Posts Tagged pork

Chicago, Part II: This Time, It’s Porkified

It’s time I got around to telling you about the second half of my visit to Chicago, culminating in a meal at that temple of pork and beer, the Publican, on West Fulton Market. I say “temple” without reservation (though they do take them) or irony (though I brought mine), for what do my people’s religious observances offer that this restaurant does not? Seriousness? Check. Graciousness? Check. Uplift, even transcendence? Check. Cheek-by-jowl seating? Check. Unlimited bread? Double-check.

But first to the matters preceding.

City Farm, Chicago

City Farm, Chicago

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Adam’s Spending: The Funeral Baked Meats Did Coldly Furnish…

Wah Fung's roast pork. $2.50, chopsticks not included.

Wah Fung's roast pork. $2.50, chopsticks not included.

… much of my week’s eating. Yes, a death in the family is a sad occasion, but it did curb my spending somewhat. I can by no means write it off as entertainment, but I also did not pick up the tab.

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A Surplus of Swine: Help!

pork_party2

Labor Day weekend I was hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law at the lake and they excitedly told me they’d ordered an entire pig from a local butcher. Maybe it was the fact that I’d had far more Jameson that I should have by 3 p.m. on a Saturday or that I was in the middle of reading the galley of a friend’s book about butchery, but I immediately said “I’ll take all the parts you don’t want!”

I’d forgotten about said parts until my sister and her husband came by on Friday and told me that they had a freezer full of swine innards with my name on them.

After the jump, an inventory of my pig parts.

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What Do You Do With some Manky Scallions?

these lurked too long in the bottom of the fridge

these lurked too long in the bottom of the fridge

What do you do with manky scallions that lurked too long in the bottom of the fridge, on a bizarrely cold and rainy day in the middle of June? Strip the grossness off them, chop them up, and make chili in a deep iron pan, of course.

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Chickpea Stew, and an Unexpected Guest

chickpeas

chickpeas

I began in the middle. Or, by cheating, however you want to count it.
On Monday night, I ate leftover ribs and potato salad from the weekend’s barbecue.
On Tuesday night, I took @listenmissy to the movies. She snuck me in a falafel sandwich. Later, she bought me a beer. I guess you could say that made it an eleven-dollar falafel, or a twelve-dollar falafel, including the small service fee I paid to preticket myself for the nearly-empty theater. You could even call it a twenty-four dollar falafel, given that there were two of us. You can call it what you like. I didn’t pay for food. (We saw Jarmusch’s “The Limits of Control.” In an interview in Film Comment, he said, “as a filmmaker I can’t not travel in a plane or drive my car or use a credit card, you know?” Consider this exchange my credit card, my plane travel.)
But now it was Wednesday night. I had to cook something. I had to cook something good. I had to cook something cheap.

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