I've eaten Allan Benton's extraordinary pork products before—it's hard to eat dinner at a certain type of restaurant in New York (or Chicago, San Francisco, Charleston, or New Orleans, for that matter) without ordering something deepened by his smoky, silky, funky bacon. Nevertheless, it wasn't until I paid a visit to Benton's smokehouse and storefront in Madisonville, Tennessee—not too far of a drive on Highway 411 southwest of Knoxville—that the character of this meat really worked its way under my skin. I mean that figuratively as well as literally: for days afterward, my skin and hair bore the lingering aroma of the rich, beautifully greasy smoke that permeates this small operation. The experience was overwhelmingly olfactory, but the visual compoment of a visit to Benton's Smoky Mountain Country Hams is no less remarkable. —Helen Rosner
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