Rooftop Gourmet

It’s been two years since I’ve started blogging, and I’ve sworn that I’ll never turn into “one of them”. My biggest pet peeve in the entire world: a food or wine blogger that uses his or her “blog factor” to gain special attention, free meals & drinks, or more importantly… reviews a restaurant that they have no business reviewing in the first place. They strut in (or probably call ahead), and announce their IP address to the hostess, like she gives a crap. Perked up at the table, they scan the menu for something that they recognize. After silently attempting to pronounce the word, “Valpolicella”, they order a glass of the house Pinot Grigio with a big shit-eating grin on their face and then Tweet about how bad it was. Fresh and creative menus confuse the hell out of them, forcing safe orders such as Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad. Then they have the audacity to shred and nitpick the poor salad apart because the portion size didn’t live up to massive dog bowl they  devoured at the Olive Garden the week before. Most of these food bloggers don’t even eat seafood because it’s too “fishy”. Don’t even get me started on that one. Just because you’ve recently DVR’d an episode of Iron Chef America, doesn’t make you Jeffrey Steingarten and give you the authority to criticize the texture of your Barramundi skin. Order a few dozen, cook a few yourself, then come talk to me. Oh yeah, and put away your damn cameras when you’re at the table. I don’t care whether you’re just trying to look important, or that you really believe that your mom, aunts, and sister-in-law really think that the food looks delicious when amateurly snapped in a dim-lit dining room.

That being said… I was so impressed with my dining experience tonight, that I felt compelled to write about it. Maybe it was to alert other Southie foodies, maybe it was a way to give certain South End and Cambridge eateries a heads up that I won’t be by as frequently, or maybe it was just so that I could get that first paragraph off of my chest. For whatever it’s worth, I’m proud to be a South Boston resident and when friends and family come in from out of town, now I don’t have to take them over the East Berkeley Street bridge for dinner. Local 149 has taken over the late Farragut House on P Street and has promised to change the way Southie eats and drinks. A promise that I’ve heard way too many times before , only to get my heart broken over a plate of crummy, deep-fried, God-knows-what and a warm glass of Woodbridge Chardonnay. Open for merely a week, I urged myself to stay away. Let them work out the kinks, don’t get your hopes up, and it’s too good to be true, I told myself countless times. This past Sunday, the snow melted, the weather was ideal and I was starving; I couldn’t wait any longer. I literally got down on my hands and knees inside of my Telegraph Hill condo and prayed to the food gods not to disappoint me again. We casually walked down East Sixth Street through the heart of South Boston’s old neighborhood in search for this new food joint. As we approached, we noticed the harmony between old homes, with kelly green, formica countertops and thirty-seven porcelain figurines covered in dust in the window sills, and the new homes, with fresh construction and an Audi SUV parked out front. People have said that a place like Local 149 would never last in a neighborhood like this but I have reason to believe otherwise.

We walked in and the place was hopping like a Sunday afternoon at the Beer Garden. Yuppies everywhere! The space was beautiful. A casual yet sophisticated area with a stainless steel bar, copper ceilings, and large black chalkboards everywhere. I noticed the daily specials written on the wall. If you ever saw the word, “littlenecks” written in chalk on the wall of the Playwright it was probably a derogatory rant on the inside of a bathroom stall. Here, it’s just one of the fresh, raw bar items that rotate on and off of the menu. We parked ourselves at the bar and started to look around. The first thing that I noticed was the bartender infront of us, hand-shaving ice for a cocktail, casually sticking a clean, plastic straw into the shaker, licking it, and throwing it away. The look on his face said, “yup…perfectly balanced”. This guy meant business. When was the last time you ordered a cocktail in Southie and the bartender actually cared about how it tasted? It was then that I realized that it was 6:45pm on a Sunday in South Boston, and I was ordering a pint of Pretty Things “St. Botolph’s Town” Brown Ale served in a snifter and sitting next to a couple wearing tweed blazers who are regulars at Cragie on Main. Somewhere in Southie, an iron worker named Brian O’Sullivan just threw up in his mouth. Coming from the wine business, I appreciated the quality, and value of the “by the glass” options. There were also a few eclectic, lesser-known varietals as opposed to the typical dirt cheap options marked up through the roof because it’s the only Merlot on the menu. Here’s a quick tip: If there’s a wine on the list that you don’t recognize… it’s probably there because someone really likes it and wants you to give it a shot. The wine here is great, but it clearly plays second fiddle to the suds. This is a craft beer lovers paradise! I was overwhelmed by all of the options so I left my decision up to the bartender, John who expertly matched my appetizer with a tall pint of Sierra Nevada’s Spring Glissade Golden Bock.

