The Time I Had False Bacon

We all know what bacon is, right?  Well “we” are a spoiled lot.  People in South Africa are supplied with a form of bacon that is the pygmy horse to our bacon’s black stallion:  similar in broad concept, but proportionally deformed and without the sweet kick of our scrumtrulescent strips.  It’s a glorified ham strip that apes the basic color and waves of proper bacon, but falls short on texture, taste, and optimal greasiness.  You might even hear a South African say that they like it, and prefer it to American bacon.  Even worse, you might be tempted to say something like “no, no, I like this, it’s just different, that’s all…”  Instead, explain to the poor soul that the wonderful properties of our mystery meat—bacon-wrapped dates, bacon hash, bacon brittle, bacon bits, bacon BACON—make it so that no other substance on this earth can properly be called by the same sacred handle. 

(Update:  I’m informed by an American acquaintance here that the SA bacon is not from the same juicy hog underbelly, but from leaner parts, begging the question—what do they do with that part of the pig?)

a nice cheap breakfast had in St. George's Anglican Cathedral cafe.  Note the weird meat