We’re not afraid to tackle the big questions here at The Butcher. Just such a question has recently arisen over what exactly is Pulled Pork? There are two sides that have been taken in this debate, and the arguments are below. We’ll be appealing to some higher powers for a definitive answer, but in the meantime please feel free to consider, contemplate and weigh in.

Pulled Pork is BBQ. End of Story
Occasionally at The Butcher, we come across folks who are grossly misinformed about meat and its provenance. We found ourselves in just such a position this past weekend when we were confronted by an individual who made the specious claim that (to paraphrase) “pulled pork need not be barbecued, it simply must be pork that is pulled from any cut of the pig prepared in any cooking manner.” To wit, went this argument, “pulled pork” is not a cooking technique involved in barbecuing a pig, but instead is a method of preparing any pork cut.

Our bile was up at this suggestion as it is our contention that “pulled pork” is barbecue—end of story. And yes, there are any number of pretenders to the “pulled pork” genre and Paula Deen will happily tell you how to make pulled pork in a slow cooker. But this is no more accurate than calling sparkling wine from the Finger Lakes region of New York, Champagne. All sparkling wine is not Champagne just because it has bubbles, and all pork that is pulled is not pulled pork strictly because it’s been pulled. Sabe? Then there are people who will just call any old artificially carbonated white white champagne (they’ll even drink the stuff). But don’t get us started on Sandra Lee.

Pulled Pork is NOT Necessarily BBQ
I sense that over the course of this debate, I have somehow become positioned as a dilettante of barbecue. Admittedly, I am no expert in this arena, but as one who certainly appreciates the tender juicy goodness of slowly cooked pig, I feel that I am entitled to assert my humble opinion. It’s true that in some circles in the South Eastern United States, pulled pork is synonymous with barbecue. I just don’t think the story ends there.

I’d also like to state that the act of pulling or shredding pork (or any other meat) is dependent upon the cut of the meat as well as the cooking technique employed. Obviously, grilled pork chops don’t lend themselves to being pulled. Besides, why would one want to violate a perfect package of meaty goodness? But, I digress…

After a fair amount of contemplation,I have realized that the root of this contention lies plainly in the semantics of the term barbecue. The term itself can be used in a variety of ways: as a noun to refer to the meat, the cooking apparatus itself, or to a party that includes such food or such preparation methods. The term can also be used as an adjective to refer to foods cooked by this method, or as a verb for the act of cooking food in this manner. With all the flexibility of usage, it’s no surprise that this type of debate crops up from time to time.

Bottom line: It is completely reasonable to say that pulled pork is barbecue. Moreover, it is reasonable to say that pulled pork does not have to be barbecue. It is pork that is pulled apart prior to being served. There are many traditions around the world that employ the technique of slow cooking various cuts of meat by braising, or by traditional or convection baking, or by utilizing a slow cooker whereby the meat is pulled apart before it is served. I shudder to think of the reaction by any persons of Caribbean or Mexican heritage if referred to as “pretenders” of deliciously and authentically prepared dishes such as Pork Carnitas, or Ropa Vieja.

So there you have it readers. Let us know what you think in the comments.

The Shea faithful have more reason to be giddy than they have had in a long, long time. So long in fact, that Shea faithful is the most appropriate moniker for the bleacher-dwelling denizens of Bailout Field. And Thursday night in Flushing, owing to a two-hour rain delay and an impending-sweep euphoria that even thunder claps and pouring rain could not dampen, fans proceeded to eat the complex out of house and home.

The Shake Shack-theme park behind center field filled with soggy fans, who stuck it out for the eventual 9:05 p.m. watching highlight reels from the 1969 and ’73 seasons on the Diamond Vision (including one very surreal image of Tom Seaver shaking hands with Richard Nixon).

And up in steerage, the so-called “Promenade” deck where tickets can be had for the pittance of $25 bucks, the stadium throws the masses a bone, sort of literally in the form of a second Blue Smoke behind home plate (with another in the aforementioned theme park behind Center Field). This is also where Brooklyn Pilsner, easily the best beer to be had in the stadium, is available on tap. The specialty of the casa, though, is pulled pork. And by 7th inning the only smoked meat left in the park was the Phillies players. Blue Smoke reported that it was all out of pork, and Big Pelf dominated to such an extent that we predict that he will become the first Met to toss a no-hitter.

