[On Food, Drink, and Meat] Guanciale, by Danny Krupp

[Jamie Waldron]

This year, digging around in the open fridge at Cumbraes, I made a discovery.

I love bacon.

That’s not my discovery, but there it is: I love bacon. I’m guessing you do, too. What with its crispy edges, its thick streams of fat coursing through each slice, its rich saltiness; bacon is the promise of a large day. I love it enough to cook it on low heat—even though it takes forever—so that it doesn’t burn. I love it enough to infuse bourbon (another love of mine) with it. I love it enough to coat it in luxurious, dark chocolate (yet another love of mine) and bring it to parties. I love it enough to plot new twists on bacon concoctions with friends: bacon caramels and bacon marmalade, for instance. I love it just shy of joining a bacon of the month club.

Maybe you love it as much as I do; maybe you love it more. I don’t want to fight about it. There’s usually enough good bacon to go around, and when there isn’t, let’s you and I make a deal: you stick to bacon, and I’ll move on to something else. I’m just that kind of a guy. Really, go ahead, enjoy your bacon.

I’ll have some guanciale instead.

What’s that? Guanciale? Oh, that’s the discovery I alluded to. I don’t think you’d like it. Call it a hunch. First of all, you can’t even pronounce it, and why would you want to eat something you can’t pronounce? Second, it’s made from the pig’s cheeks or jowls, so it’s essentially face bacon. You’re not into eating pig face, are you? I didn’t think so. All I have to do is write “headcheese,” and your nose wrinkles. Third, it’s not smoked. No bacon substitute could ever go unsmoked, could it? Fourth, it’s leaner than bacon. You didn’t get into bacon to cut down on fat, did you? Fifth, well, do you really need more reasons? I thought you said you were into bacon, so stay with that. No one will think any less of you.

Look, if you’re just curious—not horning in on my stash or anything—and we’re just talking here, then maybe I can tell you more. Guanciale—put on your best faux Boston accent and say “G’wan Chahlie!”—is good. So, so good. It’s leaner than bacon, like I said, yet richer. It’s unsmoked, and subtler. When the wide belt of fat on it crisps up and melts on your tongue, you’re brought into a profound kind of pleasure. Cook it low and slow, flipping it only once (after the fat starts to kick out), and throw it on top of your chicken burgers with a thick smear of aïoli. Fry an omelette in the grease, then layer the cooked strips inside it. Chop it up and toss it into your carbonara. Stack it on breakfast plates and watch your best flapjacks grow cold, neglected beside it. Cook some for your boss and get that promotion; cook some for your lover and have that second honeymoon.

Yes, I’m romantically involved with a slab of cured pork. So what? My girlfriend isn’t jealous; she’s as deep into it as I am. We’ve started a polyamorous relationship, really, but this is no Vicky Cristina Barcelona. We’re all quite happy, thank you very much.

Now that I’ve talked it up so much, I gather you’d like to try some. Like I said, it’s not for you. Go ahead and try it if you want, but I think you’ll be happier with bacon. Your tastes are so much more conventional than mine, you know? But hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you fall in love with the stuff. Not like I have, but you know, maybe you fall deep enough in love to buy another package next time you’re in Cumbraes. Maybe you’ll even make a special trip for it. That’s fine. Good for you. But if there is ever a guanciale shortage, and it comes down to you and me, I won’t be as nice as I was with the bacon. I will fight you for it. And I fight dirty.


Danny Krupp, Fat Advocate (an advocate of fat, that is; not one who is fat)

--
Posted By Jamie Waldron to On Food, Drink, and Meat at 9/06/2010 12:16:00 PM