The only photograph I could find from our improvised Hawaiian pig roast at Kyiv's Hydropark.
An improvised Hawaiian-style pig roast on a Kyiv beach, a night in a tent, a suspiciously large hole in the sand, and the most thoroughly unplanned party I've ever helped organise.
My friend Igor Shchukin has a remarkable talent.
He comes up with an idea.
And then he does it.
Not necessarily after careful planning, preparation or a reasonable assessment of the resources required.
He simply decides that something would be interesting.
And proceeds.
Which can be wonderful.
Unless you happen to be one of the people involved.
I've already written about Igor, his Ukrainian sausage business, Savin Product, and how we ended up roasting roe deer with peanut butter and cranberries beside the Loire in France.
But we have another culinary adventure worth remembering.
This one involved an entire pig.
A beach in Kyiv.
Some policemen.
A bottle of whisky.
And a rather unfortunate misunderstanding about what constitutes a relaxing weekend.
It sounded like a wonderful idea
One day, Igor and I were discussing interesting ways to cook meat.
He'd been reading about traditional Hawaiian pig roasting.
The method is called kālua, and it involves an underground oven known as an imu.
The basic principle is fascinating.
Dig a large pit.
Heat a substantial quantity of stones over a fire.
Prepare a whole pig, traditionally wrapped in leaves.
Place it in the underground oven, protect it with layers of vegetation and coverings, and seal everything with earth.
Then let the heat and steam do their work for hours.
Eventually, you uncover the pit and retrieve a beautifully cooked pig.
"Wouldn't it be fantastic to try that?" Igor asked.
I thought it would.
And the timing was particularly interesting.
About a year earlier, my wife and I had spent two months travelling around the United States on our honeymoon.
Including a week in Hawaii.
We'd brought back all sorts of souvenirs.
Hawaiian shirts.
Flower garlands.
A ukulele.
Various other bits and pieces that seemed absolutely essential while we were on the islands.
We had everything required to create a rather convincing Hawaiian atmosphere.
Except, perhaps, an actual Hawaiian beach.
But Kyiv has beaches.
I told Igor about the trip.
He became even more enthusiastic.
"We'll get a pig. You bring all that Hawaiian stuff. We'll invite our friends, organise music, dancing, food, drinks. It'll be fantastic."
We even started discussing performances.
Hawaiian hula dancing.
The haka, which actually belongs to Māori culture in New Zealand rather than Hawaii, but our imaginary Polynesian festival was already becoming geographically flexible.
The men could rehearse a haka-inspired performance.
The women could prepare dances and flower garlands.
We'd cook the pig all day and have a proper celebration in the evening.
A wonderful idea.
We talked about it.
And, like so many wonderful ideas, it seemed destined to remain something we'd occasionally discuss over drinks.
I had seriously underestimated Igor.
Friday evening: the pig has been purchased
It was August.
Friday.
I'd been working all day.
Afterwards, I spent some time with colleagues, had a few drinks, and eventually headed home on my bicycle.
I was cycling quite a lot at the time.
The journey from the office was about fifteen kilometres.
By the time I arrived home, I was tired and looking forward to doing absolutely nothing.
The sofa was calling.
Then Igor called.
He lived only a couple of blocks away.
"We need to meet. Urgently."
I went over.
And he announced, with considerable satisfaction:
"I've bought the pig."
Excellent.
Why?
"Because we're having our Hawaiian party tomorrow."
Tomorrow?
As in Saturday?
The day immediately following today?
"Yes. I've already bought the pig. We can't keep postponing it. It'll spoil."
I attempted to explain that normal human beings generally organise events in advance.
Especially events involving an entire pig, an underground oven and a large group of people.
Igor was unimpressed.
"It's the weekend. People can come. What's the problem?"
The problem, Igor, is that approximately six hours ago I had no intention of spending my weekend burying livestock on a public beach.
But the pig already existed.
And apparently that settled the argument.
We're going to Hydropark. Tonight.
Igor had found a location.
Hydropark.
For anyone unfamiliar with Kyiv, Hydropark is a large recreational area on islands in the Dnipro River, with beaches, greenery and places where people spend summer days swimming, sunbathing and generally enjoying themselves.
It was a logical place for a beach party.
Less obviously logical for an operation involving an enormous pig and a substantial excavation.
But Igor had a plan.
We needed to go there immediately, select a spot and spend the night preparing.
He was coming with his daughter and a friend from Chernihiv.
We would use bicycles because driving onto the beach wasn't an option.
One small issue.
Not everybody had a bicycle.
No problem.
I knew a local bicycle mechanic who also rented bikes.
So there I was, having cycled fifteen kilometres home after work, now organising additional bicycles for a group of people who had collectively decided to transport themselves across Kyiv for an emergency pig-roasting operation.
Eventually, we set off.
The Metro Bridge incident
To reach Hydropark, we had to cross Kyiv's Metro Bridge.
There was traffic.
