Aaron B

It could be argued that the pig is no less holy in southern Louisiana than the cow is in India, we just celebrate them in different ways. The Hindu tradition pays its respect to the sacred cow by worshiping it and protecting it from any bodily harm. The Cajun tradition pays respect to the pig by congregating enormous groups of friends and family, building a giant fire pit and roasting it whole. These gatherings are about so much more than just food, though. They are about finding a common connection, something worth coming together for week after week and year after year, and celebrating it with those most important to you. If that connection happens to be life alteringly delicious with the meat falling off the bone and skin so crisp it shatters, than why not? No restaurant in New Orleans better embodies this ritual with its unapologetic simplicity, respect for tradition and, most importantly, unbelievable food than Cochon, just minutes from the Superdome in the warehouse district. From the second you enter the door, there is no question as to what kind of experience you are in for. There is a big open dining room with one half boasting exposed brick and the other half vibrant reds and yellows. The servers are all wearing t-shirts (the same ones that can be purchased at the front desk) and the view from the exposed kitchen is hot and frantic. Yet somehow it all blends together in a way that not only works, it makes sense. The food mirrors this by taking simple rustic ingredients and creating dishes that are greater than the sum of their parts. There is no better example of this on the menu than the fried alligator with chili garlic aioli ($10). Chef Donald Link takes a staple in these parts, alligator tail, and using the French techniques that the cuisine of southern Louisiana has borrowed so much from, elevates it to places it has no right going. The slightly sweet and not overly spiced aioli adds a richness to the lean alligator meat, but does not overwhelm the delicate flavor of the reptile, which for the record does not taste like chicken. Link can do so much more than put his own spin on classics, however, he can recreate the classics the same way, with the same unadulterated simplicity they have been done in for generations. Cochon’s Boudain balls ($7) served with pickled peppers and stone ground Creole mustard may be the single most outstanding dish on the menu purely because Link recognized perfection and knew to leave it alone. Boudain is a Cajun sausage made from rice, pork, pig’s liver and, if you’re lucky, a little of its blood too. In this instance the mixture is shaped into balls, battered, fried and put on a plate. No frills and no fuss. The acidic bite of the peppers balances out the rich fried balls but the mustard, while it was delicious, was completely outshined by the housemade hot sauce (also available for purchase at the front desk). The entrees were just as impressive as the appetizers. The rabbit and dumplings ($19) was everything you could expect it to be. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this dish, chicken and dumplings is a southern classic where chunks of chicken are simmered in a rich roux thickened sauce with dumplings, that are essentially biscuits, scattered throughout. Think of chicken pot pie except instead of being in a crust, the crust is floating in it. This version, again, was a beautiful representation of a dish that has probably been eaten hundreds of thousands of times in the area, but given an upscale twist by substituting rabbit for the more traditional chicken. The highlight of my night, however, came slow roasted and shredded on a bed of cabbage and turnips. The Louisiana cochon ($22), whole roasted pork that’s been picked off the bone, was served exactly as it should be, tender and juicy with an intense meaty flavor that didn’t have to compete for your attention with the other elements on the plate. There were no costars here. There was the meat and then there was the supporting cast, which isn’t to say that the supporting cast wasn’t delicious, it served its purpose wonderfully offering a slightly sweet counterpart to an animal that is none too slender, but the pork stole the show. Served with an intense ham broth and some fresh fried cracklins, it was exactly what every pig should aspire to be when its time is up. The dessert may have been as good as the rest of the meal, I honestly do not remember. I was in such a deep and magnificent pork induced trance by the time it got to the table George Forman could have come in and punched my mother right in the face, if it happened after the cochon, I wouldn’t have known it. In a world where traditions seem to be dying fast, Cochon is a refreshing and welcomed oasis. It doesn’t have the most creative, or original and certainly not the most refined food in New Orleans, but who decided that those are criteria upon which a good restaurant should be judged? In the end a meal should make you feel warm, comforted and satisfied, and I’ve yet to have a meal at any restaurant that accomplished all three like Cochon.

