Speaking of B-I-N-G-O cards, year-end goal lists, and vision boards, pork wasn’t on mine. I didn’t wake up that morning thinking, “After 20 years, today’s the day lips of mine’ll touch swine.” April 2025 would have made 20 years since the beginning of that four- or five-year dip in Islam. What I did wake up knowing, with an excitement bordering on the same delirium that leads me to believe the next M. Night Shyamalan twist will be worth the time invested, was that I’d finally eat at Le Chateaubriand, Iñaki Aizpitarte’s famed Parisian foodery. After years of following his chef’ing, devouring write-ups and interviews like they were funeral chicken or baby shower meatballs, and lamenting missed chances due to bad timing or worse budgeting, the universe decided I could be great.
Food, more than cultural exchange, more than the desire to see the sun set from mountains I first learned about from my dad’s National Geographic magazines, and more than simply wanting to leave Americans where I found them, has always been at the heart of my travels, each bite and every dish tying me closer to the people and places that create them. It was Andre Chiang’s masterpieces at RAW in Taipei, Seiji Yamamoto’s kaiseki wizardry at Nihonryori RyuGin in Tokyo, Lars Scharp’s minimalist perfection while sitting at the Chef’s Table at Lars in Amsterdam, and Mitsuharu Tsumura’s Peruvian-Japanese fusion at Maido in Lima.
It’s a beautiful obsession. One that demands reverence for the plate in front of me and the hands that brought it to life.
And yet, despite my foodie fervor, I’d held fast to a “no pork” policy for 19 long years. I’ve turned down Luther burgers from First Friday food trucks in Venice, jamón sliced from Iberian pigs by Mercado Little Spain master carver, Laura García Vásquez, and thanksgiving chit’lins cleaned by somebody’s auntie in the projects. That kind of negativity, the kind that denies my tastebuds pleasure, just wasn’t welcome in my life anymore. This was Paris, after all, a city that thrives on indulgence – for some, hedonism – and I had resolved to eat whatever came my way without a second thought – or so I told myself.
When I made the reservation at Le Chateaubriand, I didn’t write “no pork” in the comments, telling myself I’d push the limits for the night. It wasn’t until I was sitting at the table, the server asking politely if there were any restrictions, that my conviction wavered. I backtracked immediately, blurting out “no pork” faster than I care to admit. The shame of reneging on my earlier promise was instant and deep, especially since the beautifully adventurous eater sharing my table had smiled and said, “none” when asked.
And then it came: red tuna from the Basque region, dusted with ground tuna heart, and draped in a whisper-thin layer of pig fat. The dish, placed in front of the woman who showed up limitless, was damn near too gorgeous to eat, though I highly believe, in my experience, most gorgeous things love to be eaten. “You know you have to try some,” she said. She wasn’t wrong. This plate, maybe more than the few before it, was a testament to Iñaki’s genius. I cut a piece and immediately felt like M’Lynn at the end of Steel Magnolias when she screams “I want to hit something,” and I almost told the waitress to ask the chef to come out so I could slap him. Swallowing the first bite, I said out loud, “This will probably kill me, but it aint a bad way to go.” I was loud enough for the waitress to hear. She laughed. I imaged the pig fat fighting its way through my system like Charles Bronson in Death Wish. Could I really do this after so many years?
The answer, as it turns out, was yes. Yes, I could. And yes, it was worth breaking the streak. The richness of the fat, the umami of the tuna heart, the delicate balance of it all – it was what film critics said about Mary J. Blige in Mudbound – a revelation.
None of this is to say I’m diving headfirst into bacon cheeseburgers or Italian sausage with any dish in America. No, pork stateside still doesn’t feel quite right. But if you’re looking for me in Hanoi or Saigon, you’ll find me perched on a tiny stool at a corner restaurant, happily indulging in bún chả, the charred pork belly and caramelized meatballs calling to me like a high school friend spotting me four aisles away at Walmart or Kroger or the liquor store.
One of my favorite people to eat with was recently told she had to let go of gluten and my stomach wept for her. It’s one of my deepest fears – that someday a doctor will look me in the eye and say, “No more seafood,” or “you got the celiac” or “Dairy’s off the table.” I’d be dead within the week. For now, I’ve been ignoring my lactose intolerance with the same nonchalance I show those Pennsylvania toll charges piling up in my email. But don’t we all? But just in case that day ever comes, I’ve decided to eat it all now.
So here’s to pork fat in Paris, bún chả in Hanoi, and the fearless, boundary-breaking pursuit of joy on a plate. May we all be so lucky to taste it.
