My Golden Calf Is A Pig
If idolatry was part of my spiritual practice, I would certainly pray to the chrome Pig-God of Macelleria di Eataly and show my respect to its high priest, Gaetano. I met Guy on Monday during my beefy adventure at Del Posto. (Yes, I owe you that story. But later.)
Today, I went by to pick up a pork belly that will inhabit my pancetta humidor (more on that later). There was a quick exchange of meat and hugs amongst the rush hour bustle. (BTW, who says there’s a recession? There’s certainly no proof in the great halls of Eataly. The only thing double dipping there is ciabatta in olive oil.)
Then I took the two kilos of piggie goodness for a quick lunch at Eisenberg’s (sliced tongue on rye with mustard).
When Jude saw Guy’s picture (her butcher is Jeffrey at Essex Street) she said, “He’s adorable, but he makes sausage like a Tuscan. I had a little conversation with him a few weeks ago. Adorable.”
I’m sure she meant it in best possible way.
I expect my cabinet de porc to arrive on Friday and my cured pork belly will be waiting.