We started with the chalkboard special, the Cajun chicken wings which were lightly battered and served in a copper bowl with a small side of homemade ranch dressing. I was happy to see that the breading was minimal unlike other bar wings, and it even contained a hint of cinnamon which I thought was pretty cool. The outside was crisped to perfection while the meat was juicy and tender. Not your typical, previously frozen, deep-fryer ready chicken drummies that come in a plastic Hefty bag. From there, we moved onto an assortment of local charcuterie and cheeses that were served on a wooden Lazy Susan with house made pickles and other accoutrements. My grandfather is from Parma, Italy and I purposely won’t bring him here to taste the Johnson County Prosciutto in fear that he will be ashamed of his heritage. The fire-engine red deli slicer in the corner tipped me off that the cured meats were going to be served paper thin and the Champlain Organic Triple Creme from Vermont melted in my mouth with just the right amount of funky, buttery tang. While our second round was being poured, we sucked down half a dozen littlenecks that were shucked infront of us.

I loosened my belt and took a deep breath before ordering the Grass Fed Ground Sirloin Burger with Caerphilly Cheddar, Pickled Green Tomatoes, and Cherry Wood Smoked Bacon. I have to admit, I was pretty nervous because I am extremely picky when it comes to burgers and I knew that this could make or break my outlook for the Local 149. The bartender passed my first test by recommending that it be served Medium-Rare to which I responded with “rare please”. You know that a chef takes pride in the quality of his beef when he suggests that his burgers be purple in the middle. My second test was passed when the burger arrived and no one asked me if I wanted any ketchup. Why would you want to smear fake tomatoes all over your burger unless you wanted to mask the flavor of what you’re actually eating. The patty was very gently hand packed, well seasoned, and was tender to the bite. Halfway though, I actually shed a tear. This was far from your typical frozen patty that oozes grey boogers while it steams on the griddle. I held in my fingertips the last bite for a solid two minutes, hoping that it would never end. But it had to. It was time to leave. As we walked home, Siobhan strutted a good ten feet ahead of me because she was sick and tired of hearing me talk about how good the meal was. I think that I speak for all the foodies in South Boston when I say… “It’s about time!”. Watch out Pan Fried Pork Chop with Toasted Spaetzle, Mustard and Local Honey… I’m coming for your ass!

After boiling my first corned beef last St. Patrick’s Day, I decided that this year I would stick to a fresh steak. March 17th is a week-long holiday if you live in South Boston and I needed something hearty before a long day of partying this past Sunday for the parade. I went the traditional route (with a slight twist) last year, so this year was all about modernizing a rather boring meat and potatoes dish and turning it into something to drool over.

Growing up, I ate meat and potatoes in one form or another at least twice a week. That’s all my father still eats to this day, and my mother still caters to his dull palate. You’d think that an Irishman would love the color green, but if there’s so much as a speck of parsley on his plate, he wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot fork.

I decided to break out my brand new cast iron pan that Siobhan got me for Valentine’s Day this year. How romantic. She knows me too well by now. I also had a very festive bottle of wine to go with my meal, and got a chance to meet the winemaker, David O’Reilly earlier in the day.

The wine is the 2007 Owen Roe Red Willow Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon from the Yakima Valley, Washington (it’s not grown in Ireland despite the photographs on the label). The history behind the name Owen Roe lies in winemaker David O’Reilly’s Irish heritage. The winery is named after Owen Roe O’Neill, a 17th century patriot from County Cavan Ireland, where David is originally from. Despite an age-old clan rivalry between the O’Neills and the O’Reillys, the two families were united in the opposition to Oliver Cromwell’s English tyranny over Ireland in the 1600′s. The photographs on all of his wine labels commemorate sites in Ireland where O’Neill lived, fought, and died. David told me a cool story about one of his other wines called Sinister Hand.

Adorned on the label is a giant picture of a severed left hand which turns out to be his own family’s crest. It tells a story of a rowing competition between the O’Reilly’s and the O’Neills. Whoever touched land first after rowing across the lake was to be rewarded with the land he touched. Lagging behind, one of the kinsfolk grabs his sword to cleave his hand and tosses it ashore to touch land first. He won the land and later ruled over it as king. What a perfect wine, deeply rooted in Irish history but grown in a new, up-and-coming area to represent a modern day twist on meat and potatoes.

