with a touch less of the hard textures in the black.

I moved on to the bangers. Brian said that these were cooked just how he liked them. They were nearly burnt to a crisp on the outside, the insides remaining positively gooey. Though it was salty and good, the consistency of the inside was a bit too reminiscent of the various types of meat-waste used to make it.

The ham was ham and didn't make an impression on me on its way down. Perhaps I've reached a point with iconic pork meats such as ham in which consumption doesn't phase me. I recognized that this particular part of the Irish breakfast was to me and would hold no surprises, making it easy to eat without much thought.

Though I was never enticed by the Irish breakfast, it's something that I can now cross off the list. It had to be done for this day, a day celebrating a Haram that so many Muslim's my age breach without hesitance. Interestingly, I won't be doing any drinking today. Lately, alcohol has been making me tired, and it's the middle of the week for Pete's sake! Other Haram's will continue as usual.

Han Dynasty's Pork Belly in Garlic Sauce

2010-03-12T15:55:00.000-08:00

When I was in Tokyo for my semester abroad in 2005, I chose Seoul as my destination for the only trip I took outside Japan when I had the chance. Though I have no regrets about that decision, I really wish I'd made it to China. Friends of mine, a pack of architects (including recurring Adventures in Pork character Brian O'Keefe), returned from their trip to Shanghai and Beijing with tales of what actual Chinese food was like; in short, the noble origins of the bastardized, MSG infused concoctions of the yellow signs. I decided then that if I ever got a chance to make the trip, I would make it a food trip...well, I guess every trip I make is at least partially a food trip.

There's no Chinese culinary tradition as celebrated for its diversity as Szechuan cuisine. When Brian and Justin mentioned Han Dynasty in Old City, they were quick to note its lack of similarity to standard Chinese food. This is an important distinction in Philadelphia. Indeed, even what you find in Chinatown may be apt to have Dutch Masters sold alongside. It was raining like hell when Brian, Justin, Rachel, and myself walked into Han Dynasty.

The layout of the menu jumped out at me immediately. Each dish listed meat options to combine with the preparation; chicken, beef, pork, shrimp. We went with a couple of chicken dishes and a plate of pork with long hots, but what really made an impression on me was pork belly the likes of which I had never tried.

While many Chinese curries have put me off in the past with excessive greasiness, these slices of uncured belly piled in a hot, oily garlic sauce was nothing by pleasing. Utilizing my chopstick skills, I used each slice to wrap a bit of rice and a small piece of cucumber also swimming in the hot oil. The pork smell that so often repulses me was present, but in a manageable amount. What I mostly tasted was the garlic sauce, which was soaked into every little slice. The other pork dish, prepared with long hots, was there and did its thing, but in the end the pork belly stole the show.

I have to note that just after the pork belly appetizer showed up, our friend Hal walked in to Han with the most ridiculous mustache I've ever seen. Laughing my ass off and enjoying pork belly at the same time was a combination of pleasures so good it should be illegal. Hal, if you read this, please send me a picture. The world needs to see.

Another notable memory from this meal not soon to be forgotten was an encounter with a deadly spice. At one point Brian paused and said he'd bitten into something that made his mouth go cold and prevented him from eating for a solid three minutes (not an easy feat). The culprit was finally isolated and Justin passed me an innocent looking little pod and told me to taste it. What tasted familiar at first quickly became a bombardment of my taste buds that was in no way pleasant. Drinking cold water only made it worse, as the Novocaine sensation spread over my tongue. We asked the owner who told us this was the infamous Szechuan peppercorn. Go to Han, but look out for these little bastards while you're there.

Herr's Pork Rinds

2010-03-11T09:13:00.000-08:00

In the world of packaged meat snacks, pork is the lowest common denominator. You won't find chicken, beef, or fish snacks in the chip aisle. You will, however, come across something as synonymous with sports spectating as it is with minor heart palpitations: pork rinds.

I was celebrating my article getting into the Philly Weekly by collecting issues of my best clip yet with Brian and Justin. As we walked toward Reyes Grocery on 22nd, both my compadres came out with the same recommendation. They were right, I'd never tried pork rinds. I was skeptical as to whether there was any actual meat in a back of pork rinds. The list of ingredients snubbed my lack of belief with a succinct ingredients list: Pork rinds, salt.

That was it. The simple formula for a cheap and tasty snack. It amazed me that something composed of animal parts could cost the same or less than any number of items containing only potatoes. Says something about the value of a pig.

When we got back to Justin's crib, his cats immediately knew what was up. They gravitated toward the bag of pork rinds like it was a decaying bird carcass (the only thing they like more than balls of yarn). Dodging their attempts at snatching the contents, I opened up the bag and pulled out a bulbous, yellow, impossibly light cloud of pig flake and stuffed it into my mouth. After a chew or two, the mass flaked into the flavor of pure grease and salt. It actually tasted pretty damn good.

The three of us finished the bag while discussing its contents. Brian warned that, though they were tasty and easy to scarf down, eating a whole bag would leave you feeling like you're having a heart attack. I noted this after I'd eaten a number of rinds; a slight nausea, similar to what I feel after eating a really greasy samosa. This sensation raised the question as to why they sell such an item in enormous bag sizes at certain stores. Of course, that question ignores the American affinity for general unhealthiness.

Nevertheless, I won't shy away from a pork rind or two next time they're in front of me. Though if I find myself in the chip aisle anytime soon, I'll be inclined to pick up a snack with a little less after burn.

The Paper

2010-03-10T07:29:00.001-08:00

By sheer luck, the Philly Weekly is doing an issue about pork this week, and what better way of introducing the mutant king of meats than with a guy who's just discovering it.

The article

Grab a copy from the yellow box if you're in Philly.

Thanks PW!

For anyone new to the blog, I'd recommend reading the very first post and then checking out the more recent food posts. I'm currently eating a bag of pork rinds. You'll be hearing more about them soon.

Extracurricular Activities

2010-03-08T17:24:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, I do a handful of things other than eating pork and writing about eating pork. One of those things is playing the drums, which I have loved doing since I was ten. Most recently I've made a friend, he's a cowboy, who plays the guitar and sings while I play the drums. Someone decided it would be a spectacle to see this two man show on stage before a few other acts, and now it's happening.

We're playing at the Ox (2nd and Oxford) in Philadelphia this Thursday, March 11th.

We're called Sunny Ali & the Kid. I'm the Kid.

myspace.com/moshallah

recent interview

Pork Roll at Teri's

2010-03-08T08:36:00.000-08:00

Three years of high school in North Jersey, and I have almost no memories of food. The peaceful homogeneity of Morris County brought nothing of interest to the table, usually one at a diner under Greek ownership. Or perhaps food is the last thing on the mind of an emaciated 16 year old with blue hair.

Of the things that didn't make a blip on my radar, there is one that is a New Jersey point of pride. Taylor Ham was introduced to the world by a Trenton gentleman named John Taylor, credit to whom is omitted as soon as you cross a bridge. In Philadelphia, this creation is called pork roll. After trying it, I've simplified it further by calling it 'slice of giant hot dog'.

Seriously, what is the fuss about? I'd describe it further, but if you've had a hot dog, then you know. And if you haven't, health organizations would likely suggest that you continue the trend.

Don't get me wrong, I love hot dogs. Believe or not, I've spent a little time working long shifts behind the counter at a 7-11 (yeah, that's right), and those slowly rotating grease tubes were my fuel. But I'm not into incorporating a giant form of this disgusting staple into my breakfast. New Jersey, you can have it.

Also, I wouldn't mind if Teri's refunded the hour and a half of my life I spent waiting for a mediocre breakfast.

Paesano's Arista

2010-03-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

I gave roast pork another shot, and this time I went with the gourmet options. Yes sir, no more street side joints built for post-Phillies game munchies for me. Upon a number of recommendations, I hit up the new Paesano's at 9th and Christian. Of the many delicious-sounding sandwiches on their chalkboard menu, there was one that I had to try for the sake of the Adventures.

The Arista is a roll filled with roast pork cut off of a suckling pig (that I imagine they're hiding in the back somewhere), broccoli rabe of a higher quality than the mushy, diced affair at most joints, and the sharpest of sharp provolone. It looked amazing, and it's smell enticed Brian and Leah from across the table. I, on the other hand, was a little freaked out.

There it was again, that smell that only I can smell. Turns out it wasn't just Tony Luke's roast pork that I'm averse to. The odor of slightly rotted beef pierced through the strong scent of the cheese. I was hungry enough to ignore it and plunge in with a big bite. I immediately made a noise of disgust that caught Brian and Leah by surprise. "You don't like it?!"

They couldn't believe that I wasn't into this sandwich that they both love so much. I ran through my boilerplate explanation: I'm sure it's not a bad sandwich, I'm just not used to this. This is something I can confirm now that a gourmet sandwich has turned me off. Everyone who knows pork swears that roast pork sandwiches are great, and that Paeano's is one of the best ones around. My aversion to it is a lot like the common dislike for lamb that Leah described as she moved in on the uneaten half of my sandwich. It's a completely subjective thing. Perhaps it has nothing to do with my anti-swine training. But then again...

