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Splitting trotters, boning loins, removing ribs – how would a meat novice cope with a crash course in pork butchery?
• Five of the best butchery courses
This article is a preview from the February issue of Do Something, which is free with the Guardian this Saturday
I'm not much good with meat. I can carve a chicken, and that's about it. I did once butterfly a leg of lamb while watching a YouTube video of someone demonstrating the procedure, but the result was pretty untidy. I suppose if you didn't know it was a leg of lamb to start with, you might not have noticed.
To overcome my considerable ignorance of this branch of cookery, I've signed up for a hands-on evening class at the Ginger Pig butchers in London. I've chosen pork butchery, because I figure pork is the meat I know the least about. I rarely buy it from a butcher, because I hardly know what to ask for.
When I arrive at the Ginger Pig at 7pm, most of my classmates are already changing into smart butcher's coats. Some are newcomers, some veterans. "I did the beef course two years ago and there was a bit more of a gender balance," says one. Not tonight – we are, to a man, men. "There must be something about pork," he says.
To get an idea of how a pig is put together, we're going to take one apart – or half of one, at any rate. We are gathered round a long butcher's block on which a side of pork (about 35kg; I tried lifting it) is resting, inside up.
"Before we begin," says Perry, our instructor, "have we got any vegetarians here tonight?"
We start with some basics, for which I am always grateful. While beef and lamb benefit from a certain amount of ageing, pork does not – you want to buy it fresh and wet, as with fish. Generally speaking, the cuts from the front of the animal, where all the work gets done, reward slow cooking at lower temperatures. Toward the middle, things get a bit expensive. At the back end, you find mostly sausage meat.
After an obligatory safety speech ("Guys, knives are sharp, yeah?" says Perry), the pig is broken down into its constituent parts. This work is divided between Perry and any brave volunteer wishing to try their hand. This gives two distinct impressions of the craft. First, Perry makes splitting a trotter look easy – one whack with a cleaver, and it's in two neat halves. Then one of us steps in to make it look impossible.
As the cuts are separated, they are passed round. We are encouraged at every stage to get our hands on the meat, to feel its texture, smell it, see for ourselves how fat, sinew and bone are arranged. You don't get that from a YouTube video.
When the pig is disassembled, we are charged with putting it back together, like a puzzle, from the tail forward. I immediately grab the easiest parts I can reach, but when I try to fit them in they're either in the wrong place or the wrong way round. It's quite late on in life for me to discover I'm pork-blind.
Perry demonstrates how to chine a rib roast – that is, how to separate the section of spine running along its length, while leaving it partially attached for cooking. It's one of those techniques I could watch all day without really understanding it. Then he effortlessly bones and rolls a pork loin, tying it up with three neat butcher's knots. It doesn't matter if I don't understand this, because I'm about to have a go myself.
I'm given my own expanse of butcher's block, a sharp knife, a Kevlar glove to stop me cutting my fingers off, some string and a chunk of pork loin from the rib end. Scoring the fat is easy enough – you just have to make sure you don't cut all the way through to the meat. Removing the ribs is trickier: I have to feel my way through it slowly, keeping the knife as close to the bone as possible. It's incredibly satisfying when the ribs finally come away in one piece. The cut side is seasoned with garlic and ground fennel seed, then rolled and tied. This is the only part I'm good at: while others are struggling with their string, I'm finishing off my last knot with a flourish.
My loin is wrapped and weighed (it's nearly £40 worth of meat, I notice), and I am rewarded with a glass of wine. Then comes the food: slabs of perfectly cooked pork from the same cut we've just been operating on, and heaps of dauphinoise potatoes piled on to plates.
"There's no salad," says Perry. "You don't want salad, do you?"
We don't want salad. We eat standing up, still in our coats, until we can eat no more. If this be butchery, sign me up as an apprentice.
• The Ginger Pig's pork butchery class is conducted at their Moxon Street shop in London. Classes last three and a half hours, and cost £135, wine and supper (no salad) included