First class pigs.

Imagine this. A black pig runs wild-ish, eating only fallen acorns on the Spanish Portuguese border until it is killed, brined and air cured for up to four years. And we queue to pay more than $200 a kilo for wafer thin slices of its hairy legs! 

It is so in Barcelona, where jamon iberica de bellata is the king of pigs. 

A pig that, were it to fly, would fly first class. A pig that, were it ever at a trough, would be recognisable by its silver spoon. A pig that would, from its haughty snout, look down on lesser pigs. 

All animals are not equal. The Spanish government specifies this pig.

We have, respectfully, eaten this pig. What does it taste like? Silky, ever so slightly salty, with translucent fat that melts in the mouth. Umami, slightly smelly socks. Woofy, in a piggy way.

There you go.