Tim Hayward

Bringing home the bacon.

According to a recent article in ‘The Grocer’ the average Brit is now eating bacon three times a week and apparently the the six per cent rise in sales is down to the growth in popularity of “premium and organic bacon”. Good news for bacon producers but it should give foodies pause. Fashionably artisanal bacon from organic pigs can cost anywhere between twelve and eighteen pounds a kilo - about twice the price of the pork it’s made from

People have been salting since ancient Egypt. All over the world, from the beams of a Tenessee cabin to the lofts of Parma, salt pork hangs drying. It’s not some high-tech mystery. Any peasant with access to a pig and salt has made bacon in whatever hut, yurt or hovel they called home. Hell, my granny salted pork in a council house

So I decided to have a go. It can’t be that difficult

Day one: Meat.

Bacon used to be home cured in sides or ‘flitches’, which, I have to admit, tempted me. William Cobbett, in “Cottage Economy” (1823) reckoned that owning a flitch or two of bacon did wonderful things to the morals of the peasantry “The sight of them upon the rack tends more to keep a man from stealing than whole volumes of penal statutes”: which, in Camden Town, where this experiment was to take place, could be a serious advantage. In the end though, after a consultation with the butcher I choose a 2 Kilo piece of boned loin from an amply upholstered organic Tamworth.

Day two: Sweet

Preserving processes fill modern cooks with trepidation, dicing as they do with putrescence. Even something as homely as jam-making is a tense campaign of sterilisation against the terrors of mould and fermentation. Which is why, somewhere along the line, salting meat became one of those processes we gladly handed over to experts. Now, staring at a socking great lump of pigmeat which I’m intending to leave lying around for a week I’m suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous.

I decide to call in some advice and email Stephen Harris, Chef at the Sportsman in Seasalter. He’s become well known for his home-cured bacon and hams even going so far as to make his own salt. Within minutes he’s phoned back, given me his own recipe and for a sweet maple cure and made kind, reassuring noises. Emboldened, I pour 250ml of maple syrup over the pork, coating it completely and store it in the fridge overnight. Last thing before bed and first thing in the morning I turn the meat.

Day three: Salt

I didn’t realise there was quite so much to think about with salt but Stephen is full of helpful advice and unnerving zeal. We’re going to need a fair bit. Granulated table salt has chemical additives to help it flow freely, the dishwasher stuff is definitely not food safe and the sexy Malden crystal stuff costs the same per gramme as cocaine. Sea salt though, particularly the moist French stuff called ‘sel gris’, is pure, comes in big crunchy lumps and is surprisingly cheap. I lift the pork out of the syrup and rub 300g of salt into it like an exfoliating scrub. It's a beguilingly erotic experience. As I slide it back into the syrup I am troubled by impure thoughts.

Day Four: Metamorphosis

Stephen calls. It’s time to change the cure. I lift out the meat and rinse off the salt and syrup. There’s been a distinct change. What was a pallid and flabby piece of pig has darkened and firmed into a texture that, for some reason, calls to mind Gordon Ramsay. It is definitely bacon. I work in 300g of fresh salt and pour over a further 250ml of maple syrup.

Day Five: Obsession

The sea salt doesn’t dissolve in the syrup so, at least six times during the day, I plunge my hands into the cold liquid, lift up handfuls of salt from the bottom of the bowl and lovingly rub it into the meat. There’s something calming about a cooking process that spreads over days. In lulls at work, my mind strays to the fridge. I imagine the flavours working their way into the meat. There’s a strange satisfaction to it. My four year old is fascinated. I’ve been reading her ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and she’s become preternaturally obsessed with storing food for the winter. She rushes in from school and immediately asks if she can ‘rub the bacon’.

Day Six: Madness

Stephen says that, once the cure has been changed, the bacon can just stay in the fridge and only needs to be turned twice a day. Poor fool! How can he know? I’m now attending to the bacon at hourly intervals. At lunchtime I begin speaking to it. It is just before bed, when I’m setting the alarm for the 3 am ‘turn and rub’ that I realise things may have got out of hand. Fortunately, tomorrow is the end of the experiment.

Day Seven: Triumph

Washed clean of the cure and patted dry with a clean towel, the bacon looks like something in a C18th still life. The fat is creamy, the lean centre dark and lustrous. Bacon is unique amongst meats in its mysterious power to move the soul. Even sworn vegetarians can be swayed by bacon… if they say they can’t they’re lying.

Stephen says the bacon can be soaked for a few hours if you prefer it less salty. I snort in scorn. He says it should be allowed to mature for two days - I let it mature for precisely as long as it takes me to sprint to the corner shop for a pack of cheap, thick, doughy, white sliced.

I take off three slices with the the staggeringly expensive Japanese yanagiba knife that I’ve sworn to use only for sashimi and slap it in the hot pan. At first, I can’t work out why it looks so odd until I realise that it hasn’t immediately yielded a pool of milky water like a commercial rasher.

On an average day, the smell of bacon frying can make me salivate but the smell of my own has me howling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Finally I take my first bite. I’d describe the taste but that isn’t half of the sensation. The knowledge that I’ve made it yourself, the connection with centuries of food history, the towering feeling of having brought home the bacon. Without an ounce of hyperbole… I choked back a tear.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. Home cured bacon tastes better than any commercial product, the process is safe and easy and it saves money. There are also less tangible advantages. My daughter thinks I’m some kind of omnicompetent Pa Ingalls, a notion that I fondly hope might last at least until she discovers Atticus Finch and, of course, dear old Cobbet was right: now I have my flitch I feel much less inclined to to a life of crime.