When a friend of a friend named Kate recommended Paesano's, she specifically mentioned that they had a 'whole suckling pig' sandwich. Being unfamiliar with the exact definition of the term, my imagination ran wild. What I essentially pictured was a whole piglet, deboned, and laid out on a hoagie roll. At once I felt disgusted that I was definitely going to eat this thing, and a little excited that...I was definitely going to eat this thing. The reality was a little less graphic, but it beat me out anyway. Perhaps a little of that gruesome image was with me, egging on my defeat.

I will return to Paesano's, but only to try the amazing sandwich creations on their menu that don't involve pork.

Adventures in Raw

2010-03-03T18:39:00.000-08:00

That's not pork.

Justin got back into town from Alabama today. He'd had a rough excursion and arrived in Philadelphia to some bad news about his job situation. I decided that morose son of a bitch needed some company and we headed to Dahlak for dinner.

Yup, Ethiopian. I know you're thinking "there's no Ethiopian pork dishes". Well, you're thinking right. There's nothing on Dahlak's menu that I have negative emotions toward. On the contrary, it's got one of my favorite things.

Raw beef always looked delicious to me, but it wasn't something my mom would ever have let me try as a kid. When I came across a Vietnamese style carpaccio at one of the places down on Washington Ave, I went nuts for it. The chewy slices of raw beef wrapped around a wad of basil, fried garlic, and crushed peanuts, smothered in lemon juice became a staple on my pho eat outs and pick ups. This got me started, trying every raw beef dish I came across. Of course, you don't often see rawness on your average menu. Perhaps restauranteurs don't want to take a needless risk. Thankfully, the folks at Dahlak have no fear.

Ketfo (sometimes spelled 'kitfo') is shredded up beef seasoned with spice infused butter which gives it a nutty taste that goes perfectly with its gooey texture wrapped in spongy injera. The sheer volume of a full serving at Dahlak will leave the inexperienced adventurer positively tripping. I get it every time i eat there.

Once we'd ordered, Justin said something that intrigued me. He said he couldn't really handle raw beef dishes. It wasn't the taste, it was the thought of what he was eating. All his life, his parents had told him that eating raw meat will make you sick. He feels about raw beef how I feel about pork.

I realized that I too had always been told not to eat raw meat, and yet eating it for the first time didn't phase me at all. I didn't think about what I was eating too much, or picture the animal in my head like I do with pork. Considering that eating raw beef is likely more risky than eating pork health wise, it's amazing how much stronger my aversion to pork is.

Now I eat both. Look at that.

Picanha's Grilled Sausage and Chicken Wrapped in Bacon

2010-03-01T14:04:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned that I'm not crazy about Mexican food, and my mind allowed this preference to infect my views on other Latin American food, none of which I ever find very interesting. I noted my ignorance when I went to my first rodizio in Harajuku, an intentionally funky neighborhood in Tokyo. I had heard of this style of restaurant from my brother, who once marveled at the experience of eating something impaled by a sword. Simple seasoning, preparation, and presentation yielded an unusually engaging meal that seemed never ending. While I was quite taken with the chicken hearts and picanha, I naturally avoided the sausage and chicken wrapped in bacon. I concluded that the best stuff was within my range of edibility, and therefore wasn't bothered by what I missed.

It was one of those good things that I didn't expect to find in abundance at home, and when I returned to Philadelphia, I became mired in the pho scene, leaving my Brazilian love affair to simmer. It wasn't until three years later that I was taking over the job of a Brazilian woman who, while training me, uncovered my adoration for her country's food. She recommended the place in Philadelphia's Brazilian neighborhood that all the actual Brazilians went to. I was amazed that I had lived in Philly for years without knowledge of this alleged neighborhood until she mentioned that it was in Northeast Philly, which may as well have been a different country, as far as my experience with it went.

I did a little research and found that, unless I wanted to pay a hundred dollars a plate at one of the places downtown, the closest place to get sword meat was the place recommended by my coworker. My mom and I ventured up 95 to get lunch at Picanha, named for the beef rump that so many claim as their favorite. We went with the $20 all-you-can-eat option and stuffed ourselves as our waiter continued to shave slices of meat off of a sword and onto our plates. A new experience that first time was the salad bar. I had never had South American food so different from the Mexican standards that litter Philadelphia. Lots of fresh vegetables minced into salads, potato and rice dishes, stewed meats, and a distinct tasting fish casserole complemented the array of meats. It was at Picanha that I learned the magic of hearts of palm.

Picanha, the cut and the restaurant, quickly became a favorite of ours, though its distance from our house certainly limited our motivation to head all the way up there. In early 2009, my mom planned a trip for us to visit my uncles in Rio de Janeiro. We knew we had to practice, and we suddenly had a great reason to increase our Picanha frequency. When we arrived in Brazil, we told our hosts of our feelings about Brazilian food, and our requests were indulged by our gracious hosts, leaving us overfed and sleepy in the aftermath.

Returning to Philadelphia, my mom and I had clearly killed the novelty. Even with plenty of time to kill, we wouldn't bother to make the drive to Picanha. Visits on my own dwindled to about four in the past year, and those few times only to show friends one of the best meat places in a city fraught with barbecue joints. On our way back from Guitar Center on the lazy Sunday that led to this week, Joe, Hassan, and I decided to shoot up the highway and stop in for some sword.

This was the first time I'd entered Picanha since my meat openness policy took effect, and I knew exactly which offerings I needed to try: chicken wrapped in bacon, and sausage. I grabbed a piece of picanha too, for old times sake. The meat was laid over a bed of veggies, rice, beets, and the most magical greens in the world. The guys, new to churrascaria, loved the idea. We sat at a booth, our plates piled high, as a beautiful girl came over to take our drink orders. Our table's focus suddenly shifted when we deduced that she was flirting with one of us. But who? For the moment, the mystery was less captivating than our food, and we began to chow down. Joey noted a short while later that our waitress was doing some 'deliberately close sweeping', reviving the conversation surrounding her. The volume of food with the waitress interaction thrown into the mix proved to be an overwhelming amount of stimulation. After exhausting the scenario of its comedic value, we made our way home, full and happy.

Neither the sausage nor the chicken wrapped in bacon beat any of the beef offerings. The small sausage links were overly salty to tongue not used to it. Grilling sausage often stiffens the casing and leaves the inside as soft as a hot dog, which I didn't find very pleasant. Between the texture and the saltiness, I decided once was enough.

The chicken wrapped in bacon was, after all, mostly chicken. After being grilled, the bacon had formed a partial shell around the chicken that I would have been inclined to peel off before a second serving. None of the crunchy/chewy goodness of breakfast bacon was present here. Once again, the bacon didn't do it for me.

As always, the beef was perfectly seasoned and grilled to retain its moisture. It was as good a picanha as I'd ever had and led to a personal resolution to make it up there more often. Just not for the pork.

Miga's Sliced Pork Lunch Special

2010-02-24T10:36:00.000-08:00

The lunch special is never as special as the house specialty. When Brian and Justin suggested lunch, I suggested Miga, the newish Korean BBQ place on 15th.

Five years ago, I went to Seoul, which used its varied street food, hot pots, and barbecue to win a spot on my list of great food cities (don't worry Bangkok, you're still at the top). Since then, I haven't been to a proper, authentic Korean BBQ in Philly. While my love for the International House of Smokeless Barbecue will never wane, it's just not the real thing.

Our path to my most memorable meal in Seoul began in a large subway station. We had spent the last four months with the ultra efficient Tokyo transit system and found ourselves the target of much pushing, shoving, and negative vibes in the Korean metropolis. My friend Pierre vented his frustration with some audible questions about the normalcy of our surroundings, prompting one Korean man to stop in his tracks, turn to us and say in perfect English, "You don't like it? Leave!"

What was sure to turn into a scuffle in the eyes of any Philadelphian ended up being a guided tour of Seoul's nightlife, as Pierre and our Korean-American friend made amends and even found some commonality. Of the countless establishments we entered and left, I can now grasp a few through a blurry veneer of years old intoxication. Being me, the one that sticks in my mind most was a tiny, white tiled, bare walled barbecue joint with only three or four tables. Each one had the round grill, that you would find embedded into the table of a slightly classier place, simply laying on its surface surrounded by enigmatic condiments. The proprietor, an old woman, immediately filled the space before us with countless side dishes and plates of raw meat. Our host began emptying these contents onto the grill. The procedure was as follows: grill the meat, some kimchi, and a raw clove of garlic, wrap it up in a leaf if lettuce, eat the whole thing in one bite, and take a shot of soju, sweet Korean vodka. I found it to be true that some of the best meals in life leave you wasted in their wake.

And yet I hadn't even tried the bacon. Those thick, squared off slabs of flesh, cartoonishly striped with fat, sizzling on a griddle, were out of the question, even in my inebriated state. Since then I haven't had the chance to redeem the omission. In for a quick lunch and without the gratuitous time to sit and stuff our faces, yesterday's trip to Miga left this unchanged.

Of the various compartments of my lunch box, there was nothing of note; a few pieces of sushi, some glass noodles, a little salad, etc. The main event, marinated slices of an unspecified cut of pork, presented an issue that previous experiences with Korean beef have presented. Deposits of fat that were at once rubbery and gooey lined each piece of meat. I understand that certain cultures value textured meat, even if that is something that a classic American eater would call a sinewy or overly fatty cut. One may order what appears to be chicken nuggets at a Japanese restaurant and end up with deep fried cartilage. When it comes to these types of texture, I have my limits, and they were reached with Miga's lunch special. Brian inhaled what I couldn't finish.

