Metro NZ


At my grandfather’s funeral, we feasted on 10 whole pigs, roasted on the spit before being expertly chopped up by men whipping knives through the air so fast, you felt sure the tip of a finger must end up on your plate. The generous servings of glistening pork are a must at family gatherings, an affirmation that we’re all together and flourishing and healthy enough to gorge ourselves on a hunk of salty, fatty meat.

There’s a lot I love about Filipino crispy pata: the fact that it uses an underappreciated cut, the hock; the crispy skin; the way it’s always shared. I first ate it in winter at in Panmure. I gnawed on the bone in a porky haze, slowly coming to the realisation of just how much I had eaten and proceeding to half-heartedly chew on a couple of cold lettuce leaves in an attempt

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