A search for the ultimate epicurean mouthful could arguably start and finish with suckling pig. Nick Hammond studies a timeless culinary tradition
On a hillside overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, the soft scent of sunbaked myrtle drifts in the air. It’s cooler up here and the breeze fuels the crackle of logs on an open fire. There’s an intermittent hiss of drizzling fat and the occasional nostril-stinging tang of roasted meat. The pezzo forte of this primal assault on the senses is the mesmerically, inexorably turning spit. Skewered on it is one of the world’s great delicacies, a deep-amber parcel of crispy sweetness. This is suckling pig.
Slaughtered while still on mother’s milk, suckling pig has been a roast of celebration for centuries. The Russians present a dish of it to the crew of a returning navy ship, the Chinese celebrate new Year with its sweet and sour, crunchy hedonism and the Puerto Ricans and Filipinos revere it as a Christmas special.
‘It’s our national dish,’ Mario Tirotto says proudly, wiping sweat from his brow. He’s the head chef at Li Ciusoni restaurant, atop the glittering Valle dell’Erica resort on Sardinia’s northern coast. ‘We have it with our families for special occasions—we call it pulcheddu.
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