Have you ever tasted pigs’ cheeks? No? Neither have I, but apparently they’re tender and delicious. How about Oreja de Cerdo? That’s Spanish for grilled pig’s ears, which are by all accounts akin to crispy beef. There’s a fancy name for pigs' hooves too but I forgot what it is. Nonetheless, there were a bunch of them peeking through the tapas platter placed squarely in front of me. To be honest, I wasn’t aware that any of these things even qualified as foodstuffs, but after last night’s dinner at a swanky restaurant in downtown Madrid, my mind was opened to a whole world of "food" I'd only ever seen eaten on shows like "Survivor". My co-workers and I were in Spain for a commercial shoot. It was our first evening in the country and everyone was anxious to try the finest cuisine Madrid had to offer. I leafed through the oversized leather bound menu, desperately trying to see something that didn’t contain pig. Anything. It was slim pickings and I wondered how many mini powdered bread rolls it would take for me to feel satiated and how I could eat an entire basket-full without drawing attention to myself. I was left with three options: Water, bread rolls or mushroom risotto. I went with the risotto. One Mojito and half a glass of red wine later, my dish finally arrived. I was ravenous yet resisted the temptation to nosh on the bread rolls so as to maintain my appetite. Moments later my appetite would be gone, perhaps forever. I stared at my risotto puzzled by the chunky bits protruding through the gooey rice. “What are these things?” I asked the waiter, poking at the meaty-looking chunks with my fork. He responded in Spanish, after which someone at the table translated “Pork giblets”. I swallowed the vomit that had impulsively raced up my throat and got to work devising a way I could give the impression of having eaten at least some of the dish. For a moment I contemplated returning the “risotto” but didn’t want to be saddled with the burden of explaining the concept of “kosher” or suffer the silent judgment of my “work buddies”. As the others devoured their pigs’ cheeks, ears, hooves and other expensive offal, I discreetly placed spoonfuls of my slop into a napkin that I had strategically placed between the bowl and myself—all the while laughing at jokes and making chit-chat. I felt like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. Before long I had transferred enough of the dish to give the impression that I’d enjoyed a generous portion of it. I carefully folded the napkin like a soggy envelope and tossed it under the table without anyone noticing. Mission accomplished. After a grueling two hours of watching everyone enjoy their pigs, we returned to the hotel. I took the elevator to my room. My stomach groaning with hunger, I frantically reviewed the room service menu. More fucking pig! I waited for what seemed like an eternity for my co-workers to disperse from the lobby and settle in for the night. When I reemerged I was thankful that none of my teammates were in sight. I raced down the street to a brightly lit pizza joint and inhaled two of the most tasteless cheese slices I’d ever experienced. Spain was officially pissing me off.
