In road-food circles, the Hoosier breaded pork tenderloin is sometimes regarded as a culinary sideshow—a handheld version of the German wiener schnitzel, freakishly oversized to Frisbee or manhole-cover proportions in Indiana.
There is beauty and soul, though, in the tenderloin’s wonky sense of scale: the massive, craggy exoskeleton, the wisp of center-cut pork pounded wafer thin, the impotent bun.
Although many tenderloin fans associate the oversized sandwiches with fairgrounds and small-town diners, my mom could make them at home by way of muscle memory, her hands moving deftly over her harvest-gold countertops between bowls of wet and dry ingredients and a deep skillet on the stove that roared to life with every new sheet of batter-coated meat. She would open the windows for ventilation, but nothing could temper that savory fog of hot oil that greeted you at the door—the particulates of sizzling pork floating in the air that signaled deep-fried magic for dinner. Here’s how you, too, can master the unofficial official sandwich of the Hoosier State.
There is beauty and soul, though, in the tenderloin’s wonky sense of scale: the massive, craggy exoskeleton, the wisp of center-cut pork pounded wafer thin, the impotent bun.
Indiana tenderloins generally require the same basic steps as fried chicken: brining, breading, and frying in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet sputtering with very hot (around 360-degree) oil. Unlike chicken, though, with all its variables in density and meat-to-bone moving parts, a pounded pork tenderloin is relatively easy to get right.
The trick is to start with a uniformly clobbered piece of meat. Slip a slice of boneless pork loin, butterflied if necessary, between two sheets of plastic (an unzipped freezer bag works perfectly for this job) and pound it with your weapon of choice until it has roughly the heft of a lace doily—when the cut is about ¼-inch thick.
The next step, brining, will do a lot to bring juiciness and flavor to such a lean cut, though your soak can be as simple as a 30-minute saltwater bath or as elaborate as an overnight say in a tub of buttermilk and beaten eggs seasoned with salt, pepper, and cayenne. Some cooks even swear by an added shot of pickle juice.
Breadings range from sedate layers of seasoned breadcrumbs to the wild crevices created by crunched-up cornflakes and shredded coconut, which adds a sweet nuttiness that goes over well on tiki night. Most Hoosiers, however, fall back on a staple of the Midwestern cupboard, adding salt and crackle with crushed Saltines.
Drop your thoroughly dredged tenderloin in hot oil and let it swim and sputter until it achieves that perfect golden-brown hue, about three minutes on each side. Pluck it out and let it rest on a paper towel while you admire your work—a deep-fried masterpiece that, big or small, is a marvel to behold.