Porchetta mia

I had to see what the fuss was all about. Time Out New York editors named the porchetta sandwich at Porchetta the best thing they ate or drank in 2008. This unassuming (but delicious looking) pork sandwich seemed an unlikely choice for this honor, so off went I to check it out before all of the other New York foodies stampeded the place and started bringing down standards. Porchetta, on 7th St. between 1st Ave. and Avenue A, serves up the meat in tiny premises no bigger than my current apartment. Most of the floor space is occupied by huge ovens which slow-roast the porchetta, the heady assemblage of boned pork loin, pork belly, aromatic herbs and spices, garlic, sage, rosemary, and wild fennel pollen.

I ordered the sandwich, which consists of slices of porchetta on ciabatta. Curiosity got the better of me before I even reached 1st Ave., so I took shelter from the snow under a store awning, unwrapped the brown paper (a nice touch), and took in the sandwich. It was smaller than I thought it’d be, not much bigger than my hand. The ciabatta was lovingly made, crusty yet yielding. With the first few bites, I concentrated on the flavoring of the porchetta. The seasoning was subtle, letting the natural flavors of the pork dominate, but the herby undercurrent still sparked strange rustic visions. I was a peasant farmer in Italy, taking my midday meal in a undulating field of wheat. The next few bites, I concentrated on the textures. The pork was drier than I wanted, but didn’t seem overcooked. Every now and again, I’d hit an especially fatty bit of meat and the pork would just start singing. I was less pleased with the crisped pieces of skin that were surprisingly, off-puttingly hard. Think pork jaw-breakers, folks. Overall, I enjoyed the sandwich. Perhaps you saw me there on 7th St., mmming and ahhhing over my sandwich, licking 70 percent of my fingers. However, the feeling was more like than love; Porchetta showed me something new but didn’t end up changing my life.