“It smells like somebody else fixed breakfast. It used to mean my mom woke up early to plunk flabby strips into her skillet so they could shrink into crisp ribbons of deliciousness. Now it means Ceepak and I are already back on the job. Eight AM Sunday, we’re at the Pig’s Commitment, Grace Porter’s place on Ocean Avenue. The whole building smells like a can of congealed bacon drippings with the consistency of Crisco. Ms. Porter, the proprietress, is elderly and elegant and swears she improvises ...her secret rib sauce recipe every time she whips up a batch. Her restaurant doubles as a mini-museum for porker paraphernalia. The walls are covered, the shelves crammed. Ceramic pigs, plastic pigs, piggy banks of all kinds, pig-shaped cutting boards. Each table is set with a pair of mismatched shakers where the salt and pepper come tumbling out of pig snouts. The decor is enough to make a vegetarian weep. Grace comes over to our table carrying my salvation: a freshly brewed pot of coffee. She’s tall and slender, even though the lady spends most of her day surrounded by fatty foods.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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