Everything But the Squeal

I have just finished reading a brilliant book called Everything but the Squeal, which I recommend to anyone interesting in finding out about the north of Spain. It is a hugely entertaining book by an English writer who lives in the relatively little known (outside of Spain, obviously) region of Galicia. Married to one of Spain’s few vegetarians, he is infatuated with his adopted homeland, a feeling I am starting to recognise. In order to celebrate his love of Spain and its food, he embarks on a year long quest to sample all the culinary delights that the humble pig has to offer. He travels around Galicia, seeking out all the piggy morsels he can get his hands on. Along the way he offers a huge amount of information about the history of Northern Spain and about the language and culture, meaning that this is a book that rises above its gimmick, and offers something far more substantial.

 

This is as much an ode to the pig as it is to Galicia and its people. Barlow brings to his subjects a wry humour that can only be compared to Bill Bryson at his most bemused and self-deprecating, and a keen eye for observation that makes this one of those books that you can sink into joyfully. Though I would add a couple of caveats; this is not a book that you should read on an empty stomach, because it will make you ravenous, and it is definitely not a book that would be enjoyed by sensitive vegetarians, though I imagine that more robust veggos out there would like reading it immensely.

His book conveys the joyous, eager gluttony that he embarks on over the course of the year, and I suppose that in addition to Bill Bryson, his passionate determination to jump in and try everything is reminded me of Anthony Bourdain. I’ll leave you with Barlow’s description of his experience at a cachucha fiesta, a village-wide celebration in which people cut loose, get dressed in ridiculous costumes, and eat a dish of boiled pig heads dispensed from huge cauldrons in the village square;

Before long Paco gets his prize. With true gallantry he turns and offers it to me. But I refuse, and continue to edge forward, more elbows in my back, reaching up as high as I can, outstretched fingers wiggling to attract the attention of the cachucha man. Pride demands that I claim my own dinner tonight, and after a good bit of shoving and stretching, I have a piece of hot pig in my hand. Instinctively, I hold it close to my chest, greedy with meat lust, and make my way to a dark doorway...I stand amid a pile of discarded cans and bottles, breathless, and suddenly ravenous. 

What I have in my hand is a lump of cheek. Such is the stickiness of its slow-boiled outer skin that it is stuck firm to the palm of my hand. It stinks of swine, a primal, shudder-making stink, like the deep, guttural elements of pork aromas stripped of their more delicate notes. But I have fought hard for this. I shove my mouth into the soft inner side of the fatty slab and gnaw at the flesh. It is intensely but not unpleasantly salty. Shreds of tender meat come away easily. Immediately there’s grease all over my face... In my mouth the sensation is abhorrent and yet bizarrely satisfying. The fat coats everything, inside and out. Cachucha! Cachucha! Cachucha!