An apparently easy-to-miss Thai restaurant owned by chef Johnny Monis and wife Anne Marler that was named one of Bon Appetit‘s Best New Restaurants in 2012 and the joint where the dear godmother of our eldest son works, I really, really wanted to go. But, alas, in D.C. Washington, I was not.

Waiting in vicarious anticipation to hear tell of the night out (silently, cruelly hoping the meal would SUCK since, wah!, I’m a baby) I skipped the marital niceties when we fired up FaceTime later that night and went straight to the food talk.

Drunkenly holding her iPhone above her head and pointing to a hotel wall covered with Revolutionary War-era scenes — is that Ethan Allen? — I ask how dinner was. WOOOOONNDERFULLL! Tastes that were like all together, like you know, real friendly, and real, real good. Lots of flavor.

What the fuck? Well, what did you have?

Agggghhhh, you would have LOOOOVED it.

So, fish, or what?

Yes, fish. Snake and fish … or something. Paprika maybe. I dunno. But damn it was good. Ah! And Vietnamese Whiskey the one the meat was in. Or Burma maybe…

Sounds magical. Good night. Love you.

Mercifully the good folks at Little Serow list their menu (see below) each week with the tantric minimalism one might expect from a place that has only 28-seats and prides itself on being hard to find. Nevertheless, it helped at least let me know what I missed — and gave me good incentive to tag along to D.C. next time.

nam prik narohk
catfish / tamarind / chilies

tom kha het
mushroom / pumpkin / galangal

bla chorn lom kwan
snakehead fish / kaffir lime / rice powder

nam ngeow
pork / sour tomato / crispy garlic

naem khao tod
crispy rice / sour pork / peanuts

khanom paak khah
radish cake / preserved garlic / egg

si krong muu
pork ribs / mekhong whiskey / dill

So it was that I found myself hurtling down the highway yesterday in a minivan packed with kids, wearing a ratty, kelly green polo shirt that looks like it’s been around since about 8th grade, blasting at full tilt the Blaggards’ ballad “Drunken Sailor” (What do you do with a drunken sailor … Shave his balls with a rusty razor).

Destination: The inestimably wonderful Porter Road Butcher. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d find there, but figured it had to be good. Naturally, it was outstanding.

Rushing into the store like an IRA member being chased by a mob of Orangemen, I breathlessly announced: WE’RE MAKING BANGERS AND MASH. WHAT DO YOU HAVE THAT’S IRISH-ISH? Ooookay…well, bangers and mash are more English than Irish, but whatever. Try these breakfast Irish sausages, the bemused butcher suggested. We made them special for St. Paddy’s Day. Perfect! Give me 10! By the way, what’s in them?

Turns out it was a very green-tasting herb and aromatics mix that included thyme, basil, ginger, “and a whole bunch of other good stuff.” Well, that sounds weird, but sure, keep wrapping them up.

Sipping on Redbreast Irish Whiskey, we simply blanched the sausages, then threw them on a hot grill until they became a delicious golden brown, crackling and basting themselves in their own fat. We whipped up some potatoes and microwaved a bag of peas leftover from helping an unnamed someone recover from a recent vasectomy.

Irish eyes were smiling indeed.

It’s always fun to see people go bat-shit at the mere utterance of the word B-A-C-O-N. Bacon, bacon, bacon! And so it was with Gizmodo’s Romeo-like public declaration of love for Waffle House’s acclaimed Twitter-laureate today. In keeping with the well-established Internet paradigm of offering cutesy reciprocity, the gal or guy running Waffle House’s Twitter account (oh wouldn’t it be a delicious irony if that person were a svelte vegan health nut) requited Gizmodo’s love with this endearing Tweet-pic, no doubt taken at this morning’s Waffle House breakfast rush:

It’s been a hell of a spring, summer and start of fall. Of course, with global-warming doom clearly upon us, the seasons all now run together into one big sweaty mess. But I digress.

Shortly after assuming the surprise stewardship of a rejected Zingerman’s Bacon of the Month Club membership — which came after literally weeks of being forced under duress to eat, drink, and type for Pigs & Pours — I swelled to a girth far beyond healthy levels. (See above.)

Luckily, I got in touch with an Australian trainer who, through the magical powers of Google, whipped me back into fighting shape. But, alas, pork and booze had to take a brief hiatus.

So there was that.

Long overdue however is some official commentary on Zingerman’s BOTM Club, especially now that the Holidays are within spitting distance.