I'll have to return to Miga for the Korean BBQ some time soon. There was a picture of raw pork belly in their window and it enticed me.

Pho Hoa's Roast Pork and Wonton Egg Noodle Soup

2010-02-22T11:23:00.000-08:00

Brian is the real adventurer. A man with a complete lack of culinary hesitance and a bottomless pit for a stomach, my friend from White Plains inspires me on a regular basis.

Brian and I have had lunch together through a million combinations of circumstances. When we met during our semester abroad in Tokyo, there was lunch, and much awe-inspired conversation. When we returned home, finished college, and both got jobs downtown, there was lunch and bitching about coworkers and bosses. When first one, then the other lost those jobs, there was bitching about unemployment. And as we piece our respective careers back together, Brian, my lunchtime confidant, is on the phone; "Tryin' to get some noodles maaaaan!?"

The bulk of our meals together involved pho. My regularity mirrored that of a senior citizen and his early bird special, as did Brian's until he began navigating the nether regions of the extensive and typo-fraught Vietnamese menu pages. He uncovered Bun Bo Hue, a hot and sour beef noodle soup that would be mainstream viable were there a mind thinking to angle it. Later, Brian went for an egg noodle, roast pork, and wonton dish that won him over. Though his fickle ordering face indicates that this new dish hasn't knocked pho off the top of the list as yet, it had noodles, pork, and Brian's seal of approval. I had to try it.

At Pho Hoa with Joey and Hassan, I went for it. Egg noodles have a very different texture from the rice noodles I swear by. They are slightly more rigid, which causes them to hold their curls even after being boiled. They separate from each other with a bit more ease, making it easier to pile your spoon Thai style. I recall a phase during my childhood in Thailand in which I got egg noodles from my school's cafeteria, but since then I tend to choose the rice noodles.

Another difference is that Chinese style noodle soups are complemented by soy sauce and red vinegar, as opposed to the fish sauce/lime combination. This sends the noodle experience into a new direction, the contrast between salty and sour being far sharper in the soy/vinegar combo. There's something simpler and less delicate about this Chinese variation.

These noodles contained something ever present in Thai noodle soups that I always missed in Vietnamese versions. Fried garlic should never be underestimated, even in its overly dry prepackaged form. When making Thai kuay teow at home, I prefer to fry the garlic myself, which is slightly time consuming but yields a garlic infused oil that cannot be substituted for. It is my favorite preparation of one of the most delightful things in the world, garlic.

There is one more item of note that was in play in the bowl before me. Chinese broccoli, or gailan, stalks are amazing in noodles when peeled and boiled properly. This is something else that is in a lot of Thai and Chinese noodle soups, but rarely in a Vietnamese one. By the way, if you ever want to buy this stuff from the Asian market to cook at home, be advised that it has several dopplegangers that don't taste quite as wonderful.

It looked good, steaming there in front of me. The clear yellowish broth was colored in by the Sriracha, red vinegar, and soy sauce. The wontons were making their presence quite apparent while I had to dig a little to find the bits of pork. Buried beneath the noodles, I found a stash of cubes. Pink on the edges, but for the most part gray, these bits of roast pork looked absolutely repulsive. I have come to notice that roast pork often retains its pinkness, even after thorough cooking, and this was an example for the books. The simultaneous appearance gray and pink raise some ambiguity as to whether the meat is severely overcooked or dangerously undercooked. Despite this, a spoonful or yellow noodles and gailan topped with one of these chunks was delicious. The meat was salty and soft, falling in nicely between the gailan's slight crunchiness and the gentle stiffness of the egg noodles. The wontons were a nice familiar addition, though I would have traded them for more actual meat.

While I'm likely to love any culture's entry to the world of noodle soups, quite likely my favorite type of food, nothing will ever compare to the rendition I associate with home, warmth, comfort, and the utmost care: my mom's Thai kuay teow with homemade ground chicken meatballs (chicken, fishsauce, and pepper), peeled gailan stems, and home fried garlic. Absolutely nothing.

The Quick and the Halal

2010-02-19T13:27:00.000-08:00

I already told you, I won't do fast food in Philadelphia. I don't count Crown Fried Chicken as fast food.

North Philly was an exciting place to move to, and a daunting one at the age of 18. Suddenly in the island nation of Temple University, surrounded by a sea of resentful hostility, a newly christened adult searches for pieces of home. This is where my lifelong detachment from the 'community' did me no good. I had plenty of white friends, a rag tag grab bag of crackers I was lucky to have on my floor, but my track suit and pseudo-afro didn't match the popped collars and hair gel of the browns in business school with me. My mom's sheltering me from the double-talk world of desi socializing had left me without the tools to find that kind of home at college. I didn't bother trying, and not trying didn't bother me.

At some point I ventured into the now closed Crown at 13th and Girard. The man behind the counter bore the immediately recognizable tint that was my uncle, my cousin, my grandma's driver, a shopkeeper at Jinnah Market, the one leading namaz, staring back at what he pegged to be a Puerto Rican kid in a Puma jacket. I opened my mouth and squeezed out a crumbling Urdu introduction, and he lit up. We carried my most pleasant Philadelphia conversation to that date and he gave me a free side. It was enough to bring me back regularly.

On subsequent visits, I learned that my friend was a Pakistani working for an Afghani family, and that most of the Crowns in the city were owned by Middle Eastern Muslims and only served halal food. I'd never bothered to stay halal before, and it felt somehow right just to have something halal once in a while. I'd walk in and relief would wash over his face. I was the break in the string of intentionally obnoxious hoodrats that comprise Crown's customer base. Sooner than later, my friends were accompanying me to this very Crown, and they hit it up on their own, and we hit up other Crowns in the city. It became a standard meal in a time past mom's cooking and cafeteria plans.

Years later, I mentioned to a Crown loving buddy of mine that what he was consuming was, in fact, halal. As my eyes were fixed on his chewing profile, he continued staring at the TV and allowed a 'hm' of acknowledgment. He absolutely did not give a shit, and neither did I.

Perhaps that's America for you. Muslims in America tread pretty softly compared to other minorities, but it seems that every step taken by the Islamic minority in France is amplified exponentially. Following the decision of some Quick fast food joints to offer a fully halal menu, the French government is up in arms and calling discrimination. People are losing their minds because they feel like their fast food options are being taken over, the menu contents altered forever into an array of edibles sanctioned by a religion that isn't theirs, not realizing that they wouldn't be able to taste more god in one than another in a blind taste test.

For a country that eats goose organs, it seems a little prude. Maybe France should step out a little.

"I don't eat ___ because it's ___"

That's exactly what I said, and look at me now.

Pico de Gallo's Sweet Plantain, Roasted Pork, and Black Bean Burrito

2010-02-16T17:54:00.000-08:00

Again with the snow. Boots take forever to put on, and dry winter weather is summer compared to the burning, frost-embedded air after a storm. I took the now familiar trek to Joey's, finally with some sidewalk to cruise. Even after consecutive hard lessons, Philly didn't take the hint. The city's south, in it's inherent lawlessness, was left to fend for itself.

Joey, Hassan, and I made our way to Pico de Gallo at 15th and South. Mexican has never been my first choice, which is perhaps why none of its pork incarnations have yet found their way into my stomach, my heart and subsequently onto this blog. At this tiny little place, run by a gentleman who appeared suspiciously non-Mexican, there was something unusual on the menu: a roast pork, black bean, and sweet plantain burrito.

I love sweet plantains. I once frequented La Lupe for this favorite, but that eatery's nosedive in quality and service over the past year or two cast me into the other Mexican joints of 9th street, surprisingly lacking in plantains.

The order arrived, its contents concealed by soft, delicate tortilla which nearly resembled the texture of Japanese buns (which I enjoyed thoroughly in my travels there). I cleaved the capsule open, spilling out stringy, shredded chunks of stewy roast pork, a black froth of beans, and a few quartered plantains. The first bite, all the elements included, was a near perfect balance of sweet, salty, and bland; mushy, chewy, and down right gruel. Taking more bites progressively deconstructed the burrito, resulting in a thick soup of ingredients. The meal was consumed far faster than it was prepared.

Again, I fooled myself into believing that roast pork was goat. It was facilitated by the appeal of dinner with dessert inserted directly into it. While it delivered on the promise of its menu description, little about it truly wowed me to the point of shifting Mexican to the head of my crave list.

J&J's Sausage Pizza

2010-02-13T10:05:00.000-08:00

My living arrangement is slightly odd. I occupy an autonomous apartment on the second floor of a house, which I share with a guy named Greg whose room is upstairs, but whose kitchen and bathroom are on the ground floor. All we share, aside from supporting the same sports teams, is a hallway. We get along just fine, but never really hung out until Greg started getting Netflix movies that appealed to us both. Thursday night, with a white blanket silently solidifying on Philly streets, we watched The Story of Anvil, a documentary about a failed metal band from the 80s and took advantage of the resilience of the delivery men at J&J's Pizza.