Quite a lot of traffic.
It was Friday evening.
And some members of our little expedition weren't particularly experienced cyclists.
I tried to keep close to the side, allowing cars to pass where possible.
Igor had a different philosophy.
He rode as though he were leading a ceremonial procession.
Slowly.
Confidently.
And with very little apparent interest in the vehicles collecting behind us.
His daughter wasn't cycling particularly fast either.
So the traffic began accumulating.
There we were.
A little bicycle convoy crossing the bridge.
Behind us, a growing collection of motorists who presumably had no idea that their journey home was being delayed by preparations for a Hawaiian pig roast.
I would have explained.
But I don't think it would have improved their mood.
Eventually, we reached Hydropark.
And found our beach.
Surprise. You're sleeping here.
The chosen location was a completely ordinary stretch of sand.
Nothing special.
No infrastructure.
No magical Hawaiian atmosphere.
Just a beach.
Igor explained the next part of his plan.
He and his daughter would return home.
His friend and I would stay.
There was a tent.
Some folding camping chairs.
Food.
Sausages, naturally.
And a bottle of whisky.
"We'll be back at five or six in the morning," Igor said. "There's a lot to do. We need to dig the pit, build a huge fire and heat the stones. You can start digging before I arrive."
Wonderful.
I had expected to spend Friday evening on my sofa.
Instead, I was apparently camping in central Kyiv with a man I'd only just met, eating sausages and drinking whisky in preparation for digging a large hole at dawn.
I hadn't brought appropriate clothes.
Or particularly warm clothes.
Or really anything that suggested I had planned to sleep outdoors.
But there we were.
We sat in our fishing chairs, drank whisky, smoked, talked and eventually crawled into the tent.
The night was chilly.
I was wearing a T-shirt.
The whisky helped more than the tent.
We slept for a few hours.
Not many.
And then Igor arrived.
Bright and early.
Entirely enthusiastic.
"Right. Let's get to work!"
Three men digging a suspiciously large hole
It was barely light.
We were tired, slightly battered by the previous evening and in no condition to appreciate the beauty of a Kyiv sunrise.
Igor had brought shovels.
The pig was enormous.
From memory, it was something approaching 200 kilograms.
Whether my estimate was accurate is another matter, but I remember it as a truly substantial animal.
Which meant the pit also had to be substantial.
Very substantial.
Roughly the size of a grave.
So there we were, digging.
Three men on a public beach at dawn.
A tent nearby.
A huge hole gradually appearing in the sand.
At some point, a police vehicle came past.
The officers stopped.
Looked at us.
Looked at the hole.
Looked at the tent.
I could practically imagine the conversation.
"Are those three men burying a body?"
"Possibly."
"Should we investigate?"
"Look at the size of them."
Whether the policemen actually thought anything of the sort, I have no idea.
But they watched for a while.
And moved on.
We continued digging.
Eventually, the pit was ready.
Then came the enormous fire and the stones that needed heating.
By now, I felt I'd made a fairly substantial contribution to the Hawaiian restaurant industry.
Without actually being in Hawaii.
Or owning a restaurant.
Igor, it's your turn. I'm going home.
Once the digging and initial preparations were done, I announced that I needed to leave.
Not permanently.
Just long enough to recover some dignity.
I needed a shower.
A change of clothes.
And the Hawaiian souvenirs that had somehow become my responsibility.
Igor agreed.
He and his friend could continue preparing the fire and the pig.
Meanwhile, the wider event was beginning to organise itself.
Igor's wife and daughter were sent shopping.
Flowers.
Lots of flowers.
We needed garlands.
Pineapples.
Bananas.
Mangoes.
Anything that looked remotely tropical.
I was responsible for the Hawaiian shirts, decorations, ukulele and some drinks.
At the time, I was also producing my own alcoholic infusions.
So I brought approximately five litres of one of my fruit-based creations.
Other people contributed additional supplies.
And we began inviting friends.
On Saturday morning.
For a party happening that same afternoon.
"Hi. Are you busy today?"
"Why?"
"We're roasting a whole pig underground on a beach."
A completely normal invitation.
The pig goes underground
The actual cooking operation was as improvised as the rest of the event.
We had the large pit.
The heated stones.
The pig.
Salt and spices.
But no banana leaves.
Kyiv in August is many things.
A major source of banana leaves is not one of them.
So we used what we could obtain.
Large grape leaves.
Currant leaves.
Other suitable vegetation, dampened and arranged around the pig.
We fixed the prepared animal to wooden supports using wire.
The heated stones went into the pit.
The pig was lowered into position.
Then came the protective coverings and the sand.
And finally, the entire thing disappeared underground.
Now we had to wait.
For hours.
We were improvising a version of Hawaiian earth-oven cooking, not reproducing an authentic imu with traditional materials and equipment. The exact timing and heat of this particular experiment were never documented.
But the pig was underground.
The work was largely done.
