In Praise of Pork, part III: Pulled Pork

It's little exaggeration to say that Britain has fallen for barbecue, and in particular pulled pork, in a big big way. When Tesco and Morrison and others have their own straight-off-the-shelf versions, you know it's no mere passing fad. Places such as Pitt Cue, Red Dog, Big Easy and Bodeans attract critical plaudits and queues in London; Bristol has its excellent Grillstock branches and festivals. And Cardiff, of course, has its very own Hang Fire Smokehouse.

I have been lucky enough to make pulled pork with the Hang Fire crew (click here for a report) and seen the 'low and slow' in action. (They were also kind enough to give me their their recipe to share with you lucky people). It's a beguiling thing, that gradual subtle alchemy of smoke and heat upon what was living muscle tissue, inexorably penetrating layer upon layer until the flavour is under lock and key and that telltale smoke ring is evident.

Pile it onto a plate. Heap it into a soft roll with some coleslaw or some sweet-sharp sauce tangy with vinegar. Beans, fries, 'slaw. Corn on the cob. You don't need telling how to eat pulled pork.

Pulled pork roll, Grillstock, St Nick's Market, Bristol

Pulled pork plate, Grillstock, Clifton Triangle, Bristol

Or you could allow it to fulfil its highest calling, its true destiny: as the foundation for a Cuban sandwich. You may have recently seen these take a central role in Jon Favreau's Chef, in which these sandwiches are instrumental in allowing the hero to rebuild his career, his reputation, even his relationship with his son. However, I can only assume that if the examples cooked up in the film were to meet their Hang Fire namesake, they would cower in abject and puny surrender.

For this, ladies'n'gentlemen, is El Cubano. El Cubano magnifico.

The pulled pork you already know about; the smoked ham (there's that double pork hit again) and smoked turkey which lie atop are a stellar supporting cast, and mustard mayo, melting cheese and a tart pickle marry to make a sandwich once met, never forgotten.

And now I'd like to tell you a story.

Recently my daughter was christened, on her first birthday. By one of those matchless coincidences it was also Fathers' Day. All planning was masterminded by my wife. I was told not to worry, everything would be just as I'd like it.

And I walked hand-in-hand with my little one, out of the church itself and across to the hall...

...to be greeted by Shauna and Sam of Hang Fire standing there, beaming. Standing there with tray upon tray of Cubanos for our guests.

With one kept aside, awaiting my pleasure, in all its magnificence.

Which pretty much made a remarkable day just that tiny bit more remarkable. I am told my pleasure was audible several streets away.

Now, I've got previous with El Cubano. Its first appearance was trailed by a typically enticing picture and over the intervening days I found myself thinking of it at inopportune moments. My working life can get pretty hectic, but the image kept popping up to say hello.

It couldn't taste as good as it looked, could it? And Friday came and we dashed down to The Canadian, and bingo. Back of the net. Eat my goal. Jurassic Park!

And it reappeared for my birthday months later, again on special for one night only. Each week I'd scan the newly-announced specials for the upcoming weekend. Each week there'd be plenty to tempt (it was still Hang Fire, dammit) but there were no further signings of my beloved. At times it felt you'd have more chance of seeing Lord Lucan riding Shergar, trailed by the crew of the Marie Celeste, than finding the damn sandwich.

And then it sank without trace (due to the space needed to assemble the behemoth, I'd guess) at The Lansdowne. Specials came and specials went, with one notable absence.

Never to be seen again.

When I rounded up my favourite dishes of the last year, I wrote: 'The move to The Lansdowne has not, as yet, produced another sighting of this behemoth, apparently due to the challenges of assembly in limited space. However, one lives in hope.'

Hope denied.
Hope spurned.
Hope left to wither and die.

A memory, a rumour, its existence passing into legend; destined to be a tale told and retold around winter fires, passed from one generation to the next, told and retold as shadows lengthen and hair turns to grey; its name enough to make those who had ever held it in their hands misty-eyed with wistful reminiscence.

Or something.

Look. Excuse the obvious and flagrant hyperbole. But the truth is, this sandwich makes me feel- for a few minutes, and against the impulse of every misanthropic cynical corpuscle I possess- that the world is that little bit better a place. Just that tiny, tiny bit. Cares recede, the flush of contentment is upon us.

Daft, isn't it. But that is precisely what our favourite food is supposed to do, however fleetingly.

No?