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Outside Magazine October 2004

Outside's Guilty Pleasures
Hog Wild
I stuff my face with charred, greasy pork. Got a problem with that?

By John Heilemann

LIKE MOST MEN OF MIDDLE AGE and modest culinary expertise, I'm big on grilling animal flesh—though I don't restrict myself to summertime conditions or trivial cuts of meat. (Hot dogs? Please.) I have braved a hailstorm on Thanksgiving Day to barbecue a turkey. I've stood in half a foot of snow while smoke-roasting a Christmas ham. Through it all, I had never suffered even a twinge of remorse—until my girlfriend and some buddies bought me a Weber Ranch Kettle and my life took a turn for the compulsive.

The charcoal-fired Ranch Kettle is to conventional grills what Shaq is to peewee hoopsters. Priced at $1,099, with four wheels and a bulbous black lid, the thing is four times larger than a standard backyard rig. With 1,104 square inches of cooking space, it's vast enough to handle—should the need arise—half a dozen rib roasts or 27 game hens all at once.

Presiding over a grill is like commanding an army: When you have this much firepower, you feel compelled to use it. Once I had the Ranch Kettle on my patio, the charring of increasingly formidable carcasses began consuming my nights and weekends. The neighbors started to whine about living downwind from a smokehouse; my kitchen was reduced to a glorified pantry, used for almost nothing except storing condiments and beer. After several months on the Ranch Kettle diet, I felt like a human sausage—and my dog, after feasting on a metric ton of scraps, resembled an overstuffed ottoman.

Arguably, I should have stomped on the brakes. Instead, I hit the gas. Among barbecue fetishists like me, pork is the One True Meat. So, having already tackled loins, ribs, chops, and butts, I decided to devote a summer holiday weekend to roasting an entire side of pig.

Though my Brooklyn neighborhood has much to offer, butchered hog is sadly unavailable at the corner bodega. For that I needed to phone Jon Payton, chief curator at Dines Farms, in the Catskills, a purveyor of succulent, pasture-raised livestock. Not only did Payton have what I wanted; he was able to deliver it to my 'hood. The 50-pound beast was a sight to see: precisely half a Wilbur, split down the spine, headless, gleaming, alabaster-white. To inject it with a mojo brine—sugar, salt, water, orange juice, and lime juice—I went to a vet and procured a giant syringe. ("You're going to use it to cook a pig?" the vet's assistant asked. "Wait here. I'll get the doctor.") As I laid the torso across the grate, I couldn't help noticing a distinct resemblance to a Damien Hirst installation.

Seven hours later, the hog was good to go: tail charred, skin caramelized, flesh golden, soft, and sweaty. Hacking it to pieces on my countertop, I saw years of my life pass before my eyes. Still, whatever the damage done to my arteries, it was a trifling price to pay. The pork was so sweet, one dinner guest declared that it tasted like "pig brownie."

When the table was cleared, I had a moment to ponder. Perhaps the hog roast was a kind of climax—the achievement that would free me from the Kettle's iron grip? I went to bed that night in a blissful state: fat, happy, fully pleasured, seemingly sated. But then the next morning I woke with one thought: Easter, by God, is only nine months away. I wonder if Jon Payton can score me a lamb?

JOHN HEILEMANN is the author of Pride Before the Fall (HarperBusiness), an account of the Microsoft antitrust trial.

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