Love for Pig

As far back as I can remember, I've been a pork lover. One look at my current physique would clue you into this fact. If it's pig -- I'm eating it. Bacon, prosciutto, pancetta, pork belly -- it never gets old. A well-seared, double-cut pork chop, I'm in. Slow-cooked pork shoulder that falls apart and ends up shredded on a plate atop some black beans -- all over it. Whole pigs roasted over a spit until the skin becomes cracklin' -- bring it. Even the hum-drum of a marinated pork loin will beat the crap out of a chicken breast any day.

But my passion for swine is shared by millions and as Kevin from this past season's Top Chef knows, it's not just skin deep. Growing up in a Vietnamese household, it's difficult to escape the consumption of pig as it's found in almost every delicacy that came out of Mom's kitchen. Her crispy, deep-fried springrolls were stuffed with a wonderful mixture of clear vermicelli noodles, shitake mushrooms, sweet yellow onions and ground pork. There was caramel pork, a decadent stew of pork shoulder and hard-boiled eggs spiked with a healthy dose of nuoc mam that came piping hot to the table in a well-worn clay pot. But nothing compared to the Sunday morning dish known as xoi lap xuong --- sweet, glutinous rice steamed with Chinese pork sausages. Like American bacon, it could raise the dead (or in my case in the mid-90's - a college kid home from break with a three-day hangover). The aroma of pork fat making sweet love with fragrant rice would waft up the stairs, crawl below the door and reach far up into my nostrils inspiring brief, but brilliant dreams of never-ending dim sum buffets with bikini-clad vixens slinging pork buns and steamed pork dumplings into my gaping mouth while Tom Waits and I puffed away on a pack of Marlboros.

For the uninitiated, this dish is something incredibly common. At dim sum parlors, it's a staple. You might find it wrapped in banana leaves and served up tableside in small steamers or hidden below upside down glass bowls. But usually, these places (though meaning well) clutter the dish with too many other additions like woodear mushrooms to allow people to relish the simple perfection that is xoi lap xuoung.

Mom was almost religious about it (and it's a faith I've continued to practice unlike my abandoned Catholicism). It's about the perfect balance of rice and sausage. These chinese sausages were small red suckers that were real chewy, with lots of pork fat. Think cured chorizo without the paprika and more savory than spicy. The only additions were blackened scallions, chicken stock, Maggi seasoning and a dash of sesame oil. Don't let anyone tell you different. The scallions were brilliant because the slight burn would give off a hint of smoke. The chicken stock gave the dish its savory base with slightly rich sweetness (think of what happens when you cook plain white rice in stock instead of water). Sesame oil gave the bouquet an extra note while Maggi seasoning gave it a sharp saltiness. All of this worked in perfect harmony to deliver a dish that upon finishing one's plate, one would take the fork straight to the pot to graze -- where another prize awaited the hungry pork-lover. Like a good paella, this rice dish, when made by expert hands, produced a soft, but crispy crust that all would covet. Mom would actually serve the family the gooey, soft rice while savoring the crust all for herself. She would take the pot to the table with a small dish of Maggi on the side -- then go to town.

To this day, despite numerous attempts to reproduce this gem, to recapture this recurring memory of my youth, I continue to fail. And sadly, for dietary reasons, Mom rarely makes it anymore. It's a pity. But it doesn't stop me from trying and regardless of how the dish turns out, because the sausages are store-bought, I happilyo indulge my love for pig on a very regular basis.