Hangi Panky

Anybody wanna eat a hangy!?” shouted one of my supervisors during an early morning meeting at work. I giggled and offered a Kleenex instead. I later found out that a ‘hangi’ is a traditional Maori feast prepared in a pit oven. Curiously excited I immediately recanted my previous typical Schlosser-esque response and offered to help. My supervisor, Ana, rose an eyebrow as if to say “Are you sure?“ and relayed to me that preparation took an entire day and included hard physical labor, including the slaughter of a pig. A few of my Kiwi co-workers advised me to enjoy my last final moments with my arm hair, and not to wear a white shirt (or for that matter anything of value). What have I gotten myself into? Any other day-off I could be enjoying myself on the slopes attempting gnarly jumps, discovering new trails, and not having any concern whatsoever over the state of my arm hairs. But I really wanted to go and learn more, and with the prospect of an elbow deep gutting of Babe’s dead and swollen body cavity during the pig’s sacrifice to my stomach god; how could I refuse?!
I arrived in Piriaka (which by the way has the best tasting water on planet Earth) in true American style, or so I was told. Misunderstanding the driving directions I arrived late (I get confused when I’m on the left side of the road and I generally resort to driving on the right with my hazards ablaze and my palm pumping the horn). Apparently I had missed the ‘hard physical labor’ that I was promised. Shucks. Ana’s father and cousin had already dug the hole, which measured about one square yard (is that even a measurement?) in dimension and was equally as deep. As well as butchered our friend Babe. The other task was to collect the heart and soul of the hangi itself. Abundant to volcanic regions, metamorphosed rocks are ideal conductors and retainers of heat for earth cooking. Abundance is not the equivalent to ease, as the rocks still need to be dug up from under the ground and many are needed. In large metal burning drums (which, as I was told, was not the way of the ancient Maori) a fire is lit and the volcanic rocks are placed inside. The fire is fed and stoked for several hours until the stones glow red hot, at which point the food shall have been completely prepared. As the men stain their shirts red and brown with blood and dirt and lose their arm hair to the heat of the fire, the women are inside equally determined. With every shovel stroke outside, a pumpkin is sliced inside. With each rock placed into the fire, a chicken is stuffed in the kitchen. The men: tired, sore, and sweating outside. The women: equal pain in both jaw and ear as they endure a multi-hour marathon of gossip. All of the food: one pig, a side of mutton, seven stuffed chickens, a bag of potatoes, five pumpkins, a peppering of Kumara (sweet potatoes), steamed pudding, and countless amounts of stuffing are placed into wire baskets, covered in wet blankets and lowered into the ground atop the red hot rocks and subsequently covered in dirt. And now the waiting game. The best part of the game! Which in essence is the same part, the best part in every game: tailgating.
During the preparation of the feast one works up quite a thirst and beer must be consumed in vast quantities so as to replenish the body of its lost nutrients (I am told this is in accordance to a strict ceremonial tradition, much like Thanksgiving!). The food must remain baking underground, just long enough to “liquidly facilitate an advanced state of hunger“, for about 3-4 hours, or whenever the beer runs out.
With the sun already set and everyone in a jolly mood we stumble over towards the hangi pit with flashlights and beverages in hand. As we slowly scoop the dirt off of the blankets the stomach-grumbling onlookers are in awe as steam rises from beneath the blankets and finally our feast is revealed.
Cooked to prefect tenderness the spread must be hauled via four-wheeler to the kitchen table and along with desserts encompasses two full buffets. In accordance to tradition, those who helped put the hangi down are allowed to nibble the best cuts of meat as they serve the guests however the hosts are not allowed to take a plate for themselves until everyone has had their fill. Seeing as how I helped but was not a host, not only did I get the best cuts of meat, but ate unimpeded to my heart’s content!
Seasoned only with a tiny bit of salt, the meats when infused with an earthy aroma, and only needed about four bites to ‘tear’ through even the toughest bit of mutton.
Although I remained the proud owner of my arm hair, and I wasn’t able to spill the blood of an innocent pig, the hangi proved to be the single most delicious and fulfilling meal of my life.