		Bringing home the bacon. According to a recent article in ‘The Grocer’ the average Brit is now eating bacon three times a week and apparently the the six per cent rise in sales is down to the growth in popularity of “premium and organic bacon”. Good news for bacon producers but it should give foodies pause. Fashionably artisanal bacon from organic pigs can cost anywhere between twelve and eighteen pounds a kilo - about twice the price of the pork it’s made from People have been salting since ancient Egypt. All over the world, from the beams of a Tenessee cabin to the lofts of Parma, salt pork hangs drying. It’s not some high-tech mystery. Any peasant with access to a pig and salt has made bacon in whatever hut, yurt or hovel they called home. Hell, my granny salted pork in a council house So I decided to have a go. It can’t be that difficult Day one: Meat. Bacon used to be home cured in sides or ‘flitches’, which, I have to admit, tempted me. William Cobbett, in “Cottage Economy” (1823) reckoned that owning a flitch or two of bacon did wonderful things to the morals of the peasantry “The sight of them upon the rack tends more to keep a man from stealing than whole volumes of penal statutes”: which, in Camden Town, where this experiment was to take place, could be a serious advantage. In the end though, after a consultation with the butcher I choose a 2 Kilo piece of boned loin from an amply upholstered organic Tamworth. Day two: Sweet Preserving processes fill modern cooks with trepidation, dicing as they do with putrescence. Even something as homely as jam-making is a tense campaign of sterilisation against the terrors of mould and fermentation. Which is why, somewhere along the line, salting meat became one of those processes we gladly handed over to experts. Now, staring at a socking great lump of pigmeat which I’m intending to leave lying around for a week I’m suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous. I decide to call in some advice and email Stephen Harris, Chef at the Sportsman in Seasalter. He’s become well known for his home-cured bacon and hams even going so far as to make his own salt. Within minutes he’s phoned back, given me his own recipe and for a sweet maple cure and made kind, reassuring noises. Emboldened, I pour 250ml of maple syrup over the pork, coating it completely and store it in the fridge overnight. Last thing before bed and first thing in the morning I turn the meat. Day three: Salt I didn’t realise there was quite so much to think about with salt but Stephen is full of helpful advice and unnerving zeal. We’re going to need a fair bit. Granulated table salt has chemical additives to help it flow freely, the dishwasher stuff is definitely not food safe and the sexy Malden crystal stuff costs the same per gramme as cocaine. Sea salt though, particularly the moist French stuff called ‘sel gris’, is pure, comes in big crunchy lumps and is surprisingly cheap. I lift the pork out of the syrup and rub 300g of salt into it like an exfoliating scrub. It's a beguilingly erotic experience. As I slide it back into the syrup I am troubled by impure thoughts. Day Four: Metamorphosis Stephen calls. It’s time to change the cure. I lift out the meat and rinse off the salt and syrup. There’s been a distinct change. What was a pallid and flabby piece of pig has darkened and firmed into a texture that, for some reason, calls to mind Gordon Ramsay. It is definitely bacon. I work in 300g of fresh salt and pour over a further 250ml of maple syrup. Day Five: Obsession The sea salt doesn’t dissolve in the syrup so, at least six times during the day, I plunge my hands into the cold liquid, lift up handfuls of salt from the bottom of the bowl and lovingly rub it into the meat. There’s something calming about a cooking process that spreads over days. In lulls at work, my mind strays to the fridge. I imagine the flavours working their way into the meat. There’s a strange satisfaction to it. My four year old is fascinated. I’ve been reading her ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and she’s become preternaturally obsessed with storing food for the winter. She rushes in from school and immediately asks if she can ‘rub the bacon’. Day Six: Madness Stephen says that, once the cure has been changed, the bacon can just stay in the fridge and only needs to be turned twice a day. Poor fool! How can he know? I’m now attending to the bacon at hourly intervals. At lunchtime I begin speaking to it. It is just before bed, when I’m setting the alarm for the 3 am ‘turn and rub’ that I realise things may have got out of hand. Fortunately, tomorrow is the end of the experiment. Day Seven: Triumph Washed clean of the cure and patted dry with a clean towel, the bacon looks like something in a C18th still life. The fat is creamy, the lean centre dark and lustrous. Bacon is unique amongst meats in its mysterious power to move the soul. Even sworn vegetarians can be swayed by bacon… if they say they can’t they’re lying. Stephen says the bacon can be soaked for a few hours if you prefer it less salty. I snort in scorn. He says it should be allowed to mature for two days - I let it mature for precisely as long as it takes me to sprint to the corner shop for a pack of cheap, thick, doughy, white sliced. I take off three slices with the the staggeringly expensive Japanese yanagiba knife that I’ve sworn to use only for sashimi and slap it in the hot pan. At first, I can’t work out why it looks so odd until I realise that it hasn’t immediately yielded a pool of milky water like a commercial rasher. On an average day, the smell of bacon frying can make me salivate but the smell of my own has me howling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Finally I take my first bite. I’d describe the taste but that isn’t half of the sensation. The knowledge that I’ve made it yourself, the connection with centuries of food history, the towering feeling of having brought home the bacon. Without an ounce of hyperbole… I choked back a tear. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Home cured bacon tastes better than any commercial product, the process is safe and easy and it saves money. There are also less tangible advantages. My daughter thinks I’m some kind of omnicompetent Pa Ingalls, a notion that I fondly hope might last at least until she discovers Atticus Finch and, of course, dear old Cobbet was right: now I have my flitch I feel much less inclined to to a life of crime.

		© Tim Hayward 2005 - 2007