Simple's Pork Chops

“Me, I like plain old down-home victuals, soul food with corn bread," said Simple, "spare ribs, pork chops, and things like that. Ham hock, string beans, salt pork and cabbage.”

--From Simple’s Uncle Sam, by Langston Hughes (1965)

If ever anyone tries to tell you that food in literature is mostly just a convenient plot device or a sensual diversion, have them read Langston Hughes. In his short story “Swinging High”, Jessie B. Semple (or “Simple”)—a kind of black “Everyman” living in Harlem—espouses the merits of good, honest, Southern soul food. He is innately conscious not only of the intensely personal and subjective nature of food, but also its enormous cultural, historical and political significances.

Simple’s assertions of the superiority of soul food, and his rejection of foods associated with other classes, cultures and ethnicities, introduce into this brief fable a whole set of racially- and socially-charged value hierarchies, while simultaneously managing to raise intensely personal questions that were nonetheless of critical importance to the civil rights movement. How much should be sacrificed for black emancipation? Who can or should do the sacrificing, and how does their suffering affect others? In what does true black American culture consist, and how can it be preserved? And what happens if the black man or woman exchanges one kind of bondage for another?

I particularly love Simple’s language when he talks about food. As with so many other authors, Hughes’s prose takes on an effortless lyricism when it turns to edibles. The cadences of Simple’s sentences here are lilting and rhythmic; just look at the stress pattern:

“spare ribs, pork chops, and things like that.
Ham hock, string beans, salt pork and cabbage.”

It has an undeniable sing-song quality, almost like a children’s skipping rhyme. The diction is effortlessly poetic, the stresses unlooked-for and unobtrusive, yet completely natural. I know next to nothing about the South and its inhabitants, but this sentence immediately conjures the feel of the place for me. As, indeed, do these...

Pork Chops with Smoked Bacon and Apples

“How about Frank's?” I asked. “Now Negro-owned.”
“That’s where Joyce takes her society friends like Mrs. Maxwell-Reeves,” said Simple. “The menu is as big as newspaper. So many things on it, it is hard to know what to pick out. I just like to say ‘pork chops’ and be done with it. I don’t want soup, neither salad. And who wants rice pudding for dessert? Leave off them things, also olives. Just give me pork chops.”
“Is that all?”
“I’ll take the gravy,” Simple said.
“Pork chops, bread and gravy,” I shook my head. “As country as you can be!”
“If that is what you call country,” said Simple, “still gimme pork chops. Pork chops and fried apples maybe, if they is on the menu. I love fried apples…”

Although I’m not normally the biggest fan of fresh pig (as opposed to the myriad of smoked, cured, salted, and otherwise highly seasoned piggy incarnations), last week the pork chops at my butcher looked so lusciously, rosily pink and juicy that I couldn't resist. I marinated them with some roughly chopped sage, garlic and lemon zest. Thus far, then, my chops were feeling rather more Frenchified than the down-home version that Langston Hughes’s Simple salivates over, but then I started thinking about the sauce. As Simple instinctively knows, t’aint nothin’ that a pork chop likes better than apples.

Here, I’ve substituted the gravy for a rich, moist sauce of smoked bacon, apples and onion. The meat should be golden outside and juicy-tender inside; the sauce is sweet, yet tangy; and creamy mashed potato is perfect for soaking up the juices. I know it’s not technically authentic soul food, but I doubt Simple would object.

Ingredients (serves 2):

2 butterflied pork chops
1 tbsp chopped fresh sage
Zest of ½ lemon
1-2 cloves garlic, chopped
Half an apple, deseeded/decored (as in, core removed—not home decorating), and diced
Half a medium onion, diced
1 thick (2cm-ish) rasher smoked bacon, cut into lardons (chunky dice); if you cannot get thick-cut or uncut bacon, just dice the bacon you have
1 small glass dry white wine or cider
1 tsp Dijon or wholegrain mustard 1 tbsp butter
Squeeze lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Marinate the pork chops in the chopped sage, chopped garlic, lemon zest, some pepper, and a glug of olive oil (enough to moisten everything and get all the flavours melding nicely). Ideally give them at least 2 hours; mine had 2 days, and honestly I think they were the better for it. Preheat oven to around 350 F. Prep your green vegies (I used Brussels sprouts, but if it’s authenticity you’re after, go for collard greens) and mashed potato (or your chosen accompaniments).

Prep the sauce ingredients: get the onions, apples, bacon, sage, etc ready to go. When you're ready to cook, scrape off and reserve the marinade ingredients (especially the garlic and sage, which will quickly burn and become acrid). Fry the chops in an ovenproof skillet (frying pan to you and me) for about five minutes on either side (depending, as always, on the thickness of the chops, the quality of your pan, and the ferocity of your hob), or until golden. Remove to the oven for about five to ten minutes, depending on your oven; pork definitely needs to be cooked all the way through, but it’s a bummer when it’s dry. I tend to err on the side of juiciness, but it's your call. A meat thermometer might be useful at this stage; try to avoid cutting into the meat to visually test for done-ness, as this is a surefire way to drain the juices and end up with tough, dry chops.

When you think they are almost—but not quite—cooked, remove the chops to a warm plate and cover with foil (they will continue cooking while you finish the meal). Drain off most of the fat in the pan and return it to the hob (medium heat). Fry the bacon until its fat has rendered, then add the diced apples and onions, and the reserved sage and garlic marinade. After a few minutes, once it’s all coming together nicely—and before it begins to brown or burn—add the wine and turn up the heat, letting the liquid bubble until the alcohol is burned off. Stir in the mustard, lemon juice if desired, and season with salt and pepper (remembering the bacon most likely contains a fair bit of salt). If your sauce is too thick, add a little water and amalgamate; if it is too watery, reduce the sauce by boiling for a minute or two, then whisk in a knob of butter for glossy sheen. Serve with greens and mash.