Pizza in South Philly can be pretty hit or miss. Sometimes a tried and true place will send you a downright hot circle of garbage. Granted, there are plenty of places with consistency (my personal favorite is Lorenzo's, not at 4th and South, but at 9th and Christian. The one not filled with a steady flow Jersey trash from Friday to Sunday). I'd never had J&J before, but I was in the mood for pizza, and I'd never had one with sausage on it. It arrived just in time for the movie.

I was inclined to associate sausage either with something from breakfast, or something dry and preserved. This was a new entity all together. The pizza was covered in little brown pellets, partially embedded in the cheese. They kind of looked like rabbit turds. I'd seen pizza with crumbled sausage on it, but I couldn't imagine what the starting point of this sausage looked like. The pizza looked ok.

Sure enough, the pellets crumbled further upon eating, but were not nearly as unpleasant as they looked. There was a saltiness to them that complemented the cheese as opposed to out-salting every other ingredient like pepperoni does. In terms of flavor, it wasn't too noticeably a departure from a plain pizza.

I considered that next time I get a slice in passing, maybe I'll get it with sausage. Again, I felt a preemptive guilt for eating pork unnecessarily, particularly when it wouldn't make that much of a difference in taste. However, having a plain slice will now always feel just slightly empty, considering that pepperoni is nearly always an option.

Bacon, Eggs, and French Toast at Christina & Vince's

2010-02-11T15:25:00.000-08:00

Among the records broken by Philadelphia in this new decade, the most recent was evidenced by a snowy aftermath. 60 some inches of the precipitation that sticks hindered my adventures in the past week and left me in a whiny mood. Wednesday morning brought winter's gratuity, and I was lucky to have friends close by who ceased their day off by making a big breakfast. With Gus and I as their guests, Paulito, his girlfriend Christina, and her housemate Vince had prepared an all American breakfast of French toast, cheesy scrambled eggs, and crispy strips of of my muse.

Let's cut to the chase. I skeptically eyed the bacon, the first home fried breakfast bacon of my experience. This was likely the culprit, the notoriously delicious incarnation of pork that strategically places itself at the top of the day, bringing it the love and affection of free eaters the world over. I went for it.

The first bite said it all. Though the bacon was fried to a crisp, the fat remained slightly rubbery, resulting in a coupling of texture that was unnaturally pleasurable. However, as the bacon cooled, subsequent bites revealed diminishing charm. I wasn't too into it by the time i was crumbly through and through. Nevertheless, that first bite had given me something to chew on. I got a glimpse, albeit a brief one, of the magic in everyday, run of the mill bacon.

Pho & Cafe Viet Huong's Pork Chop over Broken Rice

2010-02-08T18:54:00.000-08:00

The snow put a damper on everything. They predicted a foot and their inaccuracy ran in the direction unfavorable to the prospect of adventures...in pork, at least. With my car buried, I was forced to brave the altered landscape by foot, limiting my options for food. The entire weekend had slipped by and I hadn't eaten anything relevant to my project. Tonight, I made a stop on my way home to correct this injustice. Let me note here that I was, in no manner, craving pork. It felt more like I had homework to do.

I stopped at a pho joint, an old favorite of my mom and mine. Pho & Cafe Viet Huong, or 'Green Awning Joint', as it is named in my contacts, is your typical Vietnamese restaurant, except that this one has a waiter in its employ who acknowledges me for my repeat business. I love that peppy little bastard. He was, to my chagrin, absent when I made my take-out order. Venturing into the netherpages of the food bible this establishment calls a menu, I uncovered a pork chop dish that sounded awesome. I made a decision, claimed my prize, and scampered home.

The compartments in the styrofoam box contained the pork chop over broken rice, a fried egg, a mix of tomato, cucumber, radish pickle, carrot pickle, mustard leaf pickle, a little slice of quiche, and shredded pork. I started with the grayish pink noodle-like strands of shredded pork. I wasn't into them. The musty sourness, the disagreeable flavor that I only taste in pork, was the solitary element. Coupled with the texture of partially decayed nightcrawlers, this side dish was nothing short of abominable.

I neutralized my taste buds by consuming the egg in two bites, ate a couple of pickles, and moved on to the pork chop. The char grilled chop was, thus far, the most ambiguous pork I'd had, embodying textural elements of chicken, beef, and lamb. The seasoning had been soaked into every fiber and was lemony and delicious, in a quick meal kind of way.

This plate struck me as something between two Asian standards familiar to me; the layout reminiscent of the Japanese bento box and the aroma very close to Thai Khao Man Cai, a chicken and rice dish. The meat was simply prepared and served over rice along with a couple of side dishes, the kind of thing your mom would pack you for lunch.

The brevity of my description of the main event, the pork chop, matches its impression on me. It was tasty, but scarcely memorable. Its similarity to some Thai dishes gave it a little nostalgic value to me, which would constitute the bulk of cause for a repeat.

Interview with Sepia Mutiny

2010-02-08T13:05:00.001-08:00

Last Wednesday, I had the pleasure of meeting with Kishwer, who interviewed me for Sepia Mutiny, a blog serving America's South Asian population. The interview just went up and I'm excited to see the reaction of the people who are more likely find Adventures in Pork controversial. So far, it looks like plenty of people have broken their dietary restrictions, but I'm the first guy to make a big deal out of it.

For those of you reading Adventures in Pork for the first time, please scroll down past the last review of Wendy's Bacon Single. That was an attempt of mine to get back to the items eaten regularly by folks not averse to swine. There's more interesting stuff going back.

Thanks to Sepia Mutiny for posting the piece and thanks to Kishwer for a fun interview.

Wendy's Bacon Deluxe Single

2010-02-04T20:09:00.000-08:00

As promised, I hit the street, if Columbus Blvd counts as a street. On an errand back from Best Buy, Hassan requested a stop at Wendy's, and not the Chic Fil A obscuring it from our vantage point. I agreed, breaching my long standing policy of never eating fast food in a city, especially Philadelphia. This decision was made in the summer of 2006, when I worked at a school in the barrio at 4th and Lehigh. There was a Wendy's there that ruined Wendy's for me for at least two years, and I like Wendy's.

Of course, I've never had bacon on a burger from Wendy's. Judging by long-running advertising for the Baconator, this simple ingredient so enhances the nature of the sandwich that it occupies the forefront of its moniker simply with its presence within the buns. Since I've never seen an ad for the Pickle-nator, I can only assume that this is yet another testament to the magnitude of bacon.

Though there was no line at this Wendy's at this particular time, waiting for our surly servers to finish playfully cussing at each other was necessary before their jovial smiles turned to the indifferent droops staring blankly at us waiting for an order, allowing us just a touch of extra time to reconsider the meal decision. I was reminded of my fast food policy. I fought through it and placed my order.

With my Bacon Deluxe Single, a five piece chicken nuggets, and a coke, I took a seat opposite Hassan. The burger, unwrapped, looked the same as my usual standby. As always, I slathered the top bun with the barbecue sauce provided for my nuggets. With my sandwich reassembling with all the integral parts, I took a bite, my first bite, of an everyday favorite.

Initially, the crunch threw me off. Perhaps it was an effect of low quality, but the bacon crumbled in my mouth like lumpy soil. It was a distinct texture among the familiar elements of a Wendy's single, the only crunchy thing in the mix. The flavor remained relatively the same, perhaps slightly saltier. Though it was new and unusual, it didn't put me off, so I finished the burger with standard velocity. I could see how good bacon might enhance a sandwich, but what I had couldn't have been what caused the hype. The experience won't change my recurring order of a bacon free burger on my next highway rest stop.

The fact that there was so little pork involved, and some doubt that anything in the sandwich came from animals or plants, left me feeling pretty guilt free. The crack decision to turn this quick stab and grab for food into an adventure paid off by balancing out some of the fancier stuff I've had lately, and what I had here wasn't nearly as pork-y, psychologically speaking. Unless there is some other kind of pork fast food that I need to try, I think I've seen enough.

Bindi's Pork Cheek Vindaloo

2010-02-04T10:11:00.000-08:00

It was over barbecue at Percy Street that BJ and I were discussing that there are only a couple of regions in which the culinary traditions exclude swine; the Middle East, Muslim nations of Southeast Asia, and India. The Hindu and Muslim dietary restrictions of most of the country yield a food culture in which cooked pork is a stark rarity, thereby yielding its absence from Indian menus in the US. We'd moved onto another topic when Jason joined us and divulged a tale of intrigue.

Jason works at Bindi, a downtown Indian restaurant from which you shant expect a nine dollar lunch buffet. He mentioned that the head chef, George Sabatino, was celebrating his departure to Barbuzzo by preparing a tasting menu that culminated in a pork cheek vindaloo. What a coincidence.

We were immediately interested and planned on the experience, one presented with a touch of class over my last pork outing on Oregon Ave. I arrived at Bindi yesterday evening with BJ and Katey, our squad equipped with a bottle of Castillo ready to dilute the exotic mixers at this BYOB. Once seated, our waiter noted our choice of spirits and recommended a bright yellow mango mixture that masked the quality of our rum in the best way possible.

The meal began with a single bite of raw halibut, continuing with dueling preparations of chicken liver, and a skate wing far more agreeable than any previous incarnation of the bottom feeder that I'd had. Each dish represented a balance in texture: the radish and pickled mustard seed garnish on the halibut, the liver coupled with watercress, and the crusted skate wing all contained a component, veggie or otherwise, that added an appropriate crunch to its respective protein. Finally, it was time for the pork.

