A heat wave floats above the cast iron pan placed on the stove a few minutes earlier, this tells me it's ready for the pork chop I've planned for dinner. The hot pan sears the meat releasing a hissing sound, the fat melts and sizzles, and a cloud of caramelised smoke spreads over the cooking area. It's a matter of seconds and flavour becomes tangible. An exceeding amount of saliva builds in my mouth making its way towards the corners, the drooling becomes uncontainable. An insignificant, boring pork chop puts me on my knees. I'm almost embarrassed this weakness has overcome me all at once, but I let go to what has conquered all my five senses, in five seconds.
I try to prolong the pleasure of this moment so that fumes, scents and desire linger a few more minutes before fork and knife ends it all dramatically. Some sauce - a green peppercorn cream sauce - multiplies succulence and decadence leaving any thoughts of pork-chop-boredom behind. The meat is now sitting on a warm plate. The cast iron pan is still on the stove, heat on. A half glass of port wine is gently poured in the pan, over the meat's remains and juices. The liquids thicken and encapsulate all the taste left back and almost gone to waste in the sink. Pickled green peppercorns are added, just a few, maybe a spoonful. They're left to mingle with the port as it simmers. Finally, a scant glass of heavy cream brings consistency and silkiness to the sauce, it wraps the flavours in and around, and brings more of that drooling effect. A pinch of salt will finish finely. Some more port wine is on the table. It's time.