Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Letter from Portugal

Aug 13, 2006

It finally happened. I have had my dose of tripe.
There are two kinds of tripe and two kinds of people. In terms of people there are, as you so cleverly put, Fools for offal and people who wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. I think that I am in the former, not because I like it, but because I like the idea of liking it. There are, of course, some offal all-stars: sweetbreads and foie gras are as close to my heart as my lungs. In terms of tripe there is feathered and honeycomb. I can't tell you exactly where they come from in a pig's intestines but I know that I was eating honeycomb.
North Portugal and Porto particularly are famously known as "Tripe Eaters", ever since they gave all their pork to Henry the Navigator for a voyage in 1415, keeping only tripe for themselves. One realises very quickly in Portugal that the menu options can be pretty limited: grilled or fried salty pieces of meat and fish with potatoes and rice, maybe some salty lettuce. Before long you begin to look at a menu and to say "I haven't heard of that one before." Yesterday it was 'Dobrado com feijão branco" which is to say "doubled with white beans" Turned out to be a spicy stew of pork liver, tripe, hot peppers and beans served over rice (two kinds of offal equals doubled in this crazy country).
Delicious! To crown all, I was in a dive restaurant where you got soup, bread, a plate, dessert, wine and coffee for 4.50 Euros. It don't get much better than that.

- Morgan


This arrived in my mailbox last evening and was warmly welcomed. At that very moment I had other foods on my mind – people were coming over and I was in the midst of grilling a curried pork shoulder – but it nevertheless simultaneously excited me and gave me cause for lament. Granted, I am not looking hard enough, but I have yet to find my own butcher or meat market here in the District. Eastern Market will do in a pinch; but what I really crave is a butcher shop right down the street from me that I can stop by every day on my way home from work, get whatever cuts of meat or entrails catch my fancy and bring it home wrapped in yesterday’s paper.

Tripe is a difficult thing to like, and as Morgan puts it – much easier to like for the idea of liking it. I may have started out that way myself. Now I can honestly say, though, that I do like it. Like other offal, it is a unique and complex flavour; and a particularly feisty one that requires a certain culinary expertise to tame. I did not grow up an adventurous eater, but that has changed somewhat. Some things remain off the list though – I was once served chicken heart in a churrascaria and could not bring myself to physically put it in my mouth. I still do not think that I can today, either.

The last time I had tripe was at that bastion of New York Italian restaurants – Felidia in midtown. It was perhaps a different meal from Morgan's homely €4.50 dinner in the land of port, but I must say that I particularly enjoyed it. Felidia has a classical elegance, yet remains convivial, hospitable and all things heart-warming – much like that rare breed of graceful women with the uncanny ability to make everybody in the room feel at ease. My primo was superlative – a maccheroni chitarra with clams and speck tossed lightly in a spring onion pesto flavoured with borage. I did not know it at the time, but borage is a medicinal herb also known as starflower – with a sweet honey-like taste – and it rounded out the dish perfectly.

Then I had the tripe, a simple trippa alla romana – with tomato and pecarino romano – complemented with polenta. It was homage to the history of tripe: the food of the working classes given its place on the flashy, fickle stage that is haute cuisine. The thing about tripe is that I can never eat too much of it at one go. Tripe has a hearty, almost obnoxious, taste that overwhelms the palate and demands undivided attention. It knocks me over. It wears me out. I was a broken man at the end of that meal – senses overloaded, appetite exhausted – but a contented one regardless.

Of all the offal there is to eat, tripe may be one of the lesser lights. Liver in general is ridiculously good, foie gras unbelievable of course. Bull’s tongue is surprisingly delicious and delicate. And there are some among my immediate circle of friends I would kill just for sweetbread. The list goes on. But that night at Felidia I washed the tripe down with a robust Italian red and, despite wearing me out so, it made me happy and courageous enough to smile at the lovely lady at the adjacent table with the brown hair and the green eyes.

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