They Kill Pigs, Don't They?

Hear that unsettling, strangely human screaming echoing across the hills? It can mean only one thing: Time to get your pork on. That's right, it's pig-killing time again in Hungary, and from Lispeszentadorján to Gergelyiugornya thousands of Hungary's meanest and fattest backyard-dwelling piggly-wigglies are being sliced, diced, minced, pickled, boiled, smoked, salted, ground up, and God knows what else by crazed packs of booze-soaked villagers. And now, thanks to the miracle of modern commerce, you can join in the gruesome wholesomeness of a traditional disznóvágás ("pig cutting") without the hassle and awkwardness of actually having relatives or friends in the countryside. All you need is a few thousand forints and a taste for pork, gore and pálinka.

More finger-licking, pig-slaughtering action after the jump...

Our introduction to pig killing started with an email from a shadowy cabal of Hungarian gastronomes styling themselves the Lucullus Baráti Társaság ("Lucullus Fellowship"), whose manifesto proclaims, among other things, their goal of "stopping time and dominating the world." The email asked if we'd like to "participate in a real, traditional, HUNGARIAN VILLAGE PIGKILLER-ACTION!", and sweetened the deal by adding that "the pig is sentenced to death, the bus is ordered, and the pálinka is cold already." Far be it for us to turn down an entire day of homemade booze and blood-spattered gluttony, we signed on immediately.

And so, last Saturday our pigkillin' bus pulled out of Duna Plaza and headed east into the rising sun. While filling and refilling our shot glasses with pálinka, Lucullus fellow Gábor Turóczi (looking appropriately relaxed in the above photo) filled us in on some essentials: This particular busload of Magyar foodies, he explained, modeled itself loosely on the Slow Food cult that was cooked up in Italy and now has affiliates wherever people bemoan the demise of quality, unhurried eating. This pig killing was just one of many monthly field trips that they have planned: A pilgrimage to China is even in the works. In short, the group's 100-strong membership aims to enjoy all the world's cuisines as authentically and unhurriedly as possible. In a country where rántott szelet ("fried slice") four times a week isn't all that unusual, and raw cabbage routinely works its way into your Phad Thai, the Lucullus Fellowship is a beacon of hope in an oftentimes bleak culinary scene. That being said, just this once the Lucullus gang was going 100% Hungarian - and with a vengeance.

Invigorated by the booze and the winter sunrise, we finally arrived at the killing fields of Jánoshída (read: front yard of the village pub-slash-pizzeria). The area around Jánoshída is notable for having been settled by roving bands of wayward Iranians in the 13th century, but we could see no trace of them.

Alighting from the bus, we were met by the mayor and an assembly of local notables, all of whom seemed eager to show a bunch of urbanite Budapest pansies how real férfias férfi do things. (That's "manly men" to you, Nancy.)

Handling the dirty work was a gang of local butchers-for-hire standing off near the barn, resplendent in toques, chequered shirts, and other vaguely Canadian attire.

At their feet lay our three square meals for the day, grunting and snorting in his rusty cage. As he allegedly had no name, we silently christened our succulent friend "Porkó" in the hopes that forging a personal relationship with the condemned animal might make his flesh taste all the sweeter.

Several high-minded speeches later - about the eternal and sacred relationship between man and what he eats, or some such - the pig killers got down to business, swiftly and without fanfare. Porkó's squealing protests scattered the assembled women-folk, but his shrieks mercifully came to a high-voltage end. The flashlight-like doodad used to stun him wasn't all that "traditional", nor was the propane flamethrower used to burn off his hair; such are the effects of progress. More traditional, though, was the jugular-slicing operetta in which a bucket-wielding néni danced in to capture the red flood and then whisked it off to prepare our traditional breakfast of fried pig's blood. Yum!

And get this: Pig guts, it turns out, look like aliens - you know, the hissing, drooling ones that are always chasing after Sigourney Weaver. Except these glistening and steaming viscera don't spray high-powered acid when you cut into them, and you can eat them. Then again, if you are eating them, you are probably also drinking lots of pálinka, which is often even stronger than outer space alien acid blood. Just FYI.

A sense of relief descended on the crowd as Porkó departed for the big pigsty in the sky and started looking more and more like the stuff you see at your local hús hentesáru.

Some highlights: Eating a slightly singed slice of raw pig's ear; refusing to gnaw on the pig's tail out of principle, even though many of the girls present thought it was a tasty appetizer; and watching as Porkó's remains were turned into a veritable Damien Hirst exhibit with a few quick thwacks of a very large machete. The manufacture of the black offal-and-rice sausage called hurka remains especially hard to forget.

Stuffed like lords and reeking of pork, we piled back on the bus for the bumpy journey back to Budapest and sweet urbanity. Through half-closed eyes we awed at the savage majesty of the Hungarian countryside, and thought of our newly departed friend - who died like a soldier so we could eat like pigs.

Story by Sean Jordan and pictures by Nagy Gábor for Pestiside