(AP Illustration/Peter Hamlin)

The Cuban sandwich, made with roast pork, pickles, ham and swiss cheese, provided a cheap lunch to employees in Florida cigar factories during the early 1900s. (AP Photo/Jenny Boyle)

The author chows down on an authentic Banh Mi from Saigon Bakery in New York City. (AP Photo/Jenny Boyle)

I was 7 when I ate my first whole roasted pig. Lechon, it was called; the kind of meal reserved only for births and weddings.

The pig was supposedly a baby, but it seemed huge, resting on its belly as if sleeping, except that it was brown and crisp. I was hesitant. The pig looked like it would rise and reprimand me for eating it.

But the meat -- tender, gray in richer parts, white in others, falling apart in strips -- was delicious. It fell into the realm of food so good, it eluded description.

From then on, I sought out pork again and again, wanting to repeat that immortal moment in my childhood. But Lechon was too expensive for my college budget, and I couldn't really serve it in the dorm every weekend.

Pork sandwiches were a fine substitute -- inexpensive, filling and genuine. I went national with my quest.

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THE CUBAN

My search for good pork while strapped for cash has a historical precedent. In the early 1900s, the Cuban sandwich, a.k.a. the cubano, was purportedly invented in Florida as a 15-cent lunch for immigrant workers who labored in cigar factories.

Cuban sandwich devotees still argue over its ideal ingredients, but each variation usually holds Swiss cheese, roast pork, slices of ham and pickles pressed into a gut-busting, melty mess between two slices of crusty, oval-shaped Cuban bread. The Cuban Sandwich Shop in Tampa, Fla., open since 1935, still serves up a whopping Cuban with a local layer of Genoa salami, mustard and mayo (though the price has gone up to $3.75).

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CROQUE MONSIER

Cheese and pork make up an ideal combination (though, of course, not for our Kosher and Halal neighbors), something the Cuban shares with France's answer to hard-up folks seeking a filling meal: the croque monsier.

Mysteriously translated as "crunchy mister," it was first served in the 1910 in a Parisian café. Between two slices of crust-less buttered bread, grueyere was melted with a slender bit of ham. Le Petit Beaujolais in Los Angeles claims a cult following for its simple croque monsieur; a fat square of white bread is toasted, then topped with a thick slice of ham and slightly burnt mozzarella.

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THE BANH MI

France's legacy of pork sandwiches extends to the Banh Mi, another handheld meal that inspires fanatics from here to Vietnam. The sandwich is an 1800s Vietnamese innovation during French colonization; the bread is inspired by the crusty French baguette, baked with a dash of rice flour.

The sandwich, perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing of the pork sandwich pack, is filled with pickled daikon (white radish), pickled carrots, fresh sprigs of cilantro and, sometimes, sliced peppers for an extra kick. Shredded roast pork and rich pate nest beneath the veggies, making each bite a riot of sweet and savory, textured with crunch and softness in equal measure.

Banh Mi connoisseurs know to visit the back of a jewelry shop in New York City's Chinatown: Saigon Bakery. The secluded counter gives the whole transaction a deliciously illicit feel, especially since the expert sandwich, at $3.25, tastes like a steal.

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ROAST PORK

Of course, simplicity can rule, too; slap a good pile of simply-seasoned, slow-roasted pork onto a huge crusty roll, let the grease speak for itself, and soon the well-fed groans of happiness will sound.

John Bucci Jr. knows: his 74-year-old Philadelphia luncheonette, John's Roast Pork, won the Oscar of food prizes, the James Beard Foundation Award for Culinary Excellence, along with a host of other honors over the years. His pork is boned and roasted in-house, and legions of meat-lovers make their pilgrimage each day, dropping less than five bucks for the honors.

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PULLED PORK

The pulled pork sandwich -- that wonder of pork butt roasted for thirteen hours, then shredded to tender bits and served between buns -- is a specialty in North Carolina, where competition for the best pork barbecue is so fierce, each region from East to West has its own style.

Bunn's Barbeque, a tiny one-stop BBQ shack in Eastern North Carolina that opened in 1938, turns out moist, tangy pulled-pork sandwiches for only two dollars, slathering each with a regional vinegar-pepper sauce. Instead of a bun, the meat is pressed between two slabs of homemade cornbread.

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I thought a lot about the qualities that bound pork sandwiches: their heyday in the early 20th century, their low-priced accessibility, the messiness that makes up their taste and their beauty.

But in the midst of my wonder, my love was truly tested.

As a tourist in the Ifuago province of the Philippines, I was invited to participate in a rice harvest ceremony. The centerpiece? A live pig slaughter.

I went in with a brave face, but I didn't expect the pig to look so frightened. He was black, bound with a long pole reaching between his hind and front legs. Every few minutes he would scream and flail, sounding strangely human. Local Ifugao priests drank rice wine and said prayers over the pig, thanking him for his sacrifice.

Then a man approached carrying a huge knife and a sharp, long wooden stake. Swiftly, he made a slight incision in the pig's back. Then the man gently placed a sandaled foot on the pig's cheek and pressed the stake into his flesh behind the shoulder.

The pig screeched as if he knew it would be his last chance to do so, twitched, and grew quiet. The priests placed a stalk of fresh rice into his mouth, wishing him an abundant life in heaven. I thought about the pork I had eaten in the years before. I had never deigned to thank the pigs.

An hour later, I was presented with a dish of boiled pork and two slices of heavy, fresh-baked banana bread. I hesitated. Then I placed the meat between the bread and ate. I was transported back to that first taste I had tried in my childhood.

Dense, sweet and smoky, coupled with what I now knew, it was the best pork sandwich I had ever eaten.

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asap contributor Laurel Fantauzzo is a freelance writer who lives in New York.

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