You Eat What You Sow
Spit-roasted Pig, Lechon
For Filipinos, no party or feast is complete without the centerpiece: lechon, a spit-roasted pig. A whole roasted pig is an imposing sight, serving not only as a surefire way to impress guests but also as a subtle marker of the host’s social standing. It’s common for guests to ask, “May lechon ba?” (Is there lechon?) even before confirming their attendance—a positive answer nearly guarantees an enthusiastic RSVP.
Yet, if only lechon weren't so expensive, it would claim the spotlight on every Filipino buffet spread. Picture this—a pig roasted to a smooth, glossy, crackling perfection. Its deceptively delicate skin shatters under the fork, giving way to layers of succulent, fat-laced meat. Lemongrass, scallions, bay leaf, and garlic fill the pig’s belly, releasing fragrant aromas as it slow-cooks over smoldering charcoal. Each slice, dipped in a rich sauce made from the pig’s own liver, offers a smoky, indulgent flavor that’s simply intoxicating. Sadly, this luxurious delight is beyond reach for most people today.
Still, for many Filipino food lovers, the real treat comes not from the lavish roast or the liver sauce, but from the leftovers. After the feast, the remaining parts—the head, limbs, tail, bones, and any meaty bits—are transformed into paksiw na lechon. Simmered in a blend of vinegar, sugar, and salt, this dish embodies Filipino ingenuity and resourcefulness, extracting maximum flavor and value from every last morsel.
I consider myself fortunate to have been born—and later married—into families that appreciate pigs as more than just food. Growing up, my mother kept two piglets at a time in the backyard, just a few steps from where she did the laundry. She called them her “alkansya” in the form of live piggy banks. Every day, food scraps from our kitchen—and even from neighbors—went to feed these piglets. When the time was right, she’d sell one and have the other butchered for our own meals. From her earnings, she would buy another piglet to start the process over again. Backyard pig-raising was common back then, a smart way for thrifty homemakers to stretch the family’s budget and ensure a steady supply of good food.
The men in my family—my father and three brothers—took my mother’s backyard pig-raising idea and expanded it into a small family business to supplement their regular incomes. What began as a single pen grew into a small-scale farm, supplying pork to vendors at the local public market and nearby restaurants. And for our own family celebrations, my father only needed to select one or two pigs from our stock. With help from a friend skilled in spit-roasting, these pigs would be transformed into lechon, proudly displayed on our buffet table at every important occasion.
One such occasion was my wedding. Fittingly, I married into another family with a love for pig-raising and spit-roasting—plus the added bonus of a mother-in-law known for crafting the best lechon sauce in our community. This sauce, called sarsa, holds a special place at any gathering where lechon is served. To underscore the role sarsa plays in the whole pig scheme, lechon aficionados often proclaim, “Sarsa makes the lechon!” When a hog is butchered, its fresh liver is promptly delivered to my husband’s house, where my mother-in-law skillfully creates a smooth, light-brown sauce that practically melts in your mouth. Much like a skilled spit-roaster, a master sauce maker like her is invaluable to families eager to impress.
Last but not least is the skilled lechon carver. Dressed in a chef’s hat or bandana, a plastic apron, and disposable gloves, the carver presides over the lechon’s disassembly, expertly chopping portions and ladling the rich liver and shallot sauce onto each guest’s plate with a flourish. In our family, we need look no further than my brother’s wife and her family, most of whom work in the wet market as pork retailers. Armed with their razor-sharp butcher knives, they are masters at slicing and portioning the lechon for the long line of guests eagerly waiting to be served.
In the U.S., far from our families of pig farmers, pork vendors, and master cooks, my husband and I—like many Filipino migrants—find ourselves longing for the lechon of home. We make do with whole roast pig from Chinese purveyors, its skin dark and blistered, and the bottled sarsa made without the authentic touch of pig liver. If we’re too far from one of the rare Filipino lechon outlets, we sometimes resort to roasting a pig’s head from the supermarket in our own oven. And yet, without the real sarsa, which is so laborious to make, we often have to settle for the bottled kind.
One memorable exception came years later at our 30th wedding anniversary, when we arranged for two whole lechons from a Filipino caterer to be served at a rented social hall. As the festivities wound down, my sister Alice, who had traveled all the way from New Jersey, was determined to secure the lechon leftovers. Her mission was to work her kitchen magic and transform them into paksiw na lechon. In this way, the beloved pig continues to delight across generations and continents.
