A Pig out of Place

A breezy, sun-soaked September afternoon finds me at a pig sagra. Il Buco, a restaurant in Nolita featuring Umbrian cuisine, strives to bring a little Italy to America with this annual pork roast, attended by serious foodies from around the city. It's Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year. I wonder if this is a coincidence or some twisted plot designed to weed out the irreverent, the sinners, those members of the tribe who prefer cingale to challah.
in downtown Manhattan

The air on Bond Street is thick with smoke, intense and overwhelming. There's already a critical mass lining the sidewalk, desperately seeking panzanella, homemade sausage and porchetta sandwiches. The enormous roaster is open for viewing, the unfortunate boar drawn head to hoof, stretched on a spit, rotating for the pleasure of spectators holding video cameras and canon elphs.

Therein lies the problem. In the Italian countryside, a pig roast is a normal Sunday occurence. Sagras are organized and attended by neighbors and include music, activities for children, raffles. The food is inexpensive and delicious. This is a promotional event for the restauarant, $20 a plate, $8 for a glass of wine. No refills. It's a little depressing, confirming for me the absolute futility of trying to duplicate the Italian rustic experience in mid-Manhattan. At least Florent, the bygone French diner in the meatpacking district, had included a petting zoo and a Marie Antoinette look-alike contest in their annual Bastille Day celebration. Come on, Il Buco; a little imagination, authenticity, or just plain fun, is in order.