I will go into more detail in a second, but here’s all you really need to know: Nueske’s. Get it however you can. Online. At the grocery. In a dark alley, if need be. Whatever it takes. This is the Platonic ideal of bacon. Not to get too dreck-y, but every bite transports you to a crisp autumnal day, gathered around a cozy campfire with good friends, etc. Bottom line: This is among the best bacon you will ever shove into your greedy maw. (Sorry Benton’s, but we’ll always that time in St. George.)

The other bacons that arrived courtesy of Zingerman’s BOTM Club included a too-salty-even-for-a-salt-lover country bacon, and a perfectly serviceable pepper bacon from Arkansas.

As for Zingerman’s delivery and packaging theatrics, these Michiganders definitely get props. Hands down, they win for best mail-order customer service anywhere, ever. And the initial delivery is meant to wow typical recipients out of their daily home-work-bar-brothel routine with a nifty plastic folder embossed with a badass Bacon of the Month Club coat of arms. (Veni. Vidi. Voravi. “I came. I saw. I devoured.”)

Each delivery comes with a charming packet explaining the hog meat’s back story and is lovingly swaddled in a cleverly decorated foil packet stuffed with dry ice.

But Da-Yum, for what you get, that shit’s ‘spensive, yo. $100 for basically $30 (or less) of bacon. Put differently, if Mitt Romney reminds you of just one of the guys (or gals) at the local Country Club, then absolutely, knock yourself out and send a long-neglected relative — or 10 — the full six months of Zingerman’s BOTM Club.

If, on the other hand, you spend hours wondering whether you’re in the 47% or the 53%, just send a care package of Neuske’s Applewood Smoked instead. Perhaps include a DIY drawing of a goofy looking pig, preferably riding a motor cycle or toting an assault rife — something for maximum comedic/ironic effect.

And for that extra touch of class, you could always list your return address as Zangerman’s.

(*See “Graduate, The” [1967])

Enough about bacon! My arteries are starting to clog. Let’s immediately move onto things like, well, heavy cream. Specifically, heavy cream and whiskey.

In the spirit of full disclosure, let me be clear how much I dislike all brown liquors. There have been two exceptions. The first was isolated to a rather specific period of time that found me drinking Wild Turkey not because I enjoyed it, but because I was trying desperately to channel the spirit of two tragically heroic ladies. The other exception continues to this day. I won’t ever refuse an Irish coffee.

The father of a dear friend first introduced me to the concoction. Nearly twenty years ago, a motley crew of us traveled to sweet ol’Georgia for a weekend on a lake at the childhood home of said dear friend. His parents drank with the best of our group, which means they stayed up much later than I ever could. Morning after painful morning of that long weekend would begin with the smell of coffee brewing and the sounds of bacon frying. The following ritual would occur immediately upon entering the kitchen:

Coffee? Yes, please, of course. And then for the concocting: 7% coffee, 23% heavy whipping cream, .09% sugar, and the rest … Makers Mark. Talk about hair of the dog!

These Irish Coffees featured no fancy brown sugar or heavy cream trickled down the back of a spoon. Nope. By all appearances, this was a perfectly delightful, deceivingly simple cup o’joe. Only it wasn’t. By the time the bacon was ready, the first coffee had kicked in.  There was nothing to do but have another – and watch as the accompanying eggs WERE FRIED, FULLY SUBMURGED IN THE BACON GREASE!

But why wait for a trip to Georgia for something so delightful as Irish coffee? The weekend is within waving distance, and surely the kids can skip just one soccer game so the adults of the house can tie one on before 10 a.m. Come Saturday morning, make the original or try your own version. We brew up some of our favorite coffee from Aida Batlle, throw in a pinch of sugar, add whatever dairy-based product we happen to have on hand, and then fill up our favorite mug the rest of the way with Irish whiskey. Top of the mornin’ to you, indeed!

Why? I’m generally fearful of anything too sweet or gelatinous (like, say, meat jam). Nor do I tend to enjoy crock-potting meats back to their primordial state, all the while ensuring that the house will smell of smoked animal flesh for the next week.

But there I was on Saturday night, coaching my ultra-competitive wife to cook our bacon in small batches so the fat would render just so and later standing guard against the world’s most annoying toddler who maddeningly kept insisting that the slow cooker be turned up to full blast, or else turned off. (According to early childhood experts, he’s internalizing the ‘Go Big or Go Home’ instinct — or so I assume.)

