Oblations at the Shrine of the Pig-God, or, How I Ended my Vegetarianism: a kind of review

Two Saturdays ago at The Publican, I sacrificed my vegetarianism upon the altar of a hog-headed god. Consider this a eulogy.


It would be false to claim that the Publican is entirely unwelcoming to a vegetarian--especially one whose vegetarianism had been so magnanimous as to allow the occasional indulgence in seafood. My vegetarianism walked boldly with me into that expansive beer hall and was not intimidated: not by the heavily tattooed giant of a man who helmed the meat slicer behind the bar, reducing large portions of ham into ethereally thin slices, nor by the hustle and bustle of servers dressed in uniforms reminiscent of butchers' coats. My vegetarianism felt confident, I think, of its chances when it saw the decent listing of vegetable options and the more expansive listing of seafood dishes on the menu. Alas, the naïf did not know the dark, secret intent that lurked in my belly.

My dining companion and I sat at the disconcertingly low bar. Propped up on ice in front of and above us, a prehistoric-looking leviathan presided grimly over our feast like some high priest of the deep. The ritual began innocently enough. I sedated my vegetarianism with a dozen oysters. Fresh. Exquisite. A selection from both coasts ranging from ultra-briny, to sweet and melony. The shigoku were certainly a delight, but my favorite were a variety the name of which I do not recollect, but which had a pleasant and mild vegetal quality, followed by a slightly bitter anise exit flavor. The oysters were lovely, but they did not trouble the conscience nor the calm of my vegetarianism.

My vegetarianism may have recognized the extreme brevity of the remainder of its existence when the tuna crudo arrived. This dish was gorgeous in its simplicity. Very high quality raw tuna was sliced thin, drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil and partnered with a scattering of toasted pine nuts. That something so simple could be at the same time so unbelievably rich in flavor should not be a surprise, but, nonetheless, I found myself awed at just how harmonious that particular combination of ingredients turned out to be. I could have eaten plate after plate of that tuna, the freshness of which was enhanced, but not overwhelmed by the olive oil and set off perfectly by the delicate, butteriness of the pine nuts. After that dish, I was fully committed to eating anything that the server placed in front of me. I would have eaten rack of lamb, beef brains, all manner of offal and organ meat--anything he told us we should have. I had faith that whatever we were served would be sublime. And thus, my vegetarianism was propped up on the sacrificial block ready for the final blow. Its fate was sealed. It had lost.

Poor, sweet, vegetarianism, how it must have trembled with dread as the next course arrived. Like the tuna, the rillettes were drastically simple. Rillettes are a rustic, unassuming dish from the hills of France. Born out of creative necessity in the days before refrigeration, rillettes are salted bits of meat, traditionally pork, slowly cooked in fat until quite tender, and then processed with the fat into something similar to a pate. This paste is then put into a jar and sealed with a protective layer of the same fat. I have read (yes, on wikipedia) that it was at times a practice to audaciously decorate the dish with the curly tail of the pig when serving to guests. Let us all be thankful that my vegetarianism did not have to suffer any such indecent display: the deliciousness of the dish was enough to smother the poor innocent. Topped with a simple cranberry compote that perfectly cut through all the fatty richness while still complementing the natural sweetness of the pork. I confess that I did not stop at one bite of rillettes, no, I did not even stop at two. I ate as many bites as it took to finish the dish and to leave my vegetarianism a sad, brave, corpse, unable to protest as my dining companion and I brazenly requested more bread in order to sop up every last scrap of that delectable rendered pork.

That was not the end of the barbarous ceremony. I must admit, with a touch of shame in my inflection, but no real regret in my heart, that, once I had made the sacrifice, it was only too easy to revel in the next course: the potée platter, a veritable orgy of meat...no... no, to say all that is to overstate the case. It is, in fact, a crude lie. Truly, there was nothing obscene about the potée platter. There was no bold, glittery show, no hubub, no bold display of colors nor orgiastic excess that I might claim stunned or overwhelmed me into sacrificing the vegetarianism that had been my friend and ally for nearly five years. It was another simple, rustic, perfectly executed dish. I was not tricked into eating it; I ate willingly and thoroughly enjoyed every bite. Three samplings of meat, lay peacefully, guilelessly on the plate alongside some baby carrots and brussel sprouts, perhaps a bit of onion. They mingled on the plate in their own juices in a wholesome, and inviting sort of way. The vegetables were generously daubed with butter and cooked to the perfect tenderness. And the meats, a pork tenderloin, a pork confit, a bit of chicken sausage, the meats, too, were perfect. Nothing more, nothing less. The pink-centered tenderloin was every bit as tender as it ought to be; the confit was fatty, delightful, and rich, and the chicken sausage was excellent. There was nothing more, really, to be asked of the dish.

In the end, I think the sacrifice of my vegetarianism was a noble and honest one; a sacrifice for which I do not think that it would blame me too much. I put sweet Vegetarianism down gently, with carefully chewed and thoroughly enjoyed bites of supremely prepared food. On its website, the Publican self-identifies its food as "pristine product, simply prepared." This declaration, like the food, is understated. The product is pristine, yes, beautifully so. The preparation is simple, yes, simple and also perfect. The combinations are restrained, but achieve incredible things in the way of flavor and enjoyment. I believe that they meet their stated purpose in the best way possible.

So, for the sake of good grace, I toasted my recently departed vegetarianism with several beers from the Publican's expansive and excellent selection. I settled my conscience with an after dinner digestif, known only as "one of Kyle's creations." And, I let a small tear of respect well up in my eye as I enjoyed a dessert of almond financiers with lavender ice cream.

My feelings, now, are somewhat murky and conflicted. I feel some pangs for my lost vegetarianism, so much a part of my life, for a while. Indeed, I still cling to its principles and cannot seem to let it go altogether. Nor have I been entirely forthcoming about the sacrifice; to some this will be the first news they have had of this departure. But, in truth, I do not regret one bite I had at the Publican, and I cannot wait to go and experience more.

*It has been brought to my attention that the New York Times recently reviewed the Publican. I have not read the review and have no idea what they said about it. Any similarity in sentiments or expression here is coincidental.*