Dear Vivek
The piece is absolutely brilliant. With each article that you write you
surpass yourself.
As I kept reading I kept looking behind me hearing the squealing and the
grunts of nonexisting creatures. It took me on a long voyage to our
ancestral home where we personally chased the animal chosen and
condemned to the gallows as it were.
Finally we had to take the help of Alvaro who was one of the few who
owned it a .22 rifle.
When all the cousins had chased the pig into our compound Alvaro put a
bullet through its head endangering the lives of several of his cousins.
We forgave him when the sorpotel was served for all the meals,
breakfast, lunch and dinner through the whole month of May
Your article also took me back to my stay in Germany where the sausage
is a divine institution and to our many years in Paris where every
"Charcuterie" was a temple where bells actually tinkled each time the
entrance door was opened to bring the owner speeding to the counter from
the backroom where he was downing his Pernod.
As I read your piece I could feel the texture of good pickling skin and
the aroma of a good leg of ham produced with such loving care.
Keep writing dear Vivek and make me feel proud that I am your uncle
Much love
George
--- -- Original Message --- --
From: "Goanet Reader"
The Sausage Men of Arpora
By Vivek Menezes for GQ
Sunrise an hour past, and the heat is already mounting under
the coconut palms that canopy above the piggery at St.
Anthony's Orphanage outside Mapusa in North Goa. The
atmosphere reverberates with squeals and deep bass grunts,
all sweet music to the ears of Brother Anthony Pereira, a
young Franciscan monk wearing blue jeans and a shy smile.
