It seems that whole pig roasts are all the rage (I read about one today on Chez Pim, Esquire just deemed suckling pig as ingredient of the year and I hear that the Big Brooklyn Pig Roast held in my neighborhood last week sold out). And while not trend crazed, I won’t say no to an invite either.
This weekend a meaty fete was thrown by James’ caja china-owning coworker who was giving it a test run in his Bed-Stuy backyard. Home ownership has its benefits.
I had nothing to do with the pig prepping or any of the Latin-style accompaniments. All I know is that the party’s star came from Paisanos in Carroll Gardens and that asking the price would be gauche. Oh, and that it was brined in a garbage bag. I merely showed up with a six-pack and a hunger for pork. The yellow rice, tostones and soupy red beans weren’t too shabby either.
We arrived right after the butterflied animal had been removed from the coals, still pressed in its metal contraption.
It finally decided to get fall-like and an unexpected chill had set in. I hadn’t even thought to wear a coat (it was almost 80 on Wed.) so I stayed close to the caja china instead of sitting down properly. The best part of hanging out near the dying coals, was being able to crisp up fatty slices of skin on the fly. That, however, is not skin on the rack but a steak.
You could take such a creation in many directions. When and if I ever have the space to roast a whole beast, I envision lechon and a Filipino spread.