I ate a baby pig for dinner last night.
Because everything is in a name, and to attract otherwise squeamish diners, it is written on the menu as "roast suckling pig". But, make no mistake, it was a cute, newly-cooked, tiny baby pig. And even though it was young, i'm sure that little pig already had lots of dreams of growing up to be a big pig, a lifetime filled with eating corn on the cob and rolling in the coolness of wet mud. That dream was snatched from him, so I could taste his body.
By definition, a "suckling pig" is a piglet of between two and six weeks old, having fed only on its mother's milk, meaning its meat is particularly tender. Think Babe, the pig, golden roasted on a skewer for several hours, seasoned with butter and salt, his skin cracking to make cracklin. It is a level of food detachment I have rarely approached. Technically, veal is even more of a culinary abuse, as it is made from the meat of a two-day old calf (or one that has grown up in a wooden cage smaller than its own body, so as to avoid the biological disturbance known as "muscle").
Think of the uproar if a head chef took a four-week-old human baby, all cute in a little addidas onesie, skewered it through the torso, and roasted him for a few hours (I'm guessing the Chinese probably already do this, as they seem to thoroughly enjoy the most offensive culinary traditions). The collective heads of UNICEF just might explode if that were to ever happen. But a four-week old baby pig? Slice that fucker's throat, so people like me can enjoy the delicacy known as young, tender pork.
I'm not sure where i stand on the subject. On one hand, the baby pig, though no fault of its own, was 100% delicious. Soft, tender pork, filled with dense, yet subtle, flavors, all complimented with a fresh herb brioche and mustard sauce. It certainly created a memorable dinner. On the other hand, well, I was chewing on a six-week old animal's flesh. I didn't technically have to do that. I could have chewed on, say, a six-week old piece of broccoli. Or six-year old fish. It wouldn't have presented me with the same culinary delight, but then again, the cute little baby pig could have kept suckling, grown up, lived out his dreams, and eventually become a couple of slices of bacon on my egg sandwich, after a full life serving his own interests. I wish I were a vegetarian, but if I can't be, I should at least have rules. I can do without the baby pigs. But baby double-western bacon cheeseburgers from Carls Jr.?
Not a chance.