The peril of pernil

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Vargas’ pernil sandwich

There is a burden that comes with knowledge. Especially the knowledge that you can drive down Hudson Street, about two blocks off Niagara Street, and get a beautiful Puerto Rican roast pork sandwich - pernil - for $4. There is no way I can feel anything but wretched now whenever I’m forced by circumstances to pay $4 for a meat-type-loaf-substance sandwich on styrobread at McPlastic’s.

The guy’s name is Vargas, and he used to work his magic on pork legs in a little storefront off Connecticut Street. Roast pork sandwiches, mainly, and pastelillos, which are deep-fried turnovers with savory fillings, usually seasoned ground beef or chicken with green olives.

When you asked for pernil, Vargas would look at you, then reach for a loaf of French bread, and cut it in half. Slice it open and lay it on a paper plate. Pull open the oven door and pull hunks of pork off the pan of bronzed legs in a pan brimming with juices. Pile about a pound of glistening meat the bread, and wrap it up.

You squish the loaf down with your palm so the moist meat merges with the fresh bread, and start wolfing. I’ve tried to eat pernil slower, but I’ve been helpless.

Vargas closed up and dropped out of sight for a couple years before someone pointed out the listing in the phone book: “Vargas Take Out, 272 Hudson St., 881-6296.”

Vargas’ new pernil parlor

So a few months ago I looked him up, and there he was behind the counter. He looked sadder, somehow, and skinner. I didn’t ask. “Pernil,” I said, and he nodded and reached into his brown paper bag of loaves.

It felt like Christmas morning. Except with pork.

You give the man a few dollars, and take your sandwich, wrapped in white paper. If you want, sit at a formica table and douse it with mojo sauce from one of the recycled Bacardi bottles on the table. Mojo is a blend of olive oil, vinegar, garlic, hot chiles, citrus juice, oregano and a probably a few more things. It tangos well with the mild unctuousness of the pernil.

Vargas sells an assorment of fried Puerto Rican food besides pastelillos. My favorite is this hockey-puck shaped treat, with slices of potato on the flat sides and a slice of plantain around the circumference. Inside is savory seasoned ground beef.

When Vargas runs out of pork, he closes. I’ve found him done as early as 2 p.m. If a wasted trip would bother you, call before you go - or comfort yourself that the Niagara Cafe and El Sugar Bowl, both a bit north on Niagara Street, can sling some pernil as well. Even the third-best pernil in Buffalo beats the tar out of a factory-stamped McPlastic’s patty.

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