And now we had an entire afternoon to occupy.
Fortunately, Igor had already thought of that.
A mandatory cultural programme
Igor had decided that the pig would be uncovered at approximately five in the afternoon.
But before that, everyone had to perform.
The men would do the haka-inspired dance.
The women would perform Hawaiian-style dances.
There would be music.
There would be flower garlands.
And everybody was expected to participate.
The women began making the garlands from the flowers we'd bought.
The men started rehearsing.
We found music.
We practised.
We made fools of ourselves.
All in the finest traditions of an entirely improvised cultural festival organised by people with no particular qualification to perform any of these dances.
And we had a wonderful time.
Gradually, more people arrived.
Friends from different parts of my life.
People who hadn't met before.
People whose original Saturday plans had apparently been flexible enough to accommodate an underground pig roast.
Some brought food.
Others brought drinks.
People chatted, danced, laughed and got acquainted.
And this became one of the most memorable parts of the day.
Several friends whom I introduced to one another at that party discovered shared interests.
Some remained in contact long afterwards.
That accidental Saturday gathering created friendships that outlasted the event itself.
All thanks to Igor buying a pig without warning.
Five o'clock. Time to dig up dinner.
Eventually, the appointed hour arrived.
We put on our garlands.
The music started.
The men performed their version of the haka.
The women performed their dances.
There was a great deal of enthusiasm and, I suspect, a somewhat limited amount of choreographic accuracy.
And then came the main event.
The pig.
We removed the sand and the coverings.
Unwrapped the animal.
And finally got to see what many hours beneath the beach had produced.
The result was wonderful.
The pork was beautifully cooked and tender.
We began carving and serving it.
There were tropical fruits everywhere.
Drinks.
Music.
Friends.
A beach.
And an enormous quantity of roasted pork.
Everything had somehow come together.
Against all reasonable expectations.
Igor had been right.
Which, after the previous twenty-four hours, was rather annoying.
The only photograph I could find
I wish I had photographs of the pig itself.
The excavation.
The huge fire.
The moment we uncovered dinner.
The dancing.
The slightly deranged expression on my face after sleeping for three hours in a tent.
Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find them.
Not in my old accounts.
Not in Igor's.
Perhaps they're still somewhere in somebody's forgotten archive.
But I did find one photograph.
It's a little still life from the beach.
A pineapple.
Flowers and garlands.
A banana.
A bottle of my homemade fruit infusion.
A cup.
Sand.
The Dnipro in the background.
People enjoying the beach.
It's not a particularly sophisticated photograph.
But I love it.
Because I know exactly what was happening outside the frame.
Somewhere nearby, a huge pig was cooking underground.
A group of people was rehearsing dances they hadn't known existed the previous day.
And an absurdly ambitious Saturday party was gradually becoming real.
Sometimes a photograph doesn't need to show the main event.
It's enough that it brings everything else back.
The recipe? Buy a pig and call Igor.
I suppose this is supposed to be a Kitchen Note.
So perhaps I should include a recipe.
Unfortunately, reproducing this particular meal isn't quite as simple as describing the ingredients.
We improvised the oven, the wrapping and much of the procedure. I don't have measured cooking temperatures, reliable timings for the size of the animal or records of how we verified its internal temperature.
So I wouldn't present our experiment as a reproducible guide to safely cooking a whole pig underground.
For anyone seriously interested in the traditional method, the proper starting point is learning about Hawaiian kālua puaʻa and the construction and operation of an imu from experienced practitioners.
Our version involved an enormous amount of improvisation.
And a rather formidable amount of physical labour.
But the core ingredients were simple enough:
A pig.
A beach.
A large hole.
Hot stones.
Leaves.
Friends.
Music.
And one Igor Shchukin.
The final ingredient is particularly important.
Although substitutions are probably possible.
The best party I never agreed to organise
Looking back, I think this was one of the strangest and most enjoyable spontaneous parties I've ever experienced.
On Friday afternoon, I had no plans for the weekend.
On Friday evening, I was unexpectedly cycling across Kyiv with a group of people and a tent.
At night, I was drinking whisky on the beach.
At dawn, I was digging something resembling a grave while policemen looked on.
By afternoon, I was wearing Hawaiian decorations, rehearsing a Māori dance and waiting for a pig to emerge from the sand.
And by evening, I was eating excellent roasted pork with a large group of friends.
Some of whom had only met that day.
It was exhausting.
Ridiculous.
Completely unnecessary.
And absolutely wonderful.
I still think Igor should occasionally consider planning things in advance.
Preferably before buying an animal weighing almost as much as a motorcycle.
But then again, if we'd organised everything properly, we might have spent six months discussing logistics, obtaining equipment, comparing locations and searching for the perfect weekend.
And perhaps nothing would ever have happened.
Instead, Igor bought the pig.
And the rest of us had to catch up.
Sometimes the difference between an idea and a wonderful memory is a friend who has already bought the pig.