Of Bacon Rar — Jazz Butcher Bath

This was the domain of "Jazz Butcher" Pat Rizzo. To call Pat a musician was like calling a heart attack a slight palpitation. He played saxophone like a man trying to wrestle a greased pig. His other passion, the one that paid the rent on this dive, was meat. Specifically, the Bath of Bacon Rar .

It was less a dish and more a dare.

Pat nodded slowly. He reached into the cauldron with his bare hand, pulled out a fistful of the crispy, glistening Rar, and held it out. “Then you have to eat the truth.” Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

Pat stood over a cast-iron cauldron the size of a dwarf planet. Inside, a symphony of pork belly, chorizo crumbles, and smoked lard bubbled in a shallow, amber-hued pool. This was the "Bath." The "Rar"—Pat’s own idiosyncratic spelling of rare —was a lie. Nothing about this was rare. It was a crunchy, salty, umami apocalypse. The recipe, scrawled on a napkin stained with valve oil and pig fat, was legendary: render the fat of five heritage hogs, add the tears of a jazz critic, and simmer until the moon howls. This was the domain of "Jazz Butcher" Pat Rizzo

A woman in a feathered hat fainted. A man in a bowling shirt wept. His other passion, the one that paid the

Then, the rival arrived.

“It’s… it’s terrible,” he whispered. “And I want more.”