(…) Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, I will mantain it to be the most delicate – princeps obsoniorum.
I speake not of your grown porkers – things between pig and pork – those hobbydehoys – but a young and tender suckling – under a moon old – guiltless as yet of the sty – with no original speck of the amor immunditiae, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest – his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble, and a grumble – the mild forerunner, or praeludium,of a grunt.
He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boilde – but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument!
There is no flavour comparable, I will conted, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called – the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance – with the adhesive oleaginous –O call it not fat – but an indifinibla sweeteness growing up to it – the tender blossoming of fat – fat cropped in the bud – taken in the shoot – in the first innocense – the cream and quintessence of the child- pig’s yet pure food – the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna – or, rather fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance.
Behold him, while he is doing – it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, then a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string! – Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender ge, he hath wept out this pretty eyes – radiant jellies – shooting stars–
See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth¡ – wouldst thou have had this innocenyt grow up to grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreable animal – wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation – from these sins he happily snatched away –

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care –

his memory is odoriferous – no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon – no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages – he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure – and for such a tomb might be content to die. (…)

In, “A Dissertation Upon Roast Pig”, Charles Lamb