Everything I ate at dinner last night was astonishingly perfect, but the high-rise of pork belly and watermelon threatening to tumble into a pool of fragrant, sambal-spiked broth stole the show. I hadn't even finished the first bite before I propped the plate on my lap, shuffled my chair off to the corner and announced to the wall that when I finally succumb to all these years of abusing my body with way too much pig, I'd very much like my last meal on earth to be the pork belly that you're ogling in the above snap.
A rambling side note: A few weeks ago I was at a farm dinner at Berry Patch Farms
, which, as you can deduce from the name, is all about berries. But the farm also provides shelter and food (lots of it) for a pot-bellied pig named Bacon Bits, the family pet -- not bacon on your plate (although judging from his size, the brute could feed millions). I spent quite a bit of time hanging out with Bacon Bits, and for a seriously contemplative, albeit fleeting, moment, I actually thought about giving up pork. And then I marveled at my stupidity, looked at Bacon Bits and said, "Yeah, right, when pigs fly."
Last night's dinner, which was all about oinker, only reinforced that decision. Can you name the restaurant whose pork belly made me pine for still more swine?