“What’s with you and that pour-shet-uh shit?” Jesse asked Julian one day in Tuscany. “It looks so dry and blah. I don’t even want to try it.”
“It’s called porchetta,” Julian replied as he stopped at yet another shop window and drooled for a while as he gazed at the whole de-boned pigs, stuffed with Italian savory herbs, wrapped with butchers’ twine and roasted on a spit, with skin oh-so crispy, and meat so juicy it doesn’t need a sauce. “Pohr-KEHT-tah.”
“Fine,” Jesse finally said, on their last day in Italy. “I’ll have a porchetta sandwich. But just one. That’s all I’ll need”
He had one. Now he wants more.