Nevertheless, Rob’s Newcleus-themed, breakdance-infused bacon jam challenge could not go unanswered. And as expected, it brought out the worst in all of us: Namely sniping over who would cook Martha Stewart’s crock-pot version of bacon jam, then actually making it. But if the 1984 classic Breakin’ taught us anything, it’s that once the cardboard has been laid down and the beatbox turned to full blast, there’s no turning back.

Here was the matchup: Martha’s bacon-y jam vs. a recipe from the Homesick Texan blog + 1 cup of Four Roses bourbon. Martha’s recipe called for a  concoction of rendered chopped bacon slow-cooked in a foul stew of garlic, coffee, maple syrup and apple cider vinegar. The other recipe called for roughly the same elements, plus a few more apple-pie related spices, such as cinnamon and allspice. And the added slog of bourbon, of course, which I think was Rob’s not-so-secret ingredient.

Mix all this together in a slow-cooker, then let it go at whatever heat the youngest, grumpiest member in your family deems appropriate for four-plus hours. Whir it in the food processor and chill overnight. Or until Christmas — apparently bacon jam makes the ideal Holiday gift, according to literally every recipe for it.

The good news is that the bacon jam packs a flavor wallop. And as advertised there was a nice point-counterpoint element when smeared on a disc of fresh french bread, or better, a warm breakfast toast triangle.

The bad news is also that it packed a flavor wallop. You can only handle about a teaspoon of this stuff at a time, and so there it sits in the fridge days later, staring at us from a clear plastic container like an old man’s stool sample waiting to be analyzed by a team of epidemiologists. Will it still be there by Christmas? You bet.

So Rob conceded victory to Martha, mainly because the recipe tasted more like actual bacon. But was it really a victory? Seems like there’s a reason bacon jam is best enjoyed as one little cherry bomb on a restaurant charcuterie plate, and not in big home-made batches.

Differing opinions are welcome.

Ever since I accidentally discovered bacon jam a few weeks ago, I have been plagued by two recurring, and arguably very unfortunate, obsessions. The first is that I have been furiously researching bacon jam recipes across the Interwebs with the intent of actually trying my crude hand at creating such a gourmet masterpiece. The second is that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot get the mid-1980s rap-synth hit Jam On It out of my head.

For those of you who are too young (or old) to remember the influential role Newcleus played, don’t feel badly. It was an awkward cultural period marked by too much hair spray, the ridiculous concept of women’s shoulder pads, and an explosion of synthetic fabrics. But as far as music and dance history goes, neither electro-hip-pop nor b-boying would have evolved as it did without Nucleus’ single-song contribution.

So why has the idea of bacon jam been the Freudian trigger to roust my junior-high subconscious from its luxurious slumber?

Like a Burger King with a sack of Big Macs
We’re throwin’ down with the radical sacks

Hmmm……bacon, Jam On It, 1984, breaking…….it started to come clear to me…..

You gotta funk it up until it knocks you down
And when you’re funkin’ up, be sure to pass it around
Come on, let’s go to work

What we needed around here was some action – we at P&P have spent too much time lately chit-chatting – it was time to jam on it ourselves. Time to pull out the cardboard mat, throw it on the floor, pop the tape in the ghetto blaster, and watch the b-boys go at it.

So by the power vested in me, I issue the first Pigs & Pours challenge to my fellow b(acon)-boys / ladies and to our readership at large.  Pick your bacon. Pick your recipe. And jam on it!  To get this party started, I have grabbed Harris Teeter Crazy Thick bacon, my crockpot, and, in the spirit of all things pigs AND pours, a Bourbon Bacon Jam recipe.  There is an official Jam On (wikki wikki wikki wikki) Sunday night at our place.  Winners lauded, and losers shamed right here first thing Monday morning.

After carrying on about Zingerman‘s — home of Camp Bacon for Chrissake — I sent a beloved relative (who shall remain anonymous) the birthday gift of a lifetime: A subscription to Z’s Bacon-Of-The-Month Club. Three luscious installments of Applewood Smoked, Kentucky Dry Cured, and Arkansas Peppered bacon, all delivered to the recipient’s front door with each package timed to arrive for “weekend frying.”

What’s more, said bacon eater — an up-and-coming triathlete, by the way — devours a few slices of good old hog-fat every morning along with egg-white omelets as a hearty source of protein. It’s the one thing he eats that even resembles an indulgence.

In fact, in the week prior to this particular relative’s big day, his wife, commenting on the fine work done by P&P, asked when we were going to test some high-end Internet-based bacon purveyors.

Ha, funny you should ask, I thought.

