Cantina Los Caballitos' Roast Pork Empanadas

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.

Paesano's Arista

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.

Pho Hoa's Roast Pork and Wonton Egg Noodle Soup

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.

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

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.

Tony Luke's Roast Pork Italian

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.