Pork cheek is a stringy, gamy cut of meat coming from the head of the pig. Katey mentioned that it's not considered a tender cut of pork, which is what I was expecting. It requires careful cooking to soften its texture while maintaining its moistness. BJ noted that what we were presented with was braised, and braised well. The meat came apart on my plate and in my mouth much like stewed goat meat, only less chewy. Of all it's accompanyment, the slices of pickled fuji apple complemented the pork cheek best. Beneath it all, the grits and oyster mushrooms contributed two extremes of texture. I knew the soft and crunchy mushrooms from authentic tom yam (lemongrass soup), a dish I associate with life in Thailand and not with desi food. The combination of flavors and textures provided a detailed statement in each bite, depending on the ingredients that ended up on your fork. Though Indian themes present in this dish were, at times, overshadowed by the few atypical ingredients, the aforementioned texture balance hit its peak between the kale and the pork cheek. The kale's slight bitterness countered the buttery composure of the meat, making for a complex end to leave you thinking.

There was so much going on on my plate that I never had a moment to consider that I was consuming the very face of the animal with which I am engaged in this delicate dance. The apprehension is certainly more apparent in traditional pork meals in which the flesh is the unapologetic centerpiece. It didn't get its chance to bother me within all its edible framing. I think the rum helped a little too.

This was a gourmet experience that I had to have as soon as it was mentioned, and I have absolutely no regrets despite this being a step in the direction of special occasion eating for regular pork eaters, something I vowed to move away from in the pepperoni post below. Whatever I tackle next will have to be real street.

America's Choice Sliced Pepperoni

2010-02-02T14:03:00.000-08:00

I started this project to experience and react to pork, and at the time nothing dictated where I found the pork I ate. Once I got started, friends began making tons and tons of recommendations of the best of everything: roast pork, pulled pork, ribs, etc. I noticed that this has led me to what most people treat as occasional specialties, causing me to neglect the pork that most folks eat everyday.

I still won't cook it at home, nor will I buy it at the grocery store. I know I've said that bacon hasn't wowed me yet, and my opinion may lose some credibility when I tell you that there's a pound of turkey bacon in my fridge right now. It's true, when I am at home writing, I can't just snack on pork. As I've noted before, it's still an adventure each time. Hassan, my bandmate in a project called Sunny Ali & the Kid, has clearly gotten past it.

We had just gotten done putting together a couple of songs, and while taking a little break, Hassan broke out a snack: a package of America's Choice Sliced Pepperoni and pepper jack cheese, also of a supermarket brand. As soon as it appeared, I was reminded of the first time I had pepperoni on a slice of pizza at a highway rest stop between Philadelphia and Washington DC. I remembered finding the bland, defrosted triangle of bread-from-paste and false cheese enhanced by this salty porcine ingredient, and an understanding of its ubiquity dawned on me.

The gratuitous element of saltiness in dry sausage is something that allows me to consume it without any of the flavor surprises that have shocked my taste buds and killed my appetites in the past. That's made it a favorite of mine, and an example of pork that I could see myself eating beyond this series of experiments. The gourmet stuff is awesome, and the Italian Market is the best source I know of. This stuff, however, was different. Tart and spicy, this standard pepperoni was in a category of meat snack unmatched by the pig's bovine and poultry opponents. A slice wrapped around a little cube of pepper jack added a little exponent to the awesome. This little adventure led me to consider a third participant. Next time I have cheese and dry sausage, at least a couple of green olives will have to be involved.

Tony Luke's Roast Pork Italian

2010-01-31T11:55:00.000-08:00

Everyone's got a different idea of what constitutes a hangover cure. Some say it should directly target your nausea and sooth your digestive tract, while others prefer one that presents an anguish overshadowing the damage done by the previous night's alcohol consumption. There's always the 'grease' argument as well: the greasier the food, the faster the recovery. After a reasonably long Saturday night drinking and playing records at the Medusa Lounge, I decided to test out a standby I'd always witnessed in the hungover hands of my sinning buddies. John's Roast Pork on Snyder Ave is apparently closed on the weekends, so I headed to Tony Luke's with Eric, John, and John, who were also seeking a cure-all tonic.

We decided to pick up our sandwiches and eat them back at the place, because no one wants to eat in the space within those metal walls fitted to be a seating area. I ordered the Roast Pork Italian (with broccoli rabe and provolone), a side order of mushrooms, a root beer, and a fistful of hot peppers from the condiment table. As is nearly always the case in South Philly, the lady taking my order asked for my name and balked at my reply, asking me to repeat it once before requesting my initials. Not a lot of Abdullah's down at Tony Luke's.

Back at Eric and John's, the guys primed me for this adventure, speaking of this sandwich's ultimate deliciousness. I unwrapped my parcel and lifted out the bread vessel stuffed with thin slices of dripping wet, grayish pink roast pork, the greens and cheese buried in the hinge of the roll. Its scent was unusual to me, slightly putrid. As I timidly took my first bite, my friends rounded out to the second halves of their sandwiches. The textures were similar to roast beef, only less stringy. The flavor of sharp provolone somewhat masked the disagreeable flavor of the meat to a point, and the taste of the greens faded into the back ground, adding only color to the mix. In an attempt to neutralize the state of my taste buds, I ate a forkful of my side order, soggy slices of mushrooms from a can. Sheer disappointment with those led me to the always reliable hot peppers. I took a few more bites of the sandwich and left the challenge half completed.

That indescribably element, the sourness that first revealed itself beneath the curing in my initial adventure with prosciutto, lay unmasked in roast pork. The smell and the taste were enough to stop me in my tracks. I attribute my aversion to my virgin palate and not to the quality of Tony Luke's hoagies, of which the cold roast beef has always been a favorite of mine.

Later that day, as Joe and I decided where to grab a bite for dinner, I told him I was "all porked out" for the day, eliciting a snide remark. I realized then how much the roast pork had turned me off. The unfamiliar taste wasn't enjoyable enough for me to forget what I was eating. Watching those around me devouring it reminded me of the times that pork didn't look so good to me. The roast pork sandwich wasn't on top of my list because it never appealed to me. I guess I have to expect that not every adventure in pork will be a positive one.

Percy Street BBQ Ribs and Pork Belly

2010-01-29T11:07:00.000-08:00

I hadn't seen BJ in ages, so it was a wonderful surprise when he sent me a link to an article he wrote about this very blog on Phoodie. It sparked plans for a reunion over pork which culminated yesterday at Percy Street BBQ, a relatively new place on South Street.

Modern barbecue joints look one of two ways with few in betweens: the white tiled, no tables stab and grab, partially functioning fluorescent light signs in the window, kitchen activity visible from the counter, and a simplified menu of standards served on styrofoam (I'm thinking of Accu in West Philly). Then there's the modern gourmet option often found in a trendy neighborhood, dimly lit with traditional items served on plates, meat complementing craft beers on tap (my first of this sort was Brookyln's Smoke Joint).

Percy Street fits cleanly into the latter category. We met up with my friend Justin on the way, who had experienced this barbecue three times since it opened and vouched for its excellence. Once we arrived, we were joined by BJ's friend Jason, who seconded the lauding. I was starving and in deep anticipation.

I went with the option of two meats and two sides, forgoing the temptation of sausage and going with pork belly and ribs, along with a side of collard greens and German potato salad with bacon (!). To accompany my meal, I chose a mug of Brooklyn Brown Ale, one of my favorite standards despite my disdain for the burnt bitterness of the same brewery's lager. The food arrived in a presentation unbefitting the ambiance; each meat serving bagged with slices of supermarket pickle and raw onion, the sides in small round bowls, arranged on a metal cafeteria tray. Needless to say, the presentation made for a crappy picture. As I fumbled to photograph my meal in the dim light, a whiff of grill seasoning caught my nostrils. I put away my camera and went straight for bag number one, demarcated with a round pink sticker depicting a silhouetted pig. I reached in and pulled out one of the finest pieces of pork I have thus far consumed.

Percy Street's pork belly is thick cut and cooked to the point of nearly falling apart into its layer of meat, fat, and a substance I can only describe as meatfat. While it was still warm, I effortlessy bit off a chunk of this wide bit of belly and marveled as the fat disintegrated on my tongue, the meaty portion's texture lingering just slightly longer before going the way of its counterpart. The salty seasoning was encased perfectly in every bite of this stuff. The pork belly stole the show. I finished the first slice and noted that I shouldn't, under any circumstance, neglect the ribs.

Unwrapping the second parcel yielded slight disappointment at the lonely pair wrapped inside. Just two ribs didn't seem like enough, even in a meal containing other portions. However, the ribs, grilled and done wet, were excellent. They were cooked not quite to the point of meat falling from bone, but as close to it as you can get with the meat remaining in tact. I'll note here that the pinkness of barbecue spare ribs really bothers me. Maybe it's because I'm used to the rare appearance of beef that still pink pork looks under cooked to me.

I was initially excited about my sides, particularly the German potato salad. I found that I'm not a huge fan of vinegar and potatoes. Thus far, I've honed my expertise enough to discern that it was infused with real bacon and not some sort of seasoning farce, but somehow it wasn't doing the trick for me. Both the potatoes and greens were just sides to me, with no memorable traits.

