[Pigging by Wilfrid: December 23, 2009]
I was recently pondering the consistent difficulty of squeezing into Terroir on 12th Street at any reasonable time of the day.
Then, of course, I happen to be walking by one evening, and there's an empty stool just beckoning to me.
Terroir, of course, is the spiffy storefront wine bar with the zany ring-binder lists put together by Paul Grieco of Hearth. I was pleased to see the Cigare Blanc on the list of wines by the glass after enjoying it so much on my recent San Francisco trip.
Since this was a spontaneous visit, I wasn't planning to eat dinner. But a snack seemed appropriate, especially once I moved onto a red (Chante Coucou).
On a cold evening, it just sort of leapt out at me. Whipped lardo bruschetta. The pure white pig fat not in this case laid in delicate thin layers over something like a pizza crust, but thrashed into a creamy delirium and allowed to penetrate and enrich a slice of thick, hot toast.
The finishing touch? Either rosemary and salt or rosemary salt. Anyway, you get the profile. What a bite.