When is the last time you’ve sat down and pondered the marvel that is that tomato in your salad? Or that egg in your omelet? Or that old steak in your freezer? The answer, for most of us, is never. We take these things for granted, as gifts bestowed upon us so that we may mindlessly consume them, never once giving them the respect they deserve. Barbara Kingsolver in her book “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” seeks to abolish this all too widely spread practice. Using the literary savvy that brought her to fame as a fiction writer, she documents a daunting undertaking; eating local for four seasons. Taking what the Earth has to give her, appreciatively, and making the most out of it. She begins with her exodus from the barren south west, Arizona specifically, to the fertile hills of Appalachia, where she, her husband, two kids, flock of chickens and donkey make a new home for themselves. She grows whatever she can and counts on local farmers markets to supply her with the rest, minus a small few necessities that would be otherwise unavailable. She allows the seasons to dictate her diet, something very few Americans can boast these days. Most impressively, though, is how she manages to address the political implications of the American food system without sounding preachy. She discusses the concentrated animal feeding operations—or CAFO’s for short—and their inhumane practices (far less grotesquely and more effectively than a PETA pamphlet does). She explains the plight of the small farmer just trying to get by in a system that caters to the mammoth conglomerates at their expense. She outlines the environmental implications of unsustainable agriculture and even tells the tale of the poor turkey, once a frontrunner for our national bird, now a seasonal specialty who’s traits have been so carefully selected over so many generations it’s no longer even recognizable as a descendent of its ancestors (or capable of having sex as it turns out). And she manages to do all of this with the warmth and compassion of a mother, not a paranoid conspiracy theorist or stuffy professor. She truly is the perfect spokesperson for the “localvore” movement. For many the concept of eating locally is an elitist idea. Only those privileged enough to be able to afford the exorbitant prices many farmers markets charge, or the time and space to grow all their own food, have the luxury. Kingsolver, along with her husband who wrote many politically and socially driven essays scattered throughout the book, dismisses this notion. They explain what we can all do to make a difference, even those of us living in major cities. Growing on porches, balconies or near sunny windows, participating in community-supported agriculture operations or renting a space in your local garden are all options. Eating locally does not have to be a life altering commitment, just putting forth some effort, seeking out the produce grown in local farms in your favorite supermarket, can make a difference. Though she did address all of these issues, her year of eating local was not a politically driven publicity stunt and her book was so much more than a call to arms. Her daughter Camille makes appearances at the end of each chapter, giving a young person’s perspective on the complex issues that were discussed, and suggesting recipes for how to deal with your seasonal produce. The book is filled with personal anecdotes and comedic commentary. And the way all of these elements are woven together to form the final text makes the reader feel more like part of the family coming along for the journey than an outsider looking in. Rarely do you come across a book that covers such a heavy topic in such an interesting and enjoyable way, while managing not to detract from the severity and imminence of the situation. “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” is not an expose, it’s not a diary and it’s not a cookbook. It’s a hybrid with elements of each and so much more, compiled in a way that makes it accessible to anybody that cares about the food going into their body or the people who worked so hard to get it there.

