“Is this mold on the side?” one woman asked, pointing to a white powder that lined the edge of some of the slices. “Is it safe to eat?”
Nick smiled reassuringly.
“Yes and it’s fine to eat,” he said. “You’ll be getting a lot of mold tonight. We have local, raw milk Camembert cheese featured in the first course and a local, organic blue cheese we’ll use for the dessert course.” The woman and a few other guests took the slice close to their nose first and inhaled the meat and mold as if their nostrils could instantly confirm Nick’s stamp of approval. The cameras panned and zoomed, capturing the expressions of the guests, who both wanted to act as if they were the recipients of culinary bliss for the camera and, literally, were overcome with the explosion of delicate and complex flavors on their palates. The phrases uttered through the mouthfuls of one of the world’s most prized meats varied, but conveyed the same satisfaction.
“Oh, wow!” one woman exclaimed as her husband simply mumbled, “Jesus!”
Another lanky man held his mouth open with apparent disbelief at the explosion of flavor. “Holy cow!” He said.
“No, this is no cow,” Nick said with a smile. “It’s a pig!”
The cameras caught the laughing faces as the group discussed the intense flavors and marveled at how very little salt they could taste compared to any ham cured in America. They walked closer to the centerpiece and pointed to the ham leg, asking questions of Nick as if he were a curator at a culinary museum. With everyone intoxicated by the taste of the delicacy on the table, Nick shared his vision for introducing a food culture to Georgia and the southeast.
“These hams, along with Kobe beef and Beluga caviar, are among the most prized foods in the world. The problem is that the real Jamón Ibérico de Bellota hams are only available in Spain and not available in the U.S. due to your U.S.D.A.” Nick made sure he pronounced the U.S.D.A. as U.S. “duh” for the camera, eliciting a roaring response from the group.
“The U.S. duh does allow one company to export a cheap knock off from Spain, and they charge a hundred dollars a pound for that!” Nick said. “But it’s garbage compared to the real thing. You see this black foot? You won’t see that on their ham, as the U.S. duh forbids it to be imported anywhere in America.” Nick pointed to the black hoof that pointed up to the ceiling from the Salamanca. “That black hoof is the only proof that you’re eating the real thing,” Nick added. “That you’re getting the real pata negro or black-footed Iberian pig that grazed freely on acorns, or bellotas as we say in Spain.”
The guests hung on each of Nick’s words and marveled at the dark, ruby red slices of ham, seeing it not merely for what it was (the leg of a pig) but rather an exquisite human accomplishment of mankind, in a class with the Egyptian pyramids, Picasso, or even the space shuttle.
“We have taken a beautiful animal, a pig, and made it into so much more. Something far more elevated than what nature created.” Nick said. “We have taken it and created art!”
“I’m not so sure the pig, or P.E.T.A. for that matter, would agree with that assessment, Nick,” one of the unsmiling faces said. Nervous chuckles surrounded the centerpiece as eyes fell to the floor.
Nick turned his gaze to the man and then cast a mischievous smile. “I’m all for P.E.T.A.” Nick said to the shock of his guests. “People Eating Tasty Animals, right?”
The group roared as the camera panned back from the lone vegan in the group to the carnivorous frenzy surrounding the pig’s head.
“If the U.S.D.A. doesn’t allow the black hoof to be imported, then where did these come from?” a woman asked. She was a senior vice president of marketing at IBM, and the $75,000 membership fee to network with so many other high ranking marketing gurus in this intimate setting hadn’t been an afterthought in her multi-billion dollar budget. Nick had known that would be the case for each of the contacts that Wade had cultivated from his executive recruiting days, and that once a tipping point of membership was achieved, everyone would want in. That’s exactly how it had played out, with all ten 50-Forks Clubs selling out within six months, each with its fifty paying members. Using the existing restaurant staff he had in each city, and with virtually no investment in the private meeting homes, Nick would rake in over $37 million dollars in membership fees the first year alone. He could afford to splurge on celebrity keynote speakers and extravagant dinners to create an over-the-top experience.
“Great question,” Nick began. “These hams didn’t come from Spain. They came from Spanish-breed pigs that were acorn-fed and cured right here in the Appalachian Mountains!”
Nick took in the wide eyes of his audience and continued.
“There’s a little island off the coast of Savannah called Ossabaw Island. A few centuries ago, my people, the Spaniards, decided to do a little exploring and came over this way,” Nick said smiling. “They brought pigs with them, the descendants of today’s true Iberian pigs, and left them on the island for the next wave of Spaniards to hunt and eat. At some point we stopped coming, and the pigs learned to thrive on the island on their own. The locals call those pigs Ozzies, short for Ossabaw.”
Nick stood in the center of the room with cameras both focused on him and on the faces of his guests. It was exactly where he liked to be, the center of attention, the focal point of culinary delights and connecting people to what he called real food. Not the tasteless garbage that he looked down on in America as people slurped and shoved paper bagfuls of trash into their mouths while driving, thinking they were eating.
“A farmer raised and cured these in the southern Appalachian Mountains,” Nick added, “just like my father did in Spain, and his father before him.” A producer for The Food Channel stood in the back of the room and signaled Nick, indicating they should sit. “Now please, let’s take our seats and enjoy a marvelous dinner.” Nick concluded. “We can talk more during dinner.”
As the members moved to one of the two very long rectangular tables on each side of the house, Rose walked to the centerpiece with John and several others who wanted a final glimpse of the star attraction. Rose zeroed her eyes on the head of the pig, taking in its expression and trying to decide if it had been happy or sad when it lived. She was far from a vegan, but she knew that P.E.T.A. stood for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Certainly any vegan would have sprinted far away from the centerpiece by now, she thought, as she eyed the lonely gentleman who had questioned Nick on the treatment of animals. As she thought of her conversation the day before with Angelica about factory farming, she leaned closer to examine the pig’s head with John and others watching. A cameraman followed her right index finger as it touched right between the pig’s eyes.
“What is this?” Rose asked herself and those around her. They all looked closely at the shape of the letter X that intersected right between the pig’s eyes.
“I dunno,” John said. “Maybe it split there during roasting or something.” He had long been a vegetarian for health rather than for animal cruelty reasons, but John couldn’t hide his grimace at the gruesome incision.
“Looks like someone marked it with a knife,” another man said as he hoisted a glass of champagne to his lips.
“Well,” John said, “I wouldn’t want that job! Marking a pig while he was still alive. I mean, look at the tusks coming out of that thing’s mouth. That thing could kill a man, easy.”