I didn’t want to mess with perfection when faced with an impeccably marbled ribeye, so I decided to keep the creativity to a minimum. I simply added a fresh, compound butter to the party, studded with freshly grated horseradish and sliced chives.

I softened a few sticks of butter and pulled out this giant, dirty knob that looked like one of my old baseballs that rolled into the corner of the garage, collected dust for a few years, and then was buried by my golden retriever.

Gross right? Peel a few layers off though, and a pristine, ivory colored flesh is revealed with pungently spicy aromas and a great way to add flavor to dishes, especially beef. I violently grated the entire knob into the butter along with some sliced chives before I stirred it all around to incorporate the shavings into every possible square millimeter.

I wrapped the fresh horseradish butter in plastic wrap and stored it in the fridge to harden while I prepared my potatoes.

I just got my knife sharpened so I felt confident leaving the mandolin in the cupboard to prep my potato gratin. I made hundreds of uniform, paper-thin slices of yellow, Yukon Golds until my cutting board looked like I ripped into a giant bag of Lays with my teeth.

I slowly started to layer each starchy wafer into a buttered casserole dish topping each level with grated Parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper.

Finally, the potatoes reached the top of the dish and I ended my potato journey with more cheese, and a few slices of butter.

The only people who eat more butter than the French are Irish-Americans; they have to flavor their boiled food somehow right? I baked my gratin in a 350 degree oven until the spuds were tender and the top was crispy and cheesy.

Meanwhile, I started heating up my new cast-iron pan over low heat until it started smoking. The good thing about cooking in cast iron is that the pan stays hot forever and the heat is evenly dispersed across whatever you put inside. I seasoned the steak liberally with salt and pepper and flopped it in the pan to listen to that sizzle that gets my mouth watering. The cast iron also creates an amazingly crispy crust on meats and seafood.

As the fat in the steak melted, the giant slab of beef started to fry in its own fat, before I flipped it over and finished it in the oven. I let it rest in order to allow for the juices to redistribute throughout the steak and pulled out an ice cream scoop to apply my compound butter. As soon as the giant blob of flavor hit the scorched meat, it started to ooze in between every inch of the flesh.

With all these rich flavors going on I needed some other component to the dish that would have enough acidity, bite, and freshness to liven everything up. I decided to stick with the Irish dinner theme and used a cabbage, except it was a fermented cabbage otherwise known as sauerkraut.

The organic, fermented cabbage, had just enough pop of sour juiciness that helped calm down my taste buds and cut right through the rich butter. As I sliced into my medium-rare ribeye, I admired the cross-section of the thick, potato gratin that looked like the side of a cheesy encyclopedia. I hadn’t cooked in a cast iron pan in years, so maybe it was the luck of the Irish that my steak came out perfectly. Every bite was so decadent followed by a sensual sip of the Owen Roe Cab.

Intense flavors of chocolate covered cranberries, black cherries, and licorice were the striking flavor profiles that jumped out at me. It was definitely plush, and elegant for a Washington State Cabernet. The tannins were like cocoa powder, and the wine was savory and rich. I couldn’t have picked a better wine for a St. Patrick’s Day celebration. I may even go as far as severing one of my limbs for a meat and potatoes dish like this again.

I got this crazy idea from a chef named Chuck who has a new show on the Cooking Channel. This guy is an absolute animal and I was cleaning the house the other day while watching him deep-fry a soft boiled egg. I got to thinking about the age old saying, “What came first? The chicken or the egg”?

I was immediately inspired to create a dish involving both parties. I picked up some cornish game hens which are essentially, baby chickens. I had the idea to pair baby chickens, fresh from their hatched eggs, with a chicken egg, that was undercooked and that in a way, represented an underdeveloped bird. In this sick and twisted, dream of a concept that formed in my brain, a beautifully structured dish was formed.

I did some butchering work on these baby birds that were about the size of a softball. I made an incision along both sides of the spine, de-boning the breasts but leaving the leg and wing in tact. I seared the half-birds, skin side down to obtain a super crispy crust and then finished them in the oven.

Meanwhile, I worked on my delicate soft-boiled egg thanks to Chuck. I simply boiled a dozen eggs for roughly four minutes before transferring them to an ice bath to stop the cooking.

