The
Pig That Got Away
I have for a long
time had a—some might say obsessive—fondness for pork. I particularly
like crispy pork skin, which is a delicate achievement requiring salt,
extremely high heat, and a razor-sharp knife. I like my pork with a
generous marbling of fat in it, like the exceedingly juicy Berkshire
pork (also known as
Korobuta) that Frank, at
Ottomanelli's in the West Village, can always get hold of for me. I've
always dreamed of spit-roasting a whole pig, and once came very close
to doing this. It was for a Venice Beach birthday pool-party that was
to involve plenty of the Three P's: people, pork, and porn stars (the
third P's came as a suprise to me). Due to late planning for that
occasion, I had to settle for two 25-pound legs. Which were quite
tasty. But that's another story.
It wasn't the only time I narrowly missed eating a whole pig. The first
time, it was I who backed down.
When I lived on the southern
coast of Spain in the early nineties, I happened to read in a local
magazine that Segovia is the
self-described suckling pig capital of Spain. This information was like
a perfumed, engraved invitation. As soon as possible, I scheduled a
road trip up north. Approaching the large hill town from Spain’s great
central
plain, we briefly admired the high Roman aqueducts radiating upward and
outward,
then located the small, rustic hotel and checked in (food, as always,
taking precedence over sightseeing and comfort).
It was only 5pm, and
since dinner in Spain starts at 10pm, my then husband and I had
several hours to stroll around town and decide which of the myriad
restaurants would receive our custom for the evening. As promised,
there were many, many suckling pig restaurants in Segovia. Proud of
their star attractions, all the restaurants featured a refrigerated
glass compartment at the front of their restaurant for displaying them.
The “them” is where my problem arose. With little pink trotters placed
snugly on either side of little pink snouts and little hind trotters
stretched out to the rear, they lay piled on the counters—as if
praying or pleading—facing out into the street.
Facing
me. 
After an initial mild
discomfort with the anthropomorphic feeling of
the displays, I realized that the little pigs' poses reminded me of
Wiggy's (my 15-year companion, a Staffordshire terrier)
habit of stretching her back legs straight out for the “drumstick”
effect, with front paws placed on either side of her sweet, snuggled
head. In other words, my discomfort did not—as it virtually always does
in the face of a potentially fantastic meal—dissipate.
That night, dinner was truly memorable. The restaurant was dark and
medieval-feeling, full of old wood and stone, mysterious passageways,
winding
steps, and flickering, low-slung lanterns. I’d recommend my dinner to
anyone passing through that part of Spain. It’s even worth a detour.
When you dine in Segovia, just ask for Alubias Segoviana, i.e., the
local beans.