In a cheapskate masterstroke, I would enroll him in Zingerman’s Bacon-Of-The-Month Club and then play 20 questions about whether the stuff is really worth $30/pound. Everybody would be happy. P&P‘s content coffers would overflow with critical insight, while a bacon aficionado would enjoy a gift that keeps on giving.

So he received the first package and many nice phone calls and emails ensued. Wow, you shouldn’t have, how nice, and so forth.

Fast forward two weeks later and I get an email with the subject-line “Bacon.” Oh good, they finally ate their first delivery and now I can wring a few posts out of my so-called present. Heh, heh, heh — I’m so smart!

Sadly no. (Grab tissue box and sit down now.)

The email read, and I’m paraphrasing, Sorry to have to break this news to you, BUT WE NO LONGER EAT BACON. Perhaps we could mail the unopened package to you or something.

Weeping uncontrollably, I typed my reply: No…sniff…just set it out on the street or give it to a homeless shelter. And…wail, moan…I guess you can just do the same thing when future shipments arrive.

(I later amended my altruistic impulses to say stick that shit in the freezer and I’ll eat nothing but bacon when I visit you next time — which goes without saying, if there is a next time. Actually, he lives in NYC, so there will be a next time. But I digress.)

So back to square one. Time to get on the Internet and search out some new bacon sources. In fact, I think it may even entice us to try exotic species like lamb and duck bacon.

Oh, and next year, you’re getting a case of fucking Cliff Bars.

With Mint Julep season upon us, a crack team of P&P researchers has devoted many boozy hours at our local mixology joint seeking inspiration for at-home cocktail recipes that could give the Kentucky classic a nice twist.

Perhaps we’re the last people on Earth to discover this, but the Whiskey Smash proved to be the perfect cocktail for what we were after. Or, as the drink’s creator, Dale DeGroff — known to drinking’s upper echelons as King Cocktail — reportedly said of the Whiskey Smash: “I served it to folks who proclaimed they would never drink whiskey.” In other words, it’s so smooth and delicious that even some P&P naysayers might enjoy it. (Here’s DeGroff’s recipe, from Gourmet magazine.)

While we certainly need no prodding to consume whiskey, the drink offers a nice Spring-filled sense of refreshment, lying somewhere between a Mint Julep and a Mojito.

Based on the menu description of four ingredients — lemon, rye whiskey, fresh mint, and simple syrup — we charged headlong into trying to recreate the drink at home. Okay, so we failed to strain out a few stray lemon seeds, we idiotically chopped (rather than muddled) the mint leaves, and our simple syrup consisted of some sugar stirred quickly into a kid’s cup full of water. Never mind that we completely ignored any sense of ratios or measuring the ingredients. Instead we kept throwing ingredients together and asking ourselves, “How hard could this be?”

While the taste wasn’t terrible (or maybe that’s just wishful thinking to make up for the quarter-bottle of 18-year-old Elijah Craig bourbon that we blew through), our version was all but undrinkable mainly due to the amount of cocktail flotsam that eddied around in the back of your throat as you tried to swallow.

I realized just how low we had sunk when when I noticed my mother-in-law looking on in a kind of muted horror. She clucked her tongue while gently suggesting that we consider enrolling in a bar-tending class at a local community college. “Don’t you think that would be helpful if you’re going to do a blog-ety-thing about drinks?” she asked. Hmm, I thought. Perhaps we could just drink more and absorb cocktail knowledge through literal osmosis.

Back to PDT. It’s either the greatest bar in the world, or it has the best PR staff ever known — or perhaps a little of both. In any event, an article from Esquire offers this Whiskey Smash recipe from PDT bartender Jim Meehan:

¼ lemon
¾ oz. simple syrup
2 sprigs mint
2 oz. rye whiskey

- Muddle the lemon with the simple syrup and the leaves from one mint sprig.
- Add the rye whiskey and ice.
- Shake and strain the mixture into a rocks glass filled with ice and garnish with the other sprig of mint.

And that’s it. This weekend, Whiskey Smashes for all!

Why is it that when guys get together they drink, then toss around ideas about the next great American start up, and then somehow wind up with bacon involved in the scheme?  Sheesh.  When I get together with the ladies, we talk about former college boyfriends (sigh), the quality of local public schools (comme ci, comme ça), and what we should eventually do with our aging parents (If you are reading this, mom and dad, we really do want you to move in.  I promise!).

In the spirit of what I said earlier, I give you Everything should taste like bacon.  Um.  No.  No, it shouldn’t.  Especially not my beans.