Skip to main content

Dancing with the pig

Lunch menu at The Potted Pig
A pig that lives in a vault. A pig that keeps eclectic company. A salty, savoury, gently pulled pig. A pig from Cardiff. A Potted PigAnd dance I did: metaphorically and literally.

An old school friend had recommended this Cardiff eatery although Google shows that it ranks pretty highly for a lot of people, including Jay Rayner, food critic at The Guardian, who chewed and drooled throughout his review after it opened in 2011.

I booked a table on-line and chose the offered option for the set two course lunch at three o'clock. Nice to have a late lunch: the R&R after a necessary shopping spree in the city with my sister. But the restaurant called the day before to say that their on-line booking system was playing up. They only served until two so could we come then instead? And I'm pleased I did. 

If you're a fan of cockles, you're going to love the next photo. If you're not... you really need to rethink your eating habits. I know that they're not the most photogenic of creatures. I know that bi-valve isn't the most inspiring gastronomic term. But once they're cooked they tighten to a sweet chew and combined with laver bread and bacon on lightly toasted sour-dough bread they are the food equivalent of a hot tango with Antonio Banderas. I told you I was dancing. 


Cockles, bacon and
laver bread on toast
The choice of main courses wasn't as enticing or as varied as I'd have liked: pork chop (pass), pasta with courgettes and peas (boring), grilled plaice (something I could do at home), burger (just no), BBQ pulled pork sandwich (do I really want bread again?) and a philly cheese steak sandwich (ditto). In the end I chose the pulled pork and discarded the bread and, Wow. The combination of soft pork, spicy sauce and a crisp red cabbage coleslaw sent me whirling around the floor with Snr. Banderas again. 

My literal dancing was something of a surprise. The rain was washing the city clean as we came in and we were warned that the floor might be a bit slippy. A BIT slippy? Imagine Dancing on Ice meets Julie Walters' Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques and you'd have a pretty good idea of what it felt like, and what I looked like, walking across the wooden floor from reception to our table. 

And there was a little bit more dancing before my day was over. A large (and I use that word without any hint of exaggeration) spider scampered across my sister's foot while she was watching TV that evening. Riverdance had nothing on her. 

Hungry Writing Prompt
Write about dancing, about music and movement, about delight.


The Potted Pig's BBQ pulled pork with red cabbage coleslaw and watercress with home-made chunky chips.

Popular posts from this blog

Pie, pie glorious pie

So often when we talk about food we are talking about family. In fact that was how the hungry writer blog began, nearly six years ago: weekly memories or life stories linked by the theme of food. Food is nurture and love. It can be celebration and anxiety too. It can also be a battleground, as the parents of young children know so intimately! Which is rather a satisfying segue into the family featuring in this week's blogpost: The Radfords. Because if anyone understands the feeding of children, really, really understands, it has to be Sue Radford who, with her husband, Noel, has 19 children. You can read about the family on their website but don't rush off yet as what I really want to talk about is pie. And specifically Radford's pies.
Noel Radford has been a baker for 25 years and opened his own bakery in 1999 in Heysham, Lancashire and makes pies with locally sourced ingredients. That, along with his skill as a master baker, means that the pictures of the 'filled to t…

Eat, laugh, cry, remember: Baked Camembert

Once, on a holiday in Malta, I dressed Tony up in my gypsy skirt and stretchy white vest, used two satsumas for breasts and made up his eyes and lips with the brightest colours I had with me. Then I took a photograph. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact he seemed quite tickled by the fuss and attention to detail, but the quantity of rosé we’d shared at Snoopy’s restaurant on the seafront in Sliema earlier in the evening might have had something to do with that.

This was 1988. There were no digital cameras for instant viewing (and, praise be, instant deletion). The only instant photographs at the time came courtesy of Polaroid, with their packages of square film and box-like cameras, and slid out of the front of the machine on shiny thick card that everyone huddled over and watched develop. But they tended to be party cameras, appearing at Christmas, birthdays, engagements. You captured your holiday photos on a proper camera, one you had to load and feed film into, then unload and drop off…

The Mythic Biscuit: Oreos

My childhood biscuits were mainly plain but had lovely names: Marie, Nice, Rich Tea. Quiet biscuits. The kind of biscuits that would never interrupt a conversation. Polite, not pushy. At the other end of the spectrum, and only irregularly present, probably a result of practical economics, were cheeky Jammy Dodgers, irritable Garibaldis, and self-contented and reliable Bourbons. And even more irregularly, the flashy inhabitants of a Christmas Box of Biscuits: Pink Wafers. I ate them at the same time as not liking them very much, a bit like Miss World Contestants in sparkly dresses, too much eye make-up and a saccharine idea of world peace. 
I'm in the mood to think, and personify, 'biscuits' because the lovely team at Oreo sent me some samples of their new Oreo Thins. I hadn't heard of Oreos until the early 1990s when a friend asked if I would bring him back a packet from a Florida holiday. I forgot and pretended I couldn't find them. 'But they're everywher…