Ever feel guilty because you feel like you should feel guilty about something that you don't? That's how that pork belly did me. I enjoyed it so much that I managed to momentarily shed the guilt that works so hard to engulf me while I'm eating pork.

Naruto Tan Tan Ramen

2010-01-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

Everyone who knows me knows that my relationship with noodles borders on obsession. Sen mee nam, or kuay teow (street stall beef noodle soup) was my favorite food growing up, and being Pakistani and living in Thailand, I had a lot of foods competing for my favor. When I left Thailand and came to the US, so much changed that I didn't even notice the lack of noodles in my life. When things finally settled down, my mom jogged my memory with her sen mee nam recipe, one that may have diverged slightly from the original, yet remains my favorite.

But then I went away to college. I found myself in Philadelphia, two hours away from mama and the aromas of her kitchen. My appreciation for her cooking grew by leaps and bounds, a familiar story to anyone who went away for school and has even a halfway decent cook for a mother.

How oblivious I was to the neighborhoods in Philly in those early days. It wasn't until my third year of college that Joey introduced me to the phở restaurants of Washington Ave. These simple restaurants, with vast fields of uniform tables and exclusively male waiters in white polos replaced the void that leaving Thailand had created in me.

When I went to Japan in 2005, I was once again bound to leave my beloved noodles behind, but this time for a destination that I knew would reveal wondrous noodles of its own. When I asked my new Japanese schoolmates where I could get a bowl of noodles in the neighborhood of our school, the standard reaction was a shrinking away, nearly physically dissolving into a sheepish show of shyness and formality. Truly Japanese style. It took an American to give me the shit straight. We dropped into a ramen joint and got down.

Now, I wasn't eating pork at this point in my life, at least not willingly. It was only when I was finished with my meal that I was told that this was pork pork pork; pork broth, pork katsu, shredded up pork reaching every corner of every bowl in the place. I laughed if off. Not my fault if I didn't know. I certainly wasn't laughing when my stomach reacted to the foreign substance that suddenly appeared in its main chamber by sending it through remaining ducts of my digestive system at alarming speeds. Despite the unpleasant feeling, this happening led me to discover the very helpful robotic toilets of Japan that didn't only give me comfort, but various options as well. I never knew such a deuce was possible. I had to stop myself from thanking it, shortly before I reconsidered and said thanks anyway.

And that was my impression of Japanese ramen. I found a vegetarian udon place in my neighborhood and never touched the yellow noodles again. It was only a couple of weeks ago that my brother Ahmad, on his own journey of pork/self discovery, recommended a ramen place in his neighborhood. Being a different man than my 2005 self, I agreed to the adventure.

We went to Naruto Ramen at 90th St. and 3rd Ave. in Manhattan. The place was modeled after the typical places found in Tokyo, a common sight in New York. I got the tan tan ramen, which comes in a spicy, translucent brown pork broth topped with ground pork that ends up dispersed through the entire bowl. It was very flavorful and I didn't need to employ my habit of saucing up my bowl with the available condiments. The soup was thicker than the light broth of my favorite Southeast Asian noodle soups, resembling curry noodles (something like Vietnamese bun bo hue or Thai khao soy). The pork simply became part of each bite without much of a meaty flavor or texture. Ground, it chewed somewhere between ground chicken and ground beef. There was a peanut flavor happening as well, yet no physical evidence of peanuts. The yellow egg noodles have a charm of their own, with a thicker, slightly chewier texture than rice noodles. Their curliness made them a little easier to stack onto the spoon.

Here's where I'll note that I eat noodles like a Thai: using the chopsticks to place noodles, meat, vegetable, and any other component onto the spoon, then dipping the spoon and eating. This way, each spoonful is a microchasm of your noodle bowl. I recommend it over the shoveling noodles followed by drinking from the bowl method.

Overall, it was a satisfactory meal and I wasn't given a colon blow like a was last time (must've been an isolated incident). I was glad, as it allowed me to watch DJ Krush totally kill it on the ones and twos in peace and tranquility. I'm still not sold on ramen, so I'll have to keep trying. I'm told I'll never find a good bowl of ramen in Philly, so it will have to be New York or elsewhere. As always, if anyone can make a recommendation, I would greatly appreciate it.

Omen

2010-01-26T13:03:00.001-08:00

Superstitious, I am not. However, I am easily scared.

I've been sick for a few days, and today it reached a point that prevents me from truly sensing pork, making it pointless to attempt a new adventure until I kick this phlegmy, congested unpleasantness.

It's a shame, because I'm on my way to New York, where I was hoping to try something new (perhaps a pork bun) before being serenaded by the madrigals of folk composer DJ Krush. With my bulging sinuses and foggy head, I hit the street, en route to the many modes of transit that get me to my brother's apartment. I was a block from my house when I noticed something flat, wet, pink, and streaked with white. I eased my rush and mouthed the word as the visual registered: 'bacon'. I looked ahead to find a four square foot patch of sidewalk strewn with the stuff. I stood there, surrounded. As if the camera was rising above me to capture the whole shot, I slowly raised my arms toward the heavens and closed my eyes. Like Dutch summoning the Predator to battle, I screamed my enemy's name.

Bacon

OK, I didn't do that last arm-raising, screaming thing, but you have to admit, that's some kind of omen. I'm not one to challenge the universe.

Jen and Tivoni's Pork Loin

2010-01-25T11:12:00.001-08:00

There's encouragement all around me. People have started saying things like "I'm so excited for you", recommendations abound within the friendly feedback. I'm slowly traversing the long long list of every preparation of every part of this very edible animal, and I have many guides. Yesterday, my reformed appetite broke a new barrier: I was cooked for.

Jen is a friend of mine from high school, and her and her husband Tivoni live near my neighborhood in South Philly. In the midst of preparing a pork loin for dinner, they thought of their hungry friend Abdullah and invited him over to try something new. I was touched.

Tivoni has his method on lock. Though I feel I will never have a full understanding of the process, much as I never got my head around basic chemistry, I got the idea that there was a some technical prowess required in conjunction with a whole lot of love. He had slathered the long, wide tenderloin with a relish of roasted garlic, peppercorns, and pickled mustard greens. This last choice had been thrown into the mix on a whim during a visit to the Hung Vuong market on Washington Ave. It was an unusual choice for a grilling marinade component, and it piqued my interest. I remember eating these pickled greens on their own as a child in Thailand, a mini-adventure in my lifelong quest for pickles of all kinds. They tend to be a little gross unless used as a garnish, and I was curious to see how they would interact with the meat.

Once caked with this chunky mix, he had rolled it up, seared the exposed sides, and slow broiled it to perfection. This allowed all the juices to remain within the mass, yielding moist and tender meat. He carved it into thin slices that fell apart into thick strands covered in the seasoning mixture.

I'm not certain if it was the cut or the way that it was cooked, but the texture reminded me of a very moist broiled chicken. The slightly spongy bits of meat had absorbed the seasoning well, and each one unfolded like three acts of a play. This, I believe, was the real feat of this pork loin. The flavor of garlic was immediately noticeable and though it was well done, it was nothing new. That's where the bits of mustard green kicked in, the cooking process having released their tartness into the meat while allowing the little crunchy bits to retain their texture. Finally, the pepper, the sleeper. Though it was present in the first bite, it's magnitude culminated after I'd cleaned my plate. I hardly noticed the building heat as I was eating, but at the meal's conclusion, I was left with the pleasant warmth only brought by freshly broken pepper. A clean finish.

Because I was so hungry when I arrived at their house, and also due to the somewhat chicken-like texture of the loin, I was able to trick my brain into allowing me to scarf it down without the image of the animal looming in my mind. It was only once we had finished eating that I gave myself the opportunity to reflect on what I had eaten. Through no fault of this delectable preparation, I felt a little ill. It was the first time I had consumed that much pork without a thought, and it caught up to me.

It had occurred to me prior to last night that each pork dish I consume is still very much an experiment. If I'm hungry, I don't really go for pork. If I'm grabbing a hoagie for lunch while working, I still go for roast beef. If I'm driving a long distance and stop to grab a burger, I don't get bacon on it. Every time I eat pork, I'm thinking about it, and a human being can't be constantly thinking about what it's eating. It tells me that perhaps when this project, this series of experiments, is over, I may very well go right back to my old restricted diet. I may even revert to a slightly stricter diet. While it may seem, to the vast majority of American eaters, an unnecessary pain in the ass hindering daily life, it's what I'm used to. I miss that unawareness, being indifferent as to what's churning around in my insides. However, right now I'm on a mission. The adventures need to continue and, by golly, they will.

Check out Jen and Tivoni's food blog for more of their intrepid concoctions.

Props

2010-01-22T10:38:00.000-08:00

Thank you, thank you for the props.

Thrillist "For a scrumptious blog from a guy who realized he could have his pig and eat it too, check Adventures in Pork."

Phoodie "It's a perfect food blog concept: Saeed’s almost poetic prose and fresh perspective on swine merge like ribs and BBQ sauce that makes for a witty feast for the eyeballs."

