Home cooking, as delicious (and sometimes inconsistent) as Mom used to make.
A place called the Piggery isn’t going to have many people coming in with fine-dining expectations. Even so, when I entered the place my expectations got even lower. I was there for dinner but found only flat-screens and high tops—a sign I took to mean that food comes second to beer here. Or wine. (But really just beer—the wine list is paltry.) That turned out to be fine, because you can’t eat some of this food without a beer anyway. Jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese and wrapped with bacon are a fine snack, but only if you’re seated at a bar, or a high top, and have a pint in front of you.
The Piggery is proud—rightly so—that it makes so much of its food in-house, but this food tastes more homemade than housemade—it has the quirks and inconsistencies of a mother’s cooking. On the memorable side: a pulled pork sandwich on a house-baked roll topped with crunchy fried onions, and the pork meatballs, which were tender enough that the occasional bits of gristle go forgiven. Also, an apple pie with a thick crust sprinkled with fat grains of sugar, which is eons better than the chocolate cake, which if it isn’t brought in from some industrial bakery (which I’m told it isn’t) at least tastes as if it was. Speaking of industrial, the mac and cheese tastes as if it’s made with brick upon brick of Velveeta, and yet it’s addictive anyway, in a gluttonous, I’m-going-to-eat-this-and-not-care-what-cheese-it’s-made-with kind of way. Finally, there’s the meat loaf. It tastes overcooked and a bit leathery, which ultimately makes sense—in a place called the Piggery, beef doesn’t stand a chance.