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Song of a Summer Pig
by Spencer Michlin
I don’t remember who had the idea for a luau, only
that it seemed the perfect thing for a New York summer night. There we
were, a dozen or so copywriters and art directors, close as only kids in
their first significant jobs can be, still too young and poor to afford
the beach homes where our weekend revels would continue in later years.
Someone secured the location, an Upper East Side
joint with a small patio, and arranged for the feast, the centerpiece of
which was to be a suckling pig complete with fruit necklace and oral
apple. We were assured by management that the chef was excellent and
that, while he’d never actually roasted a pig before, our trust in him
would be amply rewarded. Just in case, or perhaps because they knew us,
they insisted that we reserve patio and pig by paying in advance.
 New York summers are nasty. Sweat and soot combine
in most creative and unpleasant ways to ensure that your fresh clothes
are wilted by the time you hit the curb and that you’re a grimy,
ill-tempered wreck by the cocktail hour. The New York sun isn’t the
blowtorch that we endure in Texas, but it conspires with humidity, grit
and overpopulation to make it easy to understand why anyone who can
leave the city during the summer does so. But there’s a flip side to
this: Some days are temperate and clear and dry, and the visual feast
that is New York glows in the warm, clean light. With fewer people
competing, the city becomes manageable, and those still there remember
everything that drew them to its greatness in the first place. On some
cool nights you can even see a few hardy stars fighting their way
through the incandescence above the building tops. Our luau took place
on such a night.
 The men arrived decked out in summer whites or
Hawaiian shirts, the women in floral prints and off the shoulder tops,
many with flowers in their hair. We began with umbrella drinks suitable
to the occasion, and everyone was feeling quite buoyant by the time the
early courses arrived, by which point most of us had switched to wine
and beer. More food arrived, all of it delicious. More beer and wine,
too, and suddenly the restaurant owner stood before us, “Ladies and
gentlemen, the main event!”
 Grinning broadly, the chef stepped from behind an
umbrella. In his mid to late thirties, he appeared shortwaisted and a
little simian in his spotless double-breasted chef’s jacket, the
symmetry of his bald, too-small head broken only by a blonde and
ill-advised regimental mustache. He held a large silver platter on which
reposed a Pig for the ages. Golden and perfect, it surpassed all
fantasies. No movie food stylist ever created a more gorgeous dish.
Surely no real South Pacific natives had ever enjoyed a Pig like this
one. Our reaction was a spontaneous and heartfelt standing O. The chef
disappeared briefly, returning with a platter heaped with carved pieces
of the beast.
There were, I am sure, side dishes. Certainly there
was more wine and beer. All I remember is tender, smoky, sweet,
fragrant, juicy pork backed by crackling skin. I have never tasted
anything better in a lifetime of excess. All of us ate far too much
until finally even the heartiest among us threw in the napkin. About
this time, the chef returned for a curtain call, “How about that Pig!”
Another standing O, more boisterous than the first.
There was coconut ice cream, which no one had room
for, and then more beer and wine and, for some of us, whiskey. When we
grew weary of talking about the Pig, we pulled out the guitars and harps
we’d brought along and began to play and sing. Some of the songs were
spontaneous odes to the Pig. Right about then the chef showed up again,
visibly drunk, interrupting us for another curtain call, “How about that
Pig!” A seated O this time, notable for its diminished enthusiasm.
 More songs and more drinking. And then it was
closing time. As we gathered ourselves to leave, the chef appeared a
final time. Red faced, mustache dripping, barely able to walk, his
chefs jacket open and shiny with pork stains, he waved the hambone in
his greasy hand and slurred, “How ‘bout that Pig!” We booed and pelted
him with empty beer cans. I don’t know what this says about alcohol or
even about the fleeting nature of gratitude, but I do remember that, for
of all of our drinking, none of us got particularly drunk. Such are the
miraculous powers of a spectacular meal.
 Because of the season I’d like to share a recipe
with you. How I wish it could be for a roast pig, but I’ve never
attempted one. However, years after this event, when I had in fact begun
spending summers at the beach, a friend introduced me to the delights of
a slow-smoked fresh ham. To make one, buy yourself a smoker and a fresh
ham (an uncooked, uncured pork shoulder), follow the smoker directions
and let it slow cook for maybe eight hours. It’s easy, but that’s not
the recipe. A few weeks later, when I set out to smoke one for the first
time, a guy named Smitty from Rochester showed up, the guest of another
guest.
Told of the menu, Smitty said, “That would go
really great with Smitty’s Hot-Bird Sauce. I’ll make it if you like. You
probably already have all the ingredients in your cupboard.” I did and
he made it and, while I don’t think it works all that well as a sauce,
I’ve since discovered that it makes the perfect marinade for a fresh
ham. Let the meat soak in it overnight, then smoke it and serve the
results with a more traditional barbecue sauce or with no sauce at all.
The heat of Hot-Bird Sauce loses itself in the ham, bringing out the
flavor and making it delicious but not overly spicy.
Here ‘tis (don’t knock the cheesy ingredients until
you’ve tried it):
SMITTY FROM ROCHESTER’S HOT-BIRD SAUCE
Basic proportions:
6 oz. mustard
2 oz. ketchup
3 1/2 oz. Tabasco
1/2 cup white vinegar
1 1/2 cup brown sugar
3-plus teaspoons cayenne
1/4 cup orange juice
2 teaspoons, lemon juice
compliments of Madelyn Miller, the
TravelLady
Taken at Hilton Waikoloa Village and Kapalua Wine
Festival |
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