One Pig's Head, Three Suppers: A Weekend Brawn for the Offal-Curious

There is a particular look a butcher gives you when you ask for a pig's head. It is not disgust, exactly. It is more the face of someone deciding whether you are serious, joking, or about to become a regular. In London, where every high street still has at least one proper butcher if you know where to look, that look is your entry ticket to one of the cheapest and strangest winter kitchen projects going.

I am not going to pretend a pig's head is for everyone. It has eyes. It has ears. It takes up most of a shelf in the fridge and makes your flat smell like a very old-fashioned pub kitchen. But if you are offal-curious, if you like the idea of using more of an animal, and if you have a free Saturday and a large saucepan, it is hard to beat. A head can cost £3 to £6 depending on the butcher and the size. That is less than a supermarket chicken, and it gives you brawn, stock, soup and sandwiches.

First, ring ahead

Do not march into a Saturday market queue and expect a head to be waiting under the counter. Some butchers keep them, some will order one in, and some will say no. Independent butchers around Borough, Brixton, Ridley Road and the quieter parades of high-street shops are your best bet. Ring on a Tuesday or Wednesday and ask for a pig's head, singed and split. 'Singed' means the hair has been dealt with by flame. 'Split' means it has been cut down the middle, which makes it fit in a pan and lets you check the inside.

Ask them to remove the eyes and the brains if you are not planning to use them. Some butchers will do this without blinking. Others will ask what you are making. Say brawn. If they nod, you are in good hands. If they look baffled, try another shop. There is no shame in this. A good butcher is a collaborator, not a gatekeeper.

At home, unwrap the head in the sink and give it a long rinse in cold water. Check inside the split for anything that needs wiping away. Pat it dry, put it in a large pot or a clean washing-up bowl, and keep it cold until you are ready. If you are squeamish, this is the moment to decide. Once it is simmering, the shape stops being a face and starts being meat.

Saturday: the long simmer

My method is plain. Put the head in your biggest pan. Add a couple of onions cut in half, two carrots, a celery stick or two, a bay leaf, a dozen peppercorns and a tablespoon of salt. Cover with cold water. Bring it slowly to a bare simmer, then skim off the grey foam that rises. This is not a rolling boil project. A gentle bubble, with the lid ajar, is what you want. Leave it for two and a half to three and a half hours, until the meat is falling away from the bone and the cheeks are soft enough to crush with a spoon.

While it cooks, line a large bowl or loaf tin with cling film. You will thank yourself later. When the head is ready, lift it out with tongs and a slotted spoon, and let it cool enough to handle. Keep the liquor. Strain it through a fine sieve into a clean pan and put it back on the heat to reduce by about half. Taste it. It should be strong, savoury and slightly sticky. That is the gelatine doing its work.

Now pick the meat. This is the fiddly, satisfying bit. Pull the cheek meat away in chunks. Take the tongue if it is there, peel off the rough skin and slice it. The ears can be chopped small and added if you like the texture. Discard the bones, teeth and anything that looks like it belongs in a biology lesson. You want a pile of soft, rich meat, roughly chopped and seasoned with salt, black pepper, a splash of vinegar and a handful of chopped parsley. Some people add a little lemon zest or a pinch of mace. I like a teaspoon of English mustard stirred through.

Pack the meat into the lined tin, press it down, and pour over enough reduced liquor to just cover. Fold the cling film over the top, put a plate on it and weigh it down with a couple of tins. Leave it in the fridge overnight. By Sunday morning you will have brawn: a firm, wobbly, sliceable terrine that looks like a posh deli item and costs almost nothing.

Sunday: soup and sandwiches

Lift the brawn out, unwrap it and slice it thickly. Serve it cold with piccalilli, pickled onions, mustard and good bread. It is also excellent in a sandwich with butter, a smear of horseradish and a few cornichons. If you have never had brawn before, start with a thin slice and work up. The texture is soft and gelatinous, the flavour is deeply porky, and the vinegar cuts through the richness.

The leftover liquor is the second supper. You will have more than you need for the brawn. Strain it again, skim the fat, and use it as a base for soup. Fry an onion, carrot and celery, add a handful of red lentils or pearl barley, pour in the liquor, and simmer until tender. Finish with parsley and a squeeze of lemon. It is a thick, warming bowl of something that tastes like it took all day, because it did.

Any brawn you will not eat within three or four days should be sliced and frozen. Wrap the slices individually and defrost in the fridge overnight. The soup freezes well too. Reheat it until piping hot, and add a little water if it has thickened too much.

Is it worth it?

Yes, if you like a project. No, if you want dinner in twenty minutes. The real pleasure is in the economy of it: one head, one Saturday, three or four meals, and a stock pot that gives you a soup for Monday. It is also a quiet rebellion against the idea that the best cuts are the only ones worth buying. London butchers still sell heads because people still cook them. You just have to ask.

A final note on safety: cool the brawn quickly, get it into the fridge within two hours of cooking, and keep it cold. Use clean jars or tins for pressing, and do not leave it out on the counter overnight. This is old-fashioned food, but it still needs modern fridge discipline. Do that, and a pig's head will feed you better than you expect. It will also give you a story to tell at the butcher's counter next time.