Wild Boar

2010-01-21T18:31:00.000-08:00

When we were kids, my brother and I loved Asterix. We had volumes of English translations of the French comic and we'd borrow videos of the cartoon from our Belgian neighbors. At the time, we didn't decipher the overt French nationalist tendencies of the storylines (I learned years later that the Gauls were actually defeated pretty badly at the hands of the Romans, thank you HBO's Rome). At the time, we were more concerned with the druid Getafix's magic potion and even more with wild boar. Aside from beating up Roman soldiers and chugging potion, Asterix and his obese partner Obelix had an obsession with hunting, grilling, and consuming entire carcasses of the wild pigs that traversed the plains surrounding their paradisiacal settlement. The boar looked delicious. It looked delicious even after we were repeatedly told that it was Haram.

I never thought I'd get to try it. The one pork food that looked tempting to me, and it was entirely imaginary; a musing of cartoonist Rene Goscinny. It would be a solid 12 years before I would sample this Gaulish delicacy.

For this adventure, I revisit my trip to Italy and the furthest excursion I took from the city of Rome. My girlfriend was visiting and I had planned a trip to Umbria, a region known for its white wine. Our destination was Pulicaro, a farm house offering 'agriturismo', the experience of staying at a farm, eating and drinking only what the land yielded, which included wine, olive oil, produce, and meat. We were picked up from the train station in Orvieto and driven through the rolling landscape, finally arriving at our destination. Pulicaro is a sprawling stone building that was constructed in the 1500s. Its gray, squarish layout sits on a hill amidst olive tree orchards. The owners and operators are Marco and Chiara, an Italian couple in their late 20s who left the city to live life slow and entertain visitors at their farmhouse.

After some genuine Italian relaxation, we entered the lower chamber of the farmhouse for dinner with Marco, Chiara, and the rest of the staff, a rag tag crew of jovial youngsters. We began with homemade pasta prepared with cheese, parmesan, if not something similar. The main part of the meal consisted of some amazing bitter greens, potatoes, and, for the first time ever, dry rubbed wild boar. Marco said he's shot the beast himself, sending me spiraling into memories of Asterix. Chiara told us she had seasoned it with rosemary and baked it in the farmhouse's stone oven, also five centuries old.

The meat was dark and gamy, a little like venison. The chewiness had been somewhat neutralized by the cooking process. The cubes of meat were encased in slightly charred seasoning, the rosemary and what was perhaps rock salt. There was also a peppery element which was stronger than what I had had in the majority of Italian cuisine in my Roman experience. There was certainly a country-ness about the whole meal. Though produce in Rome is far superior to anything found in an American supermarket, these veggies were a cut above even that.

It wasn't the spit-roasted horned beast I remembered from my childhood comic books, but wild boar was the tastiest pork I'd had until that point. It's likely that this is the very species of swine that made Islamic travelers ill, leading to the animal's banning in the Muslim faith. I'll admit that at the time I had a slight fear of indigestion, assuming that if god was going to reprimand me, this would be the occasion. On the contrary, I felt fine. It was one of the most satisfying meals I'd ever consumed, and it fulfilled a long time dream.

In seeking images of Asterix and a wild boar for this post, I came across a wild boar ramen. Now that sounds freaking amazing to me. If anyone knows of a place where I can get a good bowl of wild boar ramen, please let me know.

Pork Belly Meat Stick

2010-01-20T09:12:00.000-08:00

My love affair with yakitori began five years ago in Tokyo. Never had I had such an appropriate beer snack to accompany light beer drinking (that 'light' refers to the style of cheap beer and not the quantity consumed). At a tabehodai (all you can eat), one might consume enough animal organs to construct a livestock militia. Izakaya (defined as 'Japanese eating and drinking establishment') was the thing I missed most upon my return, which is why I was delighted to see one open up right in Philly's Chinatown. My delight was peaked when I heard about their Tuesday $2 pint, $1 yakitori deal. Since the discovery of Yakitori Boy, my friends and I spanked this special to our benefit time and time again, and last Tuesday was no different.

It was a reunion of sorts, old college friends now dispersed across the country (half of us in the varied counties of South Philadelphia) meeting for food, drinks, and moderate debauchery. The term 'yakitori' refers specifically to grilled chicken parts, including gizzards,liver, and my personal favorite, hearts. Yakitori Boy has expanded it to include a couple of vegetable options, as well as the new object of my interest: pig. Pork belly, to be exact. Bacon, my old nemesis, in its purest form. Joey endorsed it heartily and it became the most ordered meatstick of the night. Round after round, we kept reducing the variety of our orders until it was essentially beer, pork belly, beer, pork belly, and the occasional quail egg wrapped in bacon.

The pork belly was seasoned with the same salty mixture that coated the chicken parts, but the pork's fattiness held it better. Lately, I've been convinced that the reason I don't love the bacon I've had is that it is too thin cut. The image of a half inch thick piece of bacon sizzling on a Korean BBQ griddle remains the goal in my mind, and this pork belly on a stick came mighty close to my aspirations. Pork fat doesn't have the same sinewy chewiness in the fatty portions of beef cuts. Rather, pork fat seems to melt and become a buttery concoction. In this case, there was not as much chewing as there was feeling the fat dissolve in your mouth. Simply seasoned, and with an easy texture, pork belly meatsticks won me over quickly.

This stuff is the kind of pork I can handle without too much guilty backlash, perhaps because I simultaneously drink copious amounts of beer, the forbidden fun. Of course, having old friends that have known of my dietary restriction for close to a decade watching me eat pork makes it somewhat of a spectacle. It's like having my 20 year old self staring at me and silently judging me, staring at the heathen he will soon become.

Shredded Pork Vietnamese Hoagie

2010-01-17T09:27:00.001-08:00

Coexisting with Philly's Italian Market is a fully authentic microchasm or Vietnam. Along Washington Ave east of Broad Street, there are countless signs written in the unmistakable accented, all caps Roman letters. Since I came to this city eight years ago, three of those letters have been a stand by: Phở.

Since the adventures began, I haven't allowed them to enter my safehouse, the enduring legacy of noodle spots. Phở is a cure-all, and I'd rather not mingle it with a meat about which my body is still unsure. However, yesterday I came up with a side project to move things along.

French colonialism left Vietnamese cuisine with a staple far better utilized with ingredients from Southeast Asia. Bánh mì, or as it's known in Philly, the Vietnamese hoagie, is a baguette filled with shredded meat and various salad ingredients.

My friend Joey and I decided to check out a little joint called Cafe Huong Lan. Located on eighth street just above Washington, this and the other miniature restaurants on this tiny strip sat right at the end of a block on which I lived for nearly a year and I'd never ventured in for my commitment to the noodle places in the 12th street plaza. Huong Lan had it all; Phở, bánh mì, and a highly abrasive Vietnamese woman telling us about the different sandwiches and simultaneously yelling at us for not already knowing. I went with the shredded pork hoagie.

In addition to the meat, my hoagie was filled with cilantro, hot peppers (which I had asked be left out...no big deal), unusually thick pickled radish and carrots, and a yellowish mayo/mustard. There was an incomparable greasiness to the meat. That and the slightly dark coloring of the meats, along with the bits of crispy skin made it more like duck meat than anything else. It was slightly sweet and the pork went with the other ingredients far better than any chicken hoagie I'd had. On a sidenote, it seems that chicken and beef get worse tasting as you go down in grade, whereas pork just gets better.

It did taste and look enough like duck that I could have tricked myself and avoided the psychological aspect of the experience, but I realized that that is a feat impossible. Since I began writing this blog, I find myself teasing my own brain while I'm eating, trying to get a reaction out of myself. With this in mind, I charged through the sandwich. While it wasn't the best Vietnamese hoagie I've ever had, it demonstrated to me the reason why 10 out of 12 menu options of these sandwiches contain pork. The baguette and veggie housing was built for pork. One down, nine to go.

Sarcone's Old Fashioned Italian Hoagie

2010-01-15T08:29:00.000-08:00

I am certainly one for cold hoagies. While the heroes and subs of other American cities may throw their hats into the ring, nothing beats the sandwich known by another name in Philadelphia. You can get a decent sandwich from just about any deli in any part of town, but for a true gourmet affair, most will agree that Sarcone's is king.

The little sandwich joint (now in the storefront right next to it's old front door on the corner of 9th and Fitzwater) isn't much to look at, but it's the expanse behind the counter that reveals a paradise of cured meats. Before I broke the pork barrier, my standby was the Booch: roast beef, asparagus, sharp provolone, and balsamic vinegar under a dusting of special herbs- a memorable sandwich. Though the Booch was a satisfying choice, I craved a side dish, and those prosciutto stuffed hot peppers were always there to entice me. My friend Brian would always get some behemoth sandwich piled with a rainbow of pork meats which I eyed curiously. I hadn't been to Sarcone's since last spring, and Brian currently works next door, which made it a good place for us to meet for lunch yesterday.

I came for the Italian hoagie only to find that there were three on the menu; the Italian, the American Italian, and the Old Fashioned Italian. All were nearly the same sandwich except slight variations in meat assortment. I went with the old fashioned; thin sliced prosciutto, hot sopressata, hot coppa, sharp provolone, oil, vinegar, lettuce, and tomato on a Sarcone's roll. I also got one red and one green prosciutto stuffed pepper. And an A&W root beer.