The next step is the “do or die” moment of the process. Cracking and peeling soft boiled eggs is like open heart surgery. One misstep and your sink basin is filled with runny yolks and slimy membranes.

It took me at least half a dozen broken eggs before I settled down and channeled my inner Dr. Douglass Ross. Finally, I successfully peeled a few orbs and dredged them in flour, egg, and eventually breadcrumbs.

On the back burner, I had some heavy cream reducing into a thick, creamy sauce that was soon to be added to a mixture of sauteed shallots, garlic, and spinach.

Once the leafy greens got “creamed”, I hit the pot with a squirt of quality Dijon mustard to give it a slight kick of heat and intense flavor. After the cornish game hens were cooked throughout, I plated them in a bowl atop the Dijon creamed spinach and drizzled a quick herb oil onto the crispy skin.

It was a combination of chopped basil and parsley with some extra virgin olive oil that boosted the flavor of the baby bird. For the icing on the cake, I took the breaded, soft-boiled eggs and deep fried them briefly to ensure a crispy crust before adorning each half bird with a whole egg. Right before I served the dish, I took a pairing knife and made a small incision to release the creamy yolks that poured down the sides of the crispy hens and melded with the succulent spinach.

The dish was a mockery of chicken birth but a complete success when it came to flavor and texture. Each bite was loaded with the crispy, meaty chicken, topped with rich spinach and a seductive yolk that drooled all over every morsel.

The crispy skin and crunchy egg added a phenomenal contrast in texture to the moist poultry and smooth greens. I paired this dish with a 2007 Pierre Morey Bourgogne Blanc from Meursault, France. This 100% Chardonnay was lightly oaked but had tons of natural weight to the wine. It was light and fruity on the initial sip, but then finished with a full, creamy and sensual conclusion. The flavors of spiced apple, pear and buttered toast transformed into a finish with loads of acidity that cut right through the creamy yolks.

The young Burgundy was a perfect match with the youthful hen and the mature egg. But the question still remains… which one came first???

A couple of weeks ago, my friend sent me a fresh copy of the Sriracha Cookbook because of our shared addiction to the fiery condiment.

Sriracha, pronounced see-RAH-chah, is a seaside town in the Chonburi province of Thailand that is known for its tropical beach landscape, exotic tiger zoo, delectable seafood restaurants, and an affinity for hot chili pastes. The most famous is the Nam prik Sriracha which is a glowing red paste consisting of nothing more than piquant peppers, garlic, vinegar, sugar, and salt.

Once they began bottling the Sriracha, it boosted its popularity and spread to other countries such as Vietnam, which was a key step to starting its voyage to becoming an American obsession. In the late 1970′s, a man named David Tran came to America from Vietnam as a refugee seeking asylum from the post-war regime. He boarded a crowded Taiwanese freighter named Huy Fong and started his journey to America, months before arriving in Boston.

With very little money, Tran made his way out to the West Coast, and began making his version of chili paste in Chinatown, Los Angeles. He started a business called Huy Fong Foods and began selling his bottled chili paste to local restaurants and Asian markets in the area. The flashy red squeeze bottle adorned with a giant rooster to represent Tran’s zodiac sign, and a bright green top started to catch consumers’ eyes and by 1987, Tran’s Sriracha sauce had outgrown its Chinatown outpost.

At under $3 for a 17-ounce bottle, the hot sauce was an easy sell to tourists and visitors in L.A, that shortly took it home to show their friends. Surprisingly, the now famous Sriracha”rooster sauce” has never been advertised but has become a household name and a pantry staple, with production now exceeding 14 million bottles a year.

Once you taste it, there’s no wonder why it has such a massive cult following. It wakes up your taste buds without being overbearingly spicy. As the foundation of Thai cuisine has traditionally been focused on the delicate harmony of the four senses: spicy, salty, sour, and sweet; the Sriracha sauce is nothing short of just that. Now that I’m rifling through about a bottle a month for my own consumption, I decided to attempt making my own, homemade Sriracha.

Although I don’t recommend messing with perfection, the homemade version is rather gratifying once all said is done, because you can adjust the seasoning to your own personal preferences. From start to finish, it’s a week long process so don’t expect to rush home from the market and taste your own Sriracha tonight. I started off by slicing the tops off about two dozen Fresno chilies (red jalapenos) and peeling six cloves of garlic. I tossed them all into the food processor along with 2Tbs of garlic powder, 2Tbs of granulated sugar, 1Tbs of salt, and 1Tbs of light brown sugar.

