Get in my belly

I’m intruding on Winnie’s blog to do a pork posting of my own. I’ve discovered over the last few years through my friends Kate & Ian that no matter what the latest trouble in my life is (gastric, romantic and the like), the only guaranteed way to feel better is a bit of roast pork. Or, actually, a whole lotta roast pork. So as only thoughtful friends can, with this in mind, they gave me a pretty sweet gift:

Too bad I can’t eat it. But I can sleep with it. You know what I mean. (Imagine how different Peanuts would’ve been if Linus had one of these instead of a silly blanket. Or even something like The Velveteen Rabbit.) Here’s how you get your own.

It’s the Year of the Pig. That’s what they’ve been saying. Well, I definitely could have figured that one out on my own. Try as I might, I can’t keep pork off my plate. At this point, I might as well have lard coursing through my veins.

The suckling pig brick at Boqueria (a place that is capable of some of the better meals I’ve had in the city, so long as I stick to the stuff they do best: pimientos de Padrón, txipirones, patatas bravas, montado de boquerones). We thought this could have been rendered a little less to retain a couple micrometers of that sweet pig fat.

I know what you’re thinking: Oh, that Winnie, always going on about her pork intake. I mean, what’s the big deal? She eats a lot of pork. Does she want a cookie or something? To which I say YES. A bacon cookie, please. Speaking of bacon, that’s what that flesh-colored bit in my succotash is. I stewed the corn, lima beans, and scallions in bacon drippings-flavored milk (Evans Farm creamline, in case you were wondering). And sautéed the sugar snaps in some of the drippings as well. Only the sformato is bacon-free. Actually, I take that back — I caramelized the scallions in the bacon fat too.

Pulled pork at Daisy May’s. Truly superlative ‘cue. More cleanly and expertly executed than Fette Sau, with sauce that, while on the sweet side, offers up a lot more complexity than the latter’s as well. The fixins are damn good too:

Counter-clockwise from 12 o’clock: bourbon peaches, Texas toast, pulled pork, coleslaw, mashed potatoes with gravy that I could swear was made from ground-up angels and unicorns. You know, if angels and unicorns consisted mostly of butter, cream, and lard.

And because no pig post is complete without the nose-to-tail action. This wasn’t actually for our party, but that didn’t stop me from gawking. And then recording it for posterity.

We can all breathe a sigh of relief after tonight (or at least once I’ve digested the pulled pork), because there will be a break in posting (and thus some respite from all this pig talk) while I’m in Kenya. Yeah, that’s right: I leave for Nairobi in the morning. Stay tuned for tales of lions, tigers, and <i>ugi</i>

Jeff Yang offers up a really compelling piece on how racism figures in this whole Chinese food scandal thing.

Squash blossoms from the Greenmarket. Sauteed. Salted. Devoured.

A summertime staple: pesto and whatever pasta I have lying around that picks up the most sauce per bite. Cinnamon basil from the Greenmarket. And yeah, I use a blender, which probably means I’m going to special pesto hell, but mortar-and-pestle style is definitely some kerfuffle I don’t want to even think about when it’s egg-frying weather outside.

Tableside at Degustation. That’s our soft shell crab he’s plating up.

The highlight for me was the lamb belly, but the cigalas make for some nice geometry, no?

Zongzi for breakfast from the street cart at the corner of East Broadway and Essex. Her cheung fun (rice noodles) are pretty good too (especially for a dollar), but the sticky rice reminds me of my mom’s, which is high praise indeed. And for dessert, we got a little action from the Egg Custard King.

Meatballs are the new black.

Brunch at Stanton Social was a pleasant surprise. Low-key and a couple notches above solid, food-wise. And plus, the eats are ridiculously photogenic. I mean, check this out (but you might want to put something protective on your keyboard before you drool all over it):

This is the breakfast bruschetta: perfectly scrambled egg atop what I assumed was tomato confit. And looks like there’s some cheese on there and some other fun stuff, but really it was so damn tasty I wasn’t really paying attention. And yes, that’s a mini lobster roll back there. Tasted as good as it looks.

From Hearty Roots. This week: cukes, zucchini, head lettuce, carrots, mizuna, and some of the best-looking thyme I’ve ever had the good fortune to come across.

A trip to Flushing on Sunday made me long for this dish from my youth:

And so I made some for dinner last night. Not as soupy as my mom’s (she let the tomato sit in the pan until it gave up all its juicy insides) or as well integrated, but still, there’s something about that combination of egg, scallion, and tomato that takes me back. I am seven years old. And I want spaghetti and meatballs, dammit. (Oh, stupid, misspent youth.)

On the way back from dinner on Sunday, we took a detour to the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory (unclear still whether this is the same as the Manhattan original), where I discovered

that contrary to what I had previously believed to be true, Black Sesame is actually a Regular Flavor, and Butter Pecan Exotic (and sorbet is French for “Non Dairy Dessert”).

Okay, I know this is getting to be a bit much, but if you aren’t waiting around for his posts like I am, let me be your Francis feed: another amazing post. The thing about the shit-ton garlic phase is TRUE.

I [finally!] made it out to the Red Hook ballfields yesterday afternoon, and what a glorious afternoon it was:

Somehow I’d persuaded myself that Red Hook was too much of a pain in the tochus to get to, but yesterday the MTA god must have smiled upon us, because we made the G-77 transfer without breaking a sweat (or only breaking a sweat because it was 87° out there).

One thing’s for sure though, the Red Hook trip requires a crew, because there’s just too much to try. I will be back. And I plan on going as often as possible, since this year might be their last.

Recent discoveries:

• A Voce’s duck meatballs are overhyped. They’d make a good meatball sub, but really, Frankies 457 classic ‘balls are what I’m craving.
• My ice cream hero has been biographied.
• Saw “Memories of Matsuko” at the Japan Society as part of the NYAFF and the Japan Society’s JAPAN CUTS. I don’t think any movie has made me weep so much — and this is an irreverent musical about a dead bag lady, no less. I must own it. And you must see it.
• My new favorite food blog. And yeah, you can bet the Reynaud book is coming soon to a bookshelf near me.

Hearty Roots continues to offer me an invaluable education in seasonality. I mean, who knew I’d be getting root veg all summer?

This week, from 1 o’clock: head lettuce, baby beets, radicchio, basil, Hakurei turnips, zucchini, and carrots, front and center.

My friend J got to be a judge at the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest yesterday and offers up this hilarious — and somewhat nauseating — blow-by-blow.

And laughably so. Um, WHAT?

[I have to say, "Ratatouille" might actually have [very slightly] altered my opinion of rats. I actually watched one on the platform at the 23rd st. F stop for about five minutes as it washed its face, hamster-style (do all rodents do this?), and then scurried past me. And without even a pang of revulsion! But maybe that’s because it was probably a large mouse (I’m pretty sure that was a furry grey tail and not a scary naked pink one I saw) (though have you ever seen mice in the subway?). Also maybe the one lone rodent pales in comparison to the veritable Nimh I walk past every other day on my way to the Atlantic Terminal subway (why do those rats have to run in large groups right under my feet and make all kinds of scary noises in the trash bags?).]

This reviewer is a moron. The comments under the review are awesome.

[Thanks for alerting me to this, Isaac.]