Chicharron

Saturday, September 30, 2006

We ran everywhere this morning—to Mercado Abastos (the huge supply market) for tomatillos, onions, cilantro, and fresh figs, then to Blockbuster to turn in a movie, WalMart for the weekly groceries, and finally “the Chicharron Place,” a restaurant/meat market in Tlaquepaque that specializes in chicharron, or pork rinds.

Obviously, our lives veer from the exotic to the achingly prosaic, often in the same hour.

About fried pig skin.  There is much more to chicharron than one would guess at first glance. 

Huge rubbery sheets of beige pig skin are plunged into gargantuan caldrons of sizzling and spitting grease, to magically inflate and emerge as twisting, bubbly sheets, with the odd hair still attached.  These bacon-flavored monstrosities can be a couple of feet long and nearly as wide across—pork rinds on testosterone.  They are easily broken up into irregular size pieces that resemble a 3D relief map of West Virginia done in amber-colored Styrofoam, which describes their texture as well, except firmer and dripping golden lard.

You can order chicharron “thin” (deep-fried skin only) or “con carne,” which as the name implies includes some of the underlying meat, now fried to a heavenly frazzle.

More than just eaten out-of-hand as an artery-clogging family snack, chicharron plays a starring role in a number of classic Mexican dishes.

Which is why I was wrestling a huge, contorted sheet of greasy fried pig skin into the back seat of out little Chevy.  We live in a new development, and decided in a mad moment that a potluck block party (well, a “convivio de traje”—a get-together) would be a good way to meet the new neighbors.  (“Convivio de traje” is a play on words.  It sounds like “Black Tie Event”—traje can be evening clothes—but in our case it means “traer”—to bring something, like food.  Spanish is cool).