I pulsed the machine until a coarse puree formed and the natural juices and liquids from the peppers were released. I transferred the mixture into a glass jar and left it on the counter at room temperature for one week. During this time, the mixture is sort of pickling and sort of fermenting, allowing all of the flavors to bind together to their maximum potential. After seven days of mouth watering anticipation, dump the mixture into a sauce pot with a 1/2 cup of distilled white vinegar and bring it to a boil. I simmered the mixture for about 5 minutes and then pureed everything in the blender until a smooth texture formed.

Once the sauce cooled, I poured it into a glass jar and sealed it tightly. My mission was finally complete. Homemade Sriracha will last up to six months in the fridge but I guarantee you that you’ll never be able to make a batch large enough for it to ever last that long.

I wanted to create a unique recipe using my homemade Sriracha that wasn’t in the cookbook, so I made a spoof on southern classic, shrimp and grits.

I started by making some rich and creamy polenta that was spiked with fresh, roasted corn. I figured that the sweetness of the corn would help balance the heat from the Sriracha. I roasted four ears in the oven and then sliced the kernals from the cobs before adding them to the food processor with my polenta.

I tossed in some milk and a handful of Parmasean cheese to get the polenta to a creamy consistency that I was looking for.

After peeling, and de-veining the jumbo shrimp, easily the most tedious kitchen task in the history of kitchen tasks, I flash sauteed them in a hot pan that I used to simulate a wok (probably the only kitchen tool that I can think of that isn’t in my kitchen).

In merely seconds, the crustaceans turned from a loose opaque color to a bright, juicy pink. During that transformation, I added a few heaping spoonfuls of my homemade Sriracha to the pan and tossed the shrimp around in the fiery sauce, which immediately clung to the shrimp. I served the shrimp in the center of a big mound of the creamy, roasted corn polenta and I topped them with a fresh salad of thinly sliced, sugar snap peas, sesame seeds, and sesame oil. The cool and refreshing, raw salad was a great contrast in temperature and texture from the polenta and the three components worked together in harmony.

I decided to serve a white wine with the dish as opposed to a red because I find that strong tannins in red wines typically clash with spicy foods. A fruity white is a much better match so I opened a bottle of the 2007 Mer Soleil Silver which is an unoaked Chardonnay from Santa Lucia Highlands, California. Despite the lack of oak, which usually gives a wine body and weight, this Chardonnay was naturally viscus and creamy.

It displayed aromas and flavors of ripe nectarine, tangerine and peach along with a zesty, spice finish. It was a perfect wine to celebrate one of America’s newest, most popular condiments and what sounds like a very interesting town in Thailand.

Someday when my kids ask me, “Daddy… what is heaven like?”, I’m just going to tell them, “Cochon 555″. My new favorite day of the year. Five chefs. Five pigs. Five winemakers.

A salvatory-gland trembling, culinary competition to promote sustainable farming of heritage breed pigs, and to support local butchers and farmers. As the founder, Brady Lowe, takes the Cochon 555 tour from city to city, he offers hard-working, local farmers the chance to showcase their products, grow their businesses, and team up with each city’s most renown chefs who turn their heritage pigs into delectable works of art. This is the epitome of farm to table. I showed up early and walked into the Fairmont Copley Plaza ballroom grinning with excitement and anticipation. The room was filled with other pig enthusiasts of all ages.

I knew that it was going to be a great event as soon as a cocktail waitress walked past me holding a massive mason jar stuffed with strips of crispy bacon. The smell of pork fat and hickory smoke wafted through my nostrils and soon enough I was following her around in a delirious trance. Winemakers lined the walls pouring their top tier Pinot Noir and Syrah (two extremely pig-friendly varietals) as more waitress swirled around me with more bacon.

A forty foot long local cheese buffet table, and a shuck-to-order Island Creek Oyster bar were just a few of the other delicious surprises. As soon as the doors to the main event opened, the crowds raced to the different restaurant stations to see what the chefs prepared. As a Cochon 555 virgin, I had no idea what to expect and I clearly wasn’t ready for the pork euphoria I was about to encounter. Whole roasted porchetta stuffed with dried peaches and pistachios, deep-fried hardboiled eggs wrapped in sausage, pulled pork tacos with homemade kimchi in steamed buns, crispy blood sausage, ham and waffle poutine with pig gravy, pork hock & drunken pineapple pizza, beer battered brains with pickle sauce, crispy chicharrones with spicy chocolate dipping sauce, and deep-fried plantains dunked in a massive bucket of pork fat were just a few of the options to choose from. One chef even served crispy bacon on a stick wrapped in cotton candy for dessert.

