Marcelo Flores, pig roast early morning, Bond Street, New York

XVIII

FEAST

It begins the night before when a group of my guys—a rare joint exercise of the il Buco and Alimentari teams—builds a makeshift oven out of cinder blocks on the cobblestones of Bond Street. Working hand in hand, Preston and Roger, Olaf, Marcelo, Tiki, and Danny construct the oven in an hour or so, placing rebar atop, sturdy enough to support the three large pigs currently chilling in the walk-in refrigerator of il Buco.

The boys will be there all night long and well into the next day as they prepare a feast to feed hundreds. There’s no question that the sagra del maiale, our annual feast of the pig, is a labor of love. In central Italy, a sagra is a community celebration usually centered on a selected ingredient coming into season, like asparagus or cordons, even truffles. We began throwing our sagra back in 2004, on our tenth anniversary, as a way to give back to our Bond Street neighbors, a community that has nurtured us and become our home. As the pig has been so revered at il Buco with our porchetta and salumi production, we chose to honor it in our celebration. On and off over the years—but mostly on—we’ve hosted the event every September. This is the twenty-fifth-anniversary sagra.

This year, I’m lucky. Alberto has come over from Italy as have the Radi boys, Antonello and Lorenzo. Antonello, in fact, has offered to paint a side of the construction site adjacent to the restaurant, turning a flat of plywood into a bucolic scene of the Umbrian hills. I’m looking forward to the day, when all—or most—of our regulars and family and friends stop by to feast together.

Around 1 a.m., the fire glows in the night, illuminating the faces of the night crew. As waiters get off their shifts from both il Buco and Alimentari, they stop by for a drink: tequila, Peroni, wine. Olaf’s friends, cops, stop by to say hi. He produces a few links of Polish sausages that are grilled on a flattop above the fire and passed around. Tranquilo. Tranquilo. At 2 a.m., it’s time to get the pigs. Together the guys heft up our beautiful animals from my friend Mike Yezzi at Flying Pigs Farm in Shushan, New York. They place the pigs atop the rebar, carefully spreading the embers from the fire under their enormous frames.

I wake up in the early morning before sunrise, stumble downstairs, and join the boys by the smoky fire. Alberto, Antonello, and Lorenzo bring cups of espresso. I cook up some eggs in a cast iron pan on the grill; my yearly ritual to feed the team. The rentals arrive: tents, tables, tablecloths. We’re expecting more than eight hundred guests. Marc and Lee Anne supervise the transformation of Bond Street into a vast outdoor dining room. Marcelo, meanwhile, tends to the pigs, using a mop dipped in brine to paint their skins. By now, they’re developing a beautiful caramel skin. Smoke billows from the oven, rising up to the clear blue sky.

We have visitors all morning. Friends coming to check in, grab a coffee, and bask in the excitement. Neighbors taking their dogs for walks, kids atop their shoulders. Strangers intrigued by all the activity so early on a Sunday morning. The guys pull the first pig from the oven, the product of patience and Marcelo’s tireless basting through the night.

By 12:30, the crowd starts to arrive. I am pulled in ten thousand directions, placing old faces, seeing friends, giving hugs and kisses. As I look around me, I’m overcome with gratitude for the community that has developed around il Buco. I see Bernardo Flores and his nephews, Marcelo, Angel, and Pancho. I see Sheena Otto, our head baker, with her daughter, Rita, now almost a year old. Harding Aldonzar, our tireless chef de cuisine, is commandeering the service. Even on a day as bright as this, his smile still shines. Roger wears the signature black il Buco T-shirt and tends to the meat next to Preston, tall and tattooed. I think back to all the chefs who have passed through our kitchen, each indelibly imprinting themselves on the soul of il Buco. And then I spot Thierry Amezcua, our very first chef, arriving to join in the festivities, and the years contract instantly.

The regulars mill around, greeting one another and me. Simona and Andrea with their brood of daughters. Jill Platner’s here. Scott and Lynda from across the street. Liev Schreiber and his son, Sasha. A bunch of former staff members I call Roberto’s Girls: Patty and Dana and Carolyn, Abbie and Michelle. Roberto’s there, of course, as steady and natural a presence as a breeze. He glides in and out of il Buco, wine bottle in hand, his straw hat keeping him cool. Gray is the hair that was once brown and long. And though his face bears more wrinkles than before, his eyes never cease to sparkle. Over the last twenty-five years, I’ve seen so many of il Buco’s family grow, marry, have kids of their own. That il Buco had some small part in that—whether as a meeting place, or as a backdrop, as a memorable first date, or second or third—leaves me with a sense of almost maternal joy.

The day passes in a happy blur. Joaquin sitting with my mother at a table outside il Buco, friends reconnecting over wine and heaping plates of food. Life courses over the cobblestones of Bond Street. I find Alberto among the crowd, tipsy by this point, and give him a hug. As we said so many times before, but each time with incredulity, “We did it,” I say. “Si, cara,” he replies, eyes twinkling.

As darkness falls, only the stragglers are left, coming into il Buco for a last glass of wine. Laughter continues well past dark, and I finally sit down to relax with a few dear friends as the crew sweeps up the ashes and dismantles and stacks the cinder blocks. I head upstairs, peel off my smoky clothes, and leave them in a pile on the floor. I drift off to sleep on a raft of happiness, grateful for all that brought me to il Buco, grateful for all those who have guided me on the journey, grateful to have passed yet another day surrounded by love and, of course, porchetta.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Crispy skin; Alberto Avalle; fire detail; Antonello and Lorenzo Radi painting mural; Laura with baguettes; breakfast on the grill; Danny Rubin and Donna

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Ricotta fritters; Michelle, Roberto and Carolyn; il Buco chairs; Chef Roger Martinez; Donna and Jill; Olaf; Tasha Cain; Joaquin and his dad, Alejandro; pig roast setup; Donna’s sister Wendy and Danny; pig roast platter; Preston and sister Lauren Madson; il Buco crew; Emilio Mittidieri; head baker Sheena Otto with daughter, Rita; pork cracklings.

Donna paints the pig (Giada Paoloni); hoisting the pig, Mallmann style; Tiki and Anne; Donna and Georgio; Chef Francis Mallmann; Lorenzo and Antonello; Melesio and Jason Momoa; Ignacio serves it up (Donna Lennard’s personal archives); feeding the crowd, il Buco; Bernardo (Gentl & Hyers); Joel tending fire; Alberto and Roberto; Joaquin (all other photographs: Michael Grimm)

Noe DeWitt, Michael Grimm, Thibault Jeansen, and Giada Paoloni

The il Buco family, 20th Anniversary Pig Roast

Noe DeWitt, Michael Grimm, Thibault Jeansen, and Giada Paoloni