I started with the red pepper, expecting a slight punch. The smoky, slightly sour prosciutto took the edge off of the hotness and was as satisfying as i had imagined. Pickled things with meat stuffed into them don't occur often enough, particularly with non pork meats. This was one hell of a bite sized snack and I could eaten ten of them and skipped the sandwich. But then what kind of adventurer would I be?

The sandwich made it difficult to identify which meats I was tasting, leading me to inspect the culprits individually. The sopressata, slices of hot sausage, had far less chunky fat deposits in it than other salami I have had. It also lacked the overpowering saltiness I have come to associate with dry sausage. The hot coppa, or capicola was similar to the prosciutto in texture, but was a bit spicier. The balance of meats made for an intense mix of flavors yielding something that might even have been too strong for such a large sandwich if it wasn't for the provolone. Sarcon'e lays their sandwiches with thick slabs aged of provolone, the non-sharp variety unless otherwise requested, that tie together and sooth the volatile flavor mix of meats.

I have a mild complaint that is a controversial one in Philadelphia, and that regards Sarcone's rolls. Now, I don't mind a roll with some backbone, but there are days when the oven at Sarcone's bakery spawns bread that can ruin a sandwich, though never get called out for the love of an unquestioned Philly institution. All I'm saying is that I'd prefer a softer roll, one that would allow me to savor the mix of flavors occurring without placing cuts on the roof of my mouth through which they are absorbed.

Sticky Fingers BBQ Ribs

2010-01-12T08:01:00.000-08:00

I've always loved beef ribs. Growing up in Thailand, I never got to experience them, but upon coming to the US, I found them to be among my favorite American foods. In the northeast, there's not much focus on the style of ribs. Rather, barbecue sauce has come to be a largely homogenous substance varying only slightly in flavor. I still love them though, one of my favorite's being Phoebe's BBQ in Philadelphia. When a new barbecue joint opened up in my neighborhood, the Italian Market, I was one of the first customers.

Bebe's BBQ was opened on 9th street by a fellow from North Carolina named Mark. A hospitable gentlemen, Mark would often offer my friends and I samplings of ribs, chicken, and sides as he made our sandwiches. His description of each sauce displayed a deep understanding of his art, and his eagerness for our feedback indicated a genuine love for barbecue. I never got the opportunity to offer my thoughts on his signature pork ribs, which passed under my nose into the hands of an eager sampler many times over. It was not at Bebe's BBQ that I first experienced the standby meat of southern barbecue. I got it straight from the source, in North Carolina.

While visiting my friends Tim, Abby, and Katie in Wilmington, NC this past summer, Tim learned of my newly liberated diet and insisted on a place called Sticky Fingers. Once we were seated, I had a regressive instinct and asked the waitress if they did beef ribs, an allegation she immediately denied. Well, I thought to myself, I'll take that as a sign. I ordered a half rack of Memphis style wet ribs with a side of baked beans and sweet potato casserole.

That second side, sweet potato casserole, was damn good. Upon tasting it I was momentarily distracted from the rib mission at hand and put a dent in half of it before moving on to the main part of the meal.

I separated the first rib from the rack. Being used to beef ribs, I was surprised by the ease with which it broke loose. This tenderness, Tim informed me, was a sign of a well cooked rack. In biting it, it revealed very little stringiness and the texture struck me as somewhere between a very moist broiled chicken and salmon. Of course, the flavor was far from either of these. Again, there was a slight sourness, though far less present than it was in any ham I had sampled. Perhaps that element had been cooked out in the slow grilling process. The sauce complemented pork ribs far more aptly than any sauce I had had on beef ribs. This is likely because sauces are perfected on the staple before being applied to other types of meat. The sweetness of the Memphis style sauce brought out the sweet elements of the meat, resulting in a flavor/texture combination that I hadn't expected. At that realization, I remembered what I was eating.

Being filled by this very heavy meal of pork had a new psychological effect on me. Again, I pictured the animal, though this time it didn't bother me as much. I felt undisciplined; that I had somehow faltered in my lifelong steadfastness. I later realized that through all those passed up ribs at Bebe's, ribs were the type of pork I wanted to try most. Having had it, I had shattered a mystery. Coming out on the other side, I was not disappointed by the experience. Rather, I realized that what I was missing out on was, in fact, simply meat. For the first time, I thought of how arbitrary the restriction of pork was. I'm missing out on kangaroo, shark, and elephant too, but those don't have the same allure, do they?

Pancetta

2010-01-10T12:05:00.000-08:00

Early in my stay in Rome, I witnessed another bit of Rachel's culinary genius in the form of her Penne a la Vodka. Between the quality local ingredients and her home style technique, the sauce was quite possibly the best I've had on pasta. The fresh basil and rosemary growing in little pots on the kitchen's window sill provided the garnish alongside a dish of small, crumbly reddish brown cubes, their grease soaking the hell out of the paper towel sheet beneath them. This, pancetta, would be my first bacon adventure.

I interpreted the pancetta accompanying Rachel's Penne a la Vodka as a salt substitute, as it simply furthered the savory element in the sauce. It seemed to be a dispensable component of the dish, and I found the texture of the pasta to be equally pleasant without the slightly burnt, crunchy mouth feel of the pancetta cubes. While delicious, it was not the ambrosial substance of its myth.

Psychologically, I initially balked at the idea of this cut, in many ways the ambassador of pork the world over. Through my days of restriction, nearly every pork eating person with whom the topic came up mentioned bacon as a favorite. This always managed to surprise me, as I always thought other forms of pork looked so much tastier than these greasy, wavy, fat infused strips. Nevertheless, bacon has hype behind it. While pancetta in pasta sauce was really tasty, I attributed the bulk of the talent to the sauce. I decided to wait patiently for the magic of bacon to reveal itself to me in later dishes.

Prosciutto and Melon

2010-01-09T12:43:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Rome at the end of July, just before the city was emptied of Italians and populated by tourists. I, however, was not a tourist. My plan to stay in an apartment for six weeks in the summer, continuing to work daily, made me a kind of resident Roman in my own mind. I would not be swayed by tourist traps, nor would I fumble with tourist maps. I came to live.

This meant a couple of changes. In the months preceding my departure, I had had conversations with my mother regarding my Muslim faith and how I had reached a point of doubt, overcoming for the first time the fear that keeps so many of the faithful faithful. I can't remember now the specific rationale that led me to break the pork discipline in particular, as I still value such traits in myself. I just knew I didn't want to miss out.

I sat in the kitchen in our apartment on Via de Monte Verde. I had come to join my friends Tom and Rachel who had been in the city for some months and had a sublet in their apartment open up, which I promptly filled. Rachel's knack for cooking had adopted Italy, and upon hearing of my dietary deviance, Tom requested that we have prosciutto and melon. Rachel prepared the salty/sweet appetizer.

Initially, I noted the sourness of the thinly sliced meat. What I assumed to be the effect of the meat's curing I later understood to be a taste inherent in many cuts of pork. The very subtle tartness complemented the melon greatly. I should note that produce in Italy surpasses what we get in America by leaps and bounds. So it should be expected in a country that values quality over quantity and price in foods.

The combination of flavors was excellent. There was a canceling out effect, the meat's saltiness and the fruit's sweetness taking the edge off each other and allowing once to focus on the textures. The melon melted in my mouth, leaving the slightly elastic, fatty mouth feel of the ham to remain for a moment. It was a good start.

At this time, I felt a slight disgust. I couldn't stop thinking about the animal in its living form, wallowing through mud and nuzzling its own feces. The unhygenic nature of the pig is a firm belief among Muslims, and it's deterring image is an effective one when face with the meat. While modern pork is quite clean and won't make you sick, the idea of this animals pink, fuzzy flesh and its gluttonous behavior, its unusual nose and the noises it emits were very, very present in my mind as I ate. This feeling was strongest the first time I had pork, this dish of prosciutto and melon. Balanced with its good taste, the aversion would diminish as the adventures continued.

What a strange new feeling

2010-01-09T12:20:00.000-08:00

For 25 years, I abode without question. I was ingrained with the historical significance of stories that made pork forbidden to me, my family, and the world's entire Muslim population. It became second nature.

As I grew and reached the inevitable point of questioning one's religion, I maintained my unporkitude, holding my discipline as a point of pride. "Does that have pork in it? Oh...No thanks." My friends berated me, asking why this single abstinence had out lasted all others. I drink alcohol, philander with women (albeit only one. I call her 'girlfriend'), gamble within my means, and duck every regulation that doesn't fit with my lifestyle, yet I did not eat pork.

Perhaps you are the same. To the chagrin of your parents, the first generation of their race that they spawned unto this land is a rule breaker, unfit to be called Muslim in any part of the world. Assimilation begins and ends at the convenience of these rigid and irreconcilable cultural laws.

I stepped past it in the year 2009. Shortly after I turned 25, it began. I eat pork. Each part of the animal, each dish is a new adventure to me, and I invite you to see it through my eyes and taste it through my palate, along with the curiosity, guilt, and the dismantling of a quarter century of psychological conditioning. Whether you are maintaining your dietary restriction or have eaten pork throughout life, you will see what it's like for a grown man and lover of all foods to experience this meat first hand, in all its forms.

These are My New Adventures in Pork.