Failure to pace myself put me at a table in the corner with a racing heartbeat. Once the crowds got a chance to sample everyones dishes, they all voted and then gathered around for a butchering competition. I was front and center and watched in awe as one of the butchers turned a whole hog into thirty different cuts in about ten minutes.

My jaw was on the floor as he whipped out a hand saw and started sawing the hog in half. Bits of fat and bones were flying everywhere but I didn’t care one bit, no one did. It was a competition. After the stainless steel tables were adorned with loins, bellies, and chops, the pieces of heritage pig were raffled off to eager spectators. My raffle ticket was miraculously pulled for the grand prize of the evening: 45lbs of pork scraps from the butchering competition that was to be turned into homemade sausages. I almost died and went to heaven… oh wait, I was already there.

Before the night was over, as part of the finale, they wheeled out three huge carts with slow roasted Porcelet. Porcelet is a very young, strictly milk-fed piglet. I have never tasted such tender, flavorful pig in my life! After they wheeled me out of the ballroom on a stretcher, I stayed up late with hot flashes thinking about what dish I would have made if I was part of the competition.

A week later (enough time to shed the pork hangover), I created my pig-centric entry, demonstrating the animal’s versatility and vast range of flavors and textures.

I wanted to showcase the pork in three different ways starting with soft and delicate and climaxing with bold and powerful. I started off by making a pork consomme’, which is a term for a clear soup that has been strained over and over again to remove all of the impurities. I had a lot of time on my hands so this was very feasible. I threw a bunch of rib bones, and other miscellaneous pig parts into a large pot with some spring onions, ginger, chilies, and peppercorns before filling it with water and letting it simmer away all day long.

After about six hours, I rafted the pot and strained the liquid through a fine mesh strainer over and over again until the liquid was almost transparent. I tasted and seasoned the consomme’ until is was just perfect. The pork was front and center, while the aromatic ginger and chilies were slight nuances in the background.

 My second phase of pig was a pork dumpling. I created a mixture of ground pork, scallion, garlic, minced ginger and a splash of soy sauce that I spooned into the center of a wonton wrapper.

I simply “oiled” the edges with egg wash and folded them in half to make a perfect isosceles triangle.

When making dumplings, make sure the press all of the air out of the pocket so that they don’t burst when you’re cooking them.

 Instead of deep frying them (which would have been amazing), I boiled them directly in the pork consomme’ and even served them in the soup.

My grand pork finale culminated with a single bite of crispy pork belly. I cut the belly into small pieces that resembled a piece of sushi; the white, creamy fat was smeared with traces of belly meat below the skin’s surface.

With my chef’s knife, I cut slits in the top of the skin in a criss-cross pattern and seared it in a smoking hot pan until the top was crispy.

The pieces were essentially frying in their own fat.

After the tops were browned I braised the bellies in soy sauce until they were tender but still in tact.

I re-crisped up the skin under the broiler and served the bite of belly in the center of my bowl, surrounded by the steaming hot pork consomme’ with plump dumplings. The aroma of the soup was delicate and floral with notes of scallion and ginger. Each steaming, spoonful was so clean and gentle, with just the right amount of pork flavor and a kiss of heat on the finish.

The dumplings were slippery and tender, sliding off the spoon and into our mouths. The softly boiled pork mixture burst in our mouths and the slight taste of soy lingered on the palate. Finally, it was belly time! The outer skin was crispy like the best piece of bacon you’ve ever tasted, and the rest of the morsel literally dissolved on your tongue as the silky fat coated your entire mouth. It was the absolute perfect bite.

As bold and unctuous that the pork belly was, the dumplings and consomme’ were soft and elegant. It was a true scale of how versatile a pig can actually be. I didn’t want to overpower the soup with any big reds, so I chose to open a 2008 Marc Bredif’ Vouvray from France. This 100% Chenin Blanc is awesomely aromatic, with floral and mineral scents, along with some serious citrus and Meyer lemon.

I think that the zesty minerality worked nicely with the ginger undertones in the soup. Lots of tropical fruit like pineapple up front, and then the wine finishes somewhat creamy and sweet on the finish. I don’t know if my pork dish would have stood a chance at Cochon 555 but at least it will tide me over until next year.