I’ve eaten meat for as long as I can remember, but in my short time on this planet I have not killed many things. Sure I’ve stepped on cockroaches and swatted my fair share of mosquitoes, but I’ve never come face to face with my future dinner and ended its life. Until now. I grew up in the hunting capital of the south, a self proclaimed sportsman’s paradise, but I never ventured to hunt myself. For the longest time I saw it as a cruel and barbaric act, not simply another step in the cycle of life. I never associated the act of eating with the act of killing, even though the two are inextricably bound together. Forget about the beef patty in your hamburger for a second, even the lettuce, tomato, catsup and mustard were once alive in some form. Then someone killed them and now you’re eating them. I know these seem like obvious statements, we all know that plants and animals are alive, but it’s something that we as consumers do not give enough thought. There is a disconnect between people and their food. It’s understandable that when the only chicken you’ve ever seen is in the freezer section stripped naked and vacuum sealed, you wouldn’t think of it as a once living creature. It’s a commodity, no different than a pair of jeans or a power saw. This is a natural thought process, but it’s one we should try to correct. I’m not preaching vegetarianism; I’m preaching respect, from both a moral and a culinary standpoint. The moral one may be a little more obvious, that animal gave its life for you and deserves to have this sacrifice acknowledged, but the culinary angle is no less important. Animals that you respect taste better. When you recognize what went in to getting that chicken on your plate your meal becomes more than just sustenance, and you can appreciate it that much more. Most people would have no qualms about devouring a chicken breast, but if they were given some sheers and a mature hen ready for “harvest” they’d run in disgust. Up to this point in my life I’ve been one of these hypocritical carnivores, and I intend to change my ways. I took my first step a few weeks ago. I was aimlessly wondering through Boston when I found myself in Chinatown. I walked into a random shop and saw a tank of live eels. Eel has long been my sushi fish of choice, but I had never seen one intact, much less breathing. They truly are evil looking disgusting little creatures. Before I knew it I was explaining to the fish man that I wanted mine given to me alive, I’d do the deed myself in due time. It was an awkward subway ride back with my bag looking like it was possessed by demons fighting to get free. I could picture my dinner escaping and landing in the lap of the old woman next to me. Luckily I got it back to my kitchen without incident, then the reality of the situation sunk in. I was going to kill this animal. It was alive and because of me it would be dead. It was a daunting realization and one that I did not take lightly. I stashed him (I decided it was a him because in my head it made what I was about to do easier) in the fridge to calm his nerves while I prepared the scene for the slaughter. I laid garbage bags down on the counter, placed a cutting board on top of them and grabbed the biggest knife I had. Suddenly my board was a scaffold and my cleaver a guillotine, it’s funny how situational meaning is. I checked on my dinner to see how he was doing. He was in a comatose state, breathing but otherwise completely lifeless. The time to strike was now. I took a rag and grabbed him, and then the trouble began. As if he knew what was coming, he snapped back to life and wrapped himself around my arm like a boa constrictor. For a second there I swear I was more afraid of him than he was of me. I instantly flung him into the sink and watched in horror as he darted for the drain. I grabbed him as he was halfway down and threw him in a pot to stay out of trouble while I collected myself and gathered my nerves for round two. This time as I grabbed his neck my roommate grabbed his tail, and together we held him down as I raised the knife. I came down in one hard swift blow about half an inch from his head, which looked more pissed off than scared. The knife bounced off like an eight year old on a trampoline. I was in complete and utter disbelief. Is this thing made out of Kevlar? I put everything I had into that swing and it was about as effective as digging a hole with a bowling ball. The next few seconds are a blur but once they had passed I was panting, my arm was exhausted, there was blood on the wall and the angry little head was no longer connected to the still struggling body. It hit me every bit as hard as I thought it would. My hands had ended a life. I silently acknowledged this fact, half heartedly congratulated myself for putting a stop to my hypocrisy, and moved on. I cut it up according to the instructions the man on youtube gave me and broiled it with a soy glaze. It ended up being the best sushi I’d ever had. In part because it was probably the freshest sushi I’d ever had, but mostly because I saw what went in to making it, I could appreciate the meal that much more. I intend to kill my food more often if the opportunity arises. Not because of some perverse joy I get from it, because it is the hardest and most mentally and emotionally draining thing I’ve ever done, but because I feel it’s necessary. I am as carnivorous as they come, and I don’t think it’s right to reap the benefits of eating animals without at least understanding what it’s like to make the sacrifices. A meat eater who can’t kill is no better than a man who doesn’t pay his taxes sending his child to public school. And I will not be that man any longer.