The sweep of the Phillies in which the Mets staff did not allow a run was the first such sweep by the Amazins in more than 40 years (the ’69 world champs were the last to do it). Who can blame the Mets fans for celebrating their run? In the last week their team has made the Yankees and Phillies look as hapless as those rivals have a tendency to make the Mets look. So they left their stadium delirious, singing, chanting, jeering Philly fans, and quite full of pork.

The Mets announcers need to refuse to do any more White Castle Pork Sliders promo spots while they still have some dignity left. They are forced to say repeatedly “Get your oink on.” Now it’s a tight game. Mets and Braves tied after 10. And … “Get your oink on.” It’s just not right. A dramatic Reyes stolen base and … “get your oink on.” Please have some self respect. The Wendy’s Threeconomics spots are poetic by comparison. Bad enough the Mets would take money to plug a pork product from White Castle, which is just about enough to turn anyone’s stomach, but the slogan just adds insult to injury.

But no matter what, the commercial is actually worse.

Fatty Crab's pig has taste. (all photos by Side Dish)

Cochon555, held this past Sunday at Hiro Ballroom in NYC and hitting other major cities on both coasts—Portland March 1, Seattle March 8, Boston April 5, D.C. May 31 and San Fran June 7—, manages to be just about the most exciting live festival going. It’s like an ATP for pork. In cased you missed the hoopla, the series goes like this: Five local chefs meet five heritage pigs and prepare them every which way. Throw in five winemakers for a night of pork-filled madness verging on a porcine version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Chefs Mark Ladner (Del Posto), Corwin Kaye (Fatty Crab), Bobby Hellen (Resto), Juan Jose Cueves (EighyOne) and Michael Clampffer (Mosefund Farm) made the most out of their 70-plus-pound pigs, concocting everything from whipped lard to “innard and head cheese” paté to cracklins. Yes, pulled pork sandwiches wrapped in foil flew through the air like end zone screen passes, landing in the hands of happy guests, and yes, the evening was capped off with bowls of popcorn that had been dipped in chocolate-covered bacon (yes, it was good). Fatty Crab took home top honors (based on a combination of the 20 judges’ decisions and audience votes) and Corwin Kave was handed some sort of gold statuette. He said something, too, but god knows what it was; he and his team, including Zak Pelaccio, had been guzzling PBR all night (a Pabst can adorned their Six-spotted Birkshire from Newman Farms; which, if you’re interested, is one of Britain’s oldest pig breeds and is an early-maturing black pig that produces a rich creamy meat with a hint of nuttiness — yes, it was all sort of like a contest Lord Emsworth might have been involved in, except at the end of instead of weighing the fatted pigs they eat them.) Fatty Crab’s pulled pork was the stuff dreams are made of, but Chef Juan Jose Cuevas of EightyOne deserves some sort of honorable mention for the pork meatball with a side of tripe he plated for the masses. (Cuevas worked with a Red Wattle from Holthaus farms, which is, of course, so named for it’s ruddy color and the wattles that hang from its chin. It should be noted that the breed is one of the most at risk in the US. It should also be noted that it’s delicious.)

photos after the jump.

HST was not actually present, but there in spirit, because this just looks like something he’d eat in the documentary Breakfast with Hunter with a fork in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other and in the sort of place he’d eat it at. This is just about the pinnacle of breakfast meat though. What you have here is the pulled pork, grits and eggs at the Lodge in Williamsburg. Not a light breakfast. It’s a mess, yes, but also just about the only thing you want to eat on a December morning that’s so cold the tips of your fingers are about to snap off so you duck into the warmest place that serves 2-for-1 Bloody Marys you can find.

(with apologies to Tony Hoagland)

The brisket writhes in the smoker.
The pulled pork dreams of returning to Memphis.

But when Adam Platt talks about barbecue, his voice is strangely calm.
Yet it seems that meat is rarely mentioned.

He says, The boxy whitewashed space looks more like a boutique beauty salon than a rib joint.
He says, The elf-like tables are set with chopsticks.
He says, You’ll find they can be quite palatable when soaked in yuzu.
He says, The well-trained, unfailingly cheerful staff are dressed in snappy charcoal-colored T-shirts and come at you in never-ending waves.

He belches as if recalling his childhood in Texas.
He shakes his head at a rub.

Flavored, tragically, with raspberries, he says and quotes his daughter. (“The ones at school are better, Dad.”)

He calls a desert a towering Buyanesque creation. This, he says, could tip even the most hard-bitten man into a food coma.