The Other White Meat Takes The Lead

Last week began at my own table with pork tenderloin — and from there, it escalated.

I had a small dinner to celebrate a friend visiting from out of town, which is exactly the kind of moment that calls for something slightly more intentional than pasta. Two tenderloins, hard-seared and rosy inside, finished with an Italian parsley salsa verde and garlicky escarole. The pork was tender, savory, and just rich enough to feel like the word of the day might have been “cosseted”. Conversation lingered, plates cleared slowly, and the food carried its share of the evening. Pork does that. It turns dinner into an event without making a fuss about it.

The next evening I found myself in Manhattan’s Chinatown at Wu’s Wonton King, where a platter of Chinese roasted pork arrived lacquered, burnished, and sitting in a pool of its honeyed juices. We weren’t waiting a second longer. Chopsticks came out in full force. It didn’t disappoint. Sweet, salty, tender, unapologetic. Not polite pork. Celebratory pork.

I know what you’re thinking. Let me be clear: I love roast chicken. Truly. Roast chicken is a stalwart — reliable, comforting, and occasionally transcendent. A great roast chicken is never boring; it’s the standard by which a kitchen proves it has a soul.

But pork feels like an occasion even when it isn’t.

Chicken welcomes you home. Pork pours you a drink first.

A pork tenderloin, a pork shank — they invite sauces, greens, arguments about technique, second helpings you pretend were inevitable. You don’t accidentally eat pork. You plan around it, even if the plan is just “I deserve this tonight.”

So yes, the week belonged to pork. Not because chicken is lesser — never — but because sometimes dinner wants to be comforting, and sometimes it wants to be a little bit festive.

Last week, it was festive.