I’ve been forced to the conclusion that, love as we do our hams, bangers, bacons and chops, we Brits are funny about pork. Perfectly sane people who’ll happily wolf street food in the most ‘authentic’ of milieus, who harbour an ambition to try Fugu and will cheerfully eat takeaway sushi from a convenience store will blanch, gag and retch if served pork which is properly pink near the bone.
They’ll reel off a scad of ill-informed guff about trichinosis, some vague superstition about how it ‘tastes a bit like human flesh’ and then go off into a load of ranting cobblers about worms. Then you offer them a bit of home-cured salami and they go right off the rails.
Come on. That half of the population of the world that don’t reject pork out of hand have been salting and air drying pork for as long as they’ve domesticated the pig. What can be the problem?
“You mean you chop up a load of pork, stuff it in a pig gut and hang it outside for a month … in Camden Town”.