[…] if the aim is crisp and crackled, any part of the surface that ends up chewy feels like a missed opportunity […]
Petals have started falling from the plum blossoms and although the seasons are flipped, Oktoberfest inspires thoughts of pork belly, eaten while sitting in the garden with a salad of finely sliced cabbage.
Because it’s a celebratory spoil, there’s always some careful thought about how to treat a pork belly. We have a friend who reduces the fat to a layer so thin, crisp and glassy, it resembles the molten sugar on a crème brûlée.
And we once watched a chef brine and roast a belly in a way that prioritised tenderness over any crisp edges, to make for an easier bite when filling a fluffy steamed bun.
But if the aim is crisp and crackled, any part of the surface that ends up chewy feels like a missed opportunity: like an unpopped kernel at the bottom of the popcorn pot. And even when all opportunity is realised, there’s still the matter of ‘deep crackling’.
If you’ve ever had an uncrackled belly on your hands and saved the day by sliding it under a glowing oven grill, you’ll know the relief of seeing the exterior blister up. Only to find on eating it that the crackling is superficial, no more than skin deep.
What we’re after is not just full coverage but a thorough crackle that runs right through to the fat layer below. The one ingredient that seems to help both these causes is salt.
We know that when roasting chicken, the drier the skin, the greater the crisp and go so far as to refrigerate it uncovered (time allowing) for it to dry out. Similarly, there’s a drying out effect when cooking pork belly under salt.
It also affects the skin in a way that produces a very specific kind of crackling. With it’s robust crunch and aerated texture, it’s not unlike the maize-and-potato crisp du jour of our teens used for scooping up onion-and-sour-cream dip!
The salt approach to roast pork is well established in Chinese cuisine. Brandon came across it online and I found it in a heavy volume about German cooking. So we tried it out, as an additional step in our own low, slow method and the results kept us coming back.
What’s compelling is the layering of texture. Roasting slowly renders fat, and as this happens the underside of the belly turns a burnished brown, forming a base for the melty, juicy middle, and crunchy top. (The crackling is for strong teeth, the meat is for everyone.)
The layer of loose salt solidifies through the cooking, into a crust that’s very satisfying to remove. It does not make the meat salty, at most it gives the crackling an almost imperceptible seasoning.
The salt cap is lifted off and any residue dusted away, leaving a desert-like surface for crackling. Seeing it puff up, square centimetre by square centimetre, evokes the same wonder as watching a glass-lidded pot fill with popcorn.
There are no other seasonings, it’s just pork belly and salt – and even the salt is removed after roasting – which highlights how much it is about appreciating the cut of meat. It’s become a master method we turn to, with seasonal changes marked by what sits alongside it.
In late winter that might be grilled radicchio, white beans cooked with garlic and sage, and a salad of soft baby spinach with toasted pecans. In early autumn it’s tart apples cooked to a puree, carried by crackling and meat to get all the textures in one bite.
For the full breakdown of how to do it, with a video, click the link below.