Just back from a second pop over to the U.K. in as many months, and am eager to stab into a crunchy bowl of greens Andy's now prepping. What is it about being in England that
a) revs up the eating machine in us?
b) makes us especially partial to all things pork?
There were bacon butties (basically, bacon between butter-slathered bread slices); bacon crumbles in a cauliflower cheese dish Andy cooked one night in Wales; bacon-flavored crisps (not my favorite, admittedly); even a broad bacon strip blanketing a slab of Andy's steak. At St. John Bread and Wine Friday night, a standing dinner date on our London visits, we managed to order the fowl and ox heart, but went home with one of the restaurant's signature pig-printed bags (which Andy took to market the following day).
Saturday afternoon's swirl through London's Borough Market netted not only a shoulder of pork–with the crackling, no less!–from a butcher there that we would enjoy in all its roasted glory later that night (and which Andy stuffed with rosemary, fennel seeds, capers, sage and garlic). We also patiently cued as we do on every visit there at the temporary table set up outside the Brindisa Spanish foods shop every weekend, for a delectable sandwich of marinated piquillos, crisp rocket, a drizzle of olive oil and chorizo (as in, pork) assembled right on the spot.
This morning, resolute as we felt as we slogged through airport security, insisting to one another how there was no way we could even touch the stuff again, not for at least a month, there we found ourselves after a visit to Eat., tearing into a carton of a BLT, heavy on the brick-red, salty fragments jutting out from the sliced wheat edges.
The endless marathon of pork reminded me of a fun essay I read on the flight last Sunday cheekily proclaiming bacon as the sun-dried tomato of our time. Haven't had sun-dried tomatoes in while. Wonder how they might taste tossed with pasta and a bit of pancetta…
Leave a Comment