Imagine the intoxicating and furious mix of spices, the deep and emphatic almost zealous trenchancy of ‘feni’ and vinegar, the stability of fermentation, the manhood of maturity and the lusciousness of oil, filled with individualism and complexities, the Goa sausage is like no other sausage ever. When served on a plate, it resembles more of a pork curry than a sausage. I just love Goa sausage. On one of my first trips to Goa, maybe 35 years ago, it was late at night, we had been hanging out in a neighbourhood bar in Panjim with a bunch of local friends, having consumed half the left side of the beverage menu without looking at the right side because booze was so damn cheap. In the heat of that balmy night, sweating profusely, alcohol oozing from the pores of our skin, we stepped out onto the streets. The city was dark, deserted and asleep, as it usually is most hours of the day. We reached the small stone bridge over the narrow St Inez Creek, boorishly belting Konkani songs, off key, under a solitary street lamp. Everyone was ravenous by now, we hadn’t imbibed any solids all day, just liquids. Someone suggested a hot ‘poie’ (Goan bread) from a bakery behind St Inez Church, that worked all night, so we started faltering in the direction of the shrine. Two fellows went looking for the bakery while we were asked to wait near the graveyard gate behind St Inez’s. The gates of the cemetery were open so we stepped in. It was past two in the morning and we were not sure how long this wait for bread would be, so we gingerly settled down on a headstone trying not to disturb the Late Januerio Braganza who rested below. Honestly, Januerio didn’t seem to mind. Soon the guys with the ‘poie’ arrived in a bit, with individual parcels wrapped in newspaper. The ‘poie’ was hot, just out of the bakery and was stuffed with some masala meat. Pork to be specific. On that night in the graveyard, I had my first taste of Choriz Pao.
The Goans call Goa sausage “Choriz”. In most parts of Europe, “Chorizo” from where the Goan word “Choriz” comes is a bright red fermented and cured sausage made with coarsely chopped pork and pork fat, seasoned with garlic, smoked paprika, and is salted and smoked. In Portugal, they are called “Chouriço” and are natural casings stuffed with pork, fat, wine, paprika, garlic, hot pepper and salt and slowly dried over smoke. Like all other things Portuguese, the Goans adapted this sausage and added hot fiery spices and toddy vinegar and made it their own. But unlike Europe, the Goan Choriz is not like a salami but rather a sausage tied up with strings. Normally, there are two versions of the “choris” – one, of course, looks like a regular sausage but wrinkled and dry while the other has a string of tight little beads of 50 or 60 sausages tied together like a necklace or rather a rosary, and is called a Rosary sausage. Most local markets in Goa usually have an exclusive section reserved for the ‘Sausage Ladies’. Almost exclusively sold by local women, the sausage ladies sit with baskets full of Goan sausages to sell.
Besides the rosary sausages, and the normal Goan sausage, they also sell a version called Kathichim Choris. The Kathichim Choris is hard to find and is now only to be seen in South Goa and a few old taverns. The process of making these sausages is the same, the only difference is that instead of using pork meat, this sausage is stuffed with pork skin and fat. The sausage is fried crisp, (a bit like a crackling pork), and can now only be found as a snack in some old Goan bars and taverns.
The best way to cook Goan sausages is to unstring the sausages, slit the outer casing and get rid of it using only the meat inside. The meat inside is chunky and dripping with flaming red spices and oil. You can then stir fry the meat, in its own oil with some coarsely sliced onion and potato. Some like to make a pulao out of the sausage. Goan sausage Pulao is so simple to make and the Choriz adds such bewitchery to the rice. My friend’s mother used to make a ‘Pide’ (Turkish Flat bread) style sausage roll with the Goan sausage. I, of course, prefer to not add anything, no onion or potato but boil the sausage without slitting the casing in water till it evaporates and then slit the skin off and dry out the meat on the same pan.
The sausage, which by now looks like a stir-fried pork dish, must be eaten with hot poie, or brun or pav. I like to heap a fried egg, runny and sunny side-up on top of my sausage. It just adds so much sunshine to the Goa Sausage.
Kunal Vijayakar is a food writer based in Mumbai. He tweets @kunalvijayakar and can be followed on Instagram @kunalvijayakar. His YouTube channel is called Khaane Mein Kya Hai. The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not represent the stand of this publication.
Read all the Latest Lifestyle News here
Comments
0 comment