The rhythmic chop-chop-chop of the machete resounds. Close your eyes and you might be standing in a sugarcane field. Hiding behind a bouquet of orange zinnias, a plaster Madonna surveys a spacious dining room well cooled against the blistering heat of East Tremont Street. I was drawn inside by an enticing display of mounded pig parts, fist-size chunks of meat interspersed with swatches of glistening bronze skin, among which a few facial features... More >>>