Last week, pork was the unintended theme of my diet and in some shape or form I basically ate it during every meal. You know how you go through spells sometimes when every piece of clothing you pick out is one color? My mom would tell you that’s a subconscious explanation for something. In that case, I don’t know what pork necessarily says about me but maybe it’s foreshadowing the fact that I’ll come back in my next life, circa 2085, as a poor little swine at the Flying Pigs Farm desperately dodging George Jetson chasing me around with a fork and knife. I digress.
I’m not sure where it all started. Could be the fact that I got a bacon cookbook for Christmas (you know you want one). Or maybe it’s because of our 4am New Year’s conversation based around the premise that no matter what the cuisine, pork is a consistent go-to and rarely dissapoints. Anyway, I don’t know what created such a thirst for the other white meat but it wasn’t quenched for days.
Before moving to LA, I heard a lot of hype from friends in New York about Cobras & Matadors. Sounds tough, I know – had to show my tattoo to get in. After having been to the Hollywood location and silently falling in love with their bacon-wrapped dates, the first thing I thought of in my yearning for pork was to take a stab at the original Cobras & Matadors in Los Feliz. Their menu was a bit different, but the Serrano-wrapped figs whispered to me and had they not been slightly overcooked, they could have been a close comparison to their bacon & date counterpart.
Somewhere within that same four day period I managed to convince a group of friends that the only option for lunch was Philippe’s, home of the French (yet not so French at all) dipped sandwich. Of course, everyone wanted to stay true to form and stick with the traditional sliced beef (lame), but a select few believed me when I said that pork was the way to go. Dipped perfectly in fresh jus and seamlessly balanced between crusty and soggy, I was in hog heaven round two.
Now this series of events may not necessarily be true to timeline since I was lost in a blurry pork haze, but I assure you they all occurred somewhere between Thursday and Sunday.
Continuing on, I was determined to make our Southern New Year’s tradition of ham-smoked blackeyed peas and cornbread but I kid you not, five grocery stores visited had not a single blackeyed pea to speak of. Severely disappointed but unwavering, the next option was, of course, to head over to the Oinkster. Pulled pork with onions and pickled cabbage, washed down Stella style. If you visit LA, I promise I won’t be disappointed if you skip seeing me altogether in order to hit up the Oinkster instead. It’s that good.
So the next day, by chance, one of said grocery stores magically stocked its shelves with blackeyed peas and really, I had no choice but to continue with my original plan. Pulled pork pot pie, a/k/a the 4P, a/k/a Quadrapea. . . No, no. I’ll stop there. Low blow, I agree. Anyway, whatever you want to call it, the pie I made was layered with BBQ pork, blackeyed peas, collard greens and cornbread. Oh, and bacon. I added that. One bite and I was back at the lakehouse.
But as pleasantly nostalgic as it all was, at that point I was finally finished with my pork-induced obsession and I haven’t been sucked back in since. I’ve been in recovery for a whole three days and though it easily could have happened, I’m pleased to announce that this temporary addiction hasn’t forced me to tip the scale. Success.
