The Importance of Swine
(Warning - a few graphic images)
It’s 10am on a Saturday in Bushwick, Brooklyn and laid out on a wobbly, recently purchased Ikea table is a dead hog the size of a Division II linebacker.
We’re located off Knickerbocker and Harman in a slice of Brooklyn that hasn’t been completely sterilized by septum pierced baristas. If you strained your ear hard enough though you could hear the wisps of another Sailor Jerry tattoo being imbedded onto a recent NYU grad looking for work as an “Art Director.”
From underneath the sun bleached Puerto Rican flags still hanging from last years parade you’ll find a variety of entrepreneurs selling homemade ceviche and stereo equipment out of the back of their Honda Odysseys. I’m no scientist, but testing the PH balance in the air would most certainly produce high amounts of iron, vinegar and a dash of lingering crime. It’s the New York that I hope doesn’t completely fade into oblivion and transform into another enclave for trendy shops selling overpriced, over-branded crap. History would tell me this is wishful thinking.
Its a scene that most of the world only sees replicated through re-runs of Law and Order, or Spiderman. The skyscrapers climbing out from across the East River stand as an ambitious counterbalance to the flatter, less grandiose boroughs they cast a shadow over. But it’s often within these shadows where the best stories are found; the ones that remind us of the ebbs and flows of our own climb.
For me there is no setting so uniquely American in texture and substance as the one I’m standing in.
The morning is still overcast as an ensemble of invited guests slowly meander into the courtyard where Kyle’s birthday festivities are meant to ensue - intent on witnessing what would become the preamble to the day’s commotion.
We gathered around a multi-generation Guatemalan family who lived in the same building as they prepped for a party in the same courtyard. Their small brown faces were curiously amused by the collection of sunken, hungover eyelids flirting with their tabletop treasure. They watched as we shuffled over the wet concrete towards the lifeless blob resting on Kyle’s recently purchased and assembled table. All facets of this tiny courtyard would be shared today - whether we wanted it or not.
Positions are staked out as someone from the Guatemalan family graciously taps a keg and the beer begins to flow. A makeshift Bunsen Burner connected to a gas canister is sparked and is delicately waived over the pig’s carcass, singeing the bristled hair off it’s back. It’s orchestrator conducting a symphony crafted from instincts and repetition - not a culinary school.
Following the crisping, a sub-clan of Guatemalan mama’s all with the same stout and weathered build quickly assembled to do the butchering. Wielding and swinging machetes - they were the true conquistadors of this Saturday soiree, on an expedition, cutting a path through guts to glory. It was horrifying and mesmerizing all at the same time.
The courtyard quickly turned into a theatre of the absurd as a Telemundo soccer broadcast blared from a recently acquired Best Buy television (box preserved). Neighbors of Eastern European decent peered cautiously at the chaos from the safety of their own cordoned stoop. While stubbled face men that worked in accounting and law found the rhythm and courage in their hips to take some of the lovely senoritas to task with broken flamenco steps.
And somehow it all made sense.
Classic weekend debauchery had been ignited and there was no turning back; all that was left of an overcast morning was a half eaten deli roll. The alcohol and accents mixed as the matriarchs of the Guatemalan clan continued to butcher the pig like clockwork. Layers of fat peeled away and were thrown into gallon drums of hot oil. Fresh chicharron made it’s rounds by way of paper plates, followed by the ribs and then finally some loin.
Have you ever seen pictures of the Tawaf around Mecca? It’s a swarm of spiritual followers circling a single point, hypnotized by the belief that it harnesses the power of the Universe.
Maybe it’s overdramatizing the situation, but bacon does have a similar allure over the intoxicated.
It’s in this small nook in Brooklyn where the sacrifice of a farm animal fuels relief from a long week and creates a moment of introspection. It’s a blip of a scene in a city endlessly filled with them. But it’s here that social and cultural boundaries disappear for a few hours and we instead see a universal truth reflecting off half filled plastic cups of beer.
A plate full of salted meats, a fine partner to tango with and a supporting cast of characters to share the time with seems to be all that really matters in the moment.
Maybe it’s all that matters at any moment.