Taste: My Life through Food(51)

It still surprises me how many people don’t eat fish, but also how many don’t really cook it because they are intimidated by it. This is where the fishmonger is vital. Not only will you most likely get a premium product from someone who knows its source, whether it’s sustainable, when it came in, and how long it will last in the fridge (all of which I know can be found written on packaged fish these days), but the fishmonger will also be able to impart to you the knowledge of how to cook it even in the most basic way. It is this interaction between customer and purveyor that then makes our connection to whatever it is we are buying stronger. To me, eating well is not just about what tastes good but about the connections that are made through the food itself. I am hardly saying anything new by stating that our links to what we eat have practically disappeared beneath sheets of plastic wrap. But what are also disappearing are the wonderful, vital human connections we’re able to make when we buy something we love to eat from someone who loves to sell it, who bought it from someone who loves to grow, catch, or raise it. Whether we know it or not, great comfort is found in these relationships, and they are very much a part of what solidifies a community.

There’s a wonderful book called The Great Good Place by Ray Oldenburg. In it he writes about how we have two places that are crucial to us, home being the first and work being the second. But equally crucial, because it allows us to function better in the first two, is what he calls the third place. These “third places” are bars, cafés, and restaurants. They bring people from all walks of life together and allow for casual interaction with others with whom we don’t work and to whom we are not related. As we know, particularly after a global pandemic, this interaction is vital for the individual and society as a whole in order for both to function well and flourish. I would argue that independent shops, perhaps especially food shops, also fulfill this objective, for the reasons I’ve mentioned above, and the loss of them to a tsunami of chain stores is a tragedy for us all.

Walking into my local fishmonger’s, I am greeted heartily, asked about the children, chitchatted with about the weather and such, and told what catch they personally think is “lovely” on any given day. They then ask what dish I’m making. If I say I’m making a seafood stew, the first question is, “For how many?” and we are off together to choose from their icy displays any combination of cod, hake, haddock, clams, mussels, prawns, langoustines, and scallops for said stew, oysters for an appetizer, and samphire simply because I have to buy it if it’s available.I As each ingredient is chosen we discuss whether the size or count is sufficient for the number of guests. When everything is weighed, wrapped, and bagged, the fishmonger will always throw a whole lemon or two and a few sprigs of curly parsley into the bag as well as a small container of their homemade frozen fish stock. Yes, it has cost a pretty penny, but it is well worth it. We say goodbye knowing that in the coming days we will wave to each other as I walk by their shop and soon conspire about how much of any given fish, crustacean, or mollusk will be needed when I am again lucky enough to grace my table with their aquatic gems.

But I was writing about a pig.

So Felicity and I drove to the butcher shop in nearby Ridgefield, Connecticut, on a Friday afternoon; bought the suckling pig, which weighed about twenty pounds; and brought it home. It was our intention to put it on the rotisserie on the outdoor barbecue because it was too big to fit in our ovens; however, the pig ended up being too long even for the rotisserie. I did have a wood-burning pizza oven in which it would fit, but having never attempted to cook a suckling pig before, and worrying about my inability to keep the oven at a consistent temperature, I decided that would surely lead to disaster. We had but one choice: decapitation. I grabbed a large carbon steel knife and a cleaver, both of which had belonged to my paternal grandfather, to carry out the act. He had used them for the skinning and breaking down of deer he’d shot on hunting trips to Vermont, where he owned property. So, channeling the first Stanley Tucci, I cut the flesh away from the neck with the knife and dealt the severing final blows with the cleaver and lessened the length of our porcine purchase. We then impaled it with the spit and brought it over to the barbecue, where it just fit.

At that very moment, the school bus deposited all three children at the end of the drive, and across the lawn they came a-runnin’ with the added burst of giddy energy that all kids have on Friday afternoons.

“Hey, guys, come and see what we got!” I shouted.

“Is it the PIG??!!!” they screamed.

“Yes!”

They scurried up the patio steps, hurled their backpacks to the ground, and looked at the pig quizzically.

“Where’s the head?” they asked.

“We had to cut it off because it didn’t fit on the barbecue.”

“Awwwww,” they moaned. “Why didn’t you wait for us!?”

Felicity and I looked at each other.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think—”

“We’ll get another pig someday and then you can watch us cut its head off,” said Felicity ever so sweetly, sounding like a Hollywood serial killer.

They were not convinced.

“Where is it?” they asked.

“Right here,” I said, taking it down from the counter for them to ogle.

“Wow!”

They began to poke and prod it with their little digits, examining its mouth and eyes like frustrated, clumsy veterinarians.