Slow Roasted Cuban Mojo Pork
- jonashton
- Jun 20
- 5 min read
Updated: Jun 23
A shoulder of pork, slow-roasted until it collapses into citrus-laced shreds, its edges caramelised and sticky with garlic, cumin, and orange. The crackle, the softness, the scent—sunshine and smoke in every bite.
The Scent That Stopped Me in My Tracks
You know that moment when you walk into a kitchen and the scent makes your shoulders drop? Cuban-style pork does that. It doesn't just smell good—it smells like something you want to live in. The air is heavy with garlic, orange zest, a whisper of cumin, and something else... something that makes your stomach growl and your heart flutter like it’s just seen an old lover.
It’s not a perfume. It’s a promise. Of crackling, of tenderness, of juices you’ll want to mop up with your fingers if no one’s watching (and even if they are).
What Makes Cuban Mojo Pork So Irresistible?
Let’s start with the mojo marinade—and no, not the kind Austin Powers was searching for. This is the real kind. The kind made with fresh sour orange juice, lime, garlic—enough to scare off a vampire army—plus oregano and cumin. It's bold but balanced. Zesty, garlicky, a little wild. Like salsa dancing at 2am.
The pork—usually shoulder or “butt” (which, confusingly, is not the pig's bottom)—sits in this marinade for hours, sometimes overnight, becoming gloriously saturated with flavour. Then it’s slow-roasted until the inside is fall-apart tender and the outside caramelises into a crust that’s part candy, part bark, part edible poetry.
A Taste of Cuban History on Your Plate
Cuban-style pork has roots as deep as a ceiba tree. The traditional lechón asado (roast pig) goes back centuries—whole pigs cooked in pits during festivals and holidays, where the community gathers not just to eat, but to celebrate.
Mojo sauce, originally brought by Spanish colonists, evolved with island flair—more citrus, more garlic, more soul. It’s a dish of resilience, joy, and shared tables.
Fun fact: In many Cuban households, the Christmas Eve meal (Nochebuena) isn’t complete without this slow-roasted pork, crackling with anticipation.
Tips for Cooking Cuban-Style Pork Like a Chef (or at Least Fooling People Into Thinking You Are)
Marinate, darling. At least 12 hours. Overnight is ideal. Let the meat bathe. Swaddle it in citrus and spice like it’s royalty.
Use pork shoulder. It’s fatty (in the best way), and that fat turns to liquid silk during slow roasting.
Low and slow. Give it time. This isn’t fast food. This is flavour in slow motion.
Crisp the edges. Uncover for the last half-hour at a high temp. You want that bark—those sticky, irresistible bits that guests fight over.
Save the juices. They’re liquid gold. Drizzle over rice, beans, or just sip from a spoon like a deeply savory tea. I won’t judge.
Why Guests Go Back for Seconds (and Thirds)
There’s a universal truth in Cuban-style pork—it’s crowd-pleasing without trying too hard. It doesn’t scream for attention. It whispers seduction.
The meat is tender enough to make your eyes roll back. The citrus cuts through the richness, making each bite feel indulgent but not overwhelming. It’s food you want to share, even though part of you absolutely doesn’t.
People don’t just eat Cuban-style pork. They make memories with it. Long lunches. Holiday feasts. Midnight fridge raids with a fork and a guilty smile.
How It Feels to Eat It (In Case You're Not Already Drooling)
It’s warm. It’s soft where it should be and crisp where it must be. It smells like sunshine filtered through orange trees. It tastes like the happiest part of summer. It’s finger-licking, plate-scraping, roll-your-sleeves-up food.
You chew and the meat sighs apart. You lick a bit of sauce from your finger and catch a hint of lime and garlic and fire-roasted magic. And if you’re lucky, someone nearby says, “Is there more?”
There should always be more.
Final Thoughts: Cuban-Style Pork Is Love on a Platter
Truly good food doesn’t shout—it hums. And Cuban-style pork hums with soul, sunshine, and garlic. It’s the kind of dish that makes chefs grin, guests swoon, and leftovers a thing of myth.
Make it once, and you’ll be hooked. Make it twice, and it’ll become part of your story.
Now, shall we have another glass of wine and talk about what to serve it with? (Hint: black beans, rice, and maybe something sweet to finish...)
A sensory love letter to slow-roasted citrus, garlic, and glorious, glorious pork
Ingredients:
8 medium garlic cloves, finely minced
2 teaspoons (8g) ground cumin
2 teaspoons (8g) freshly ground black pepper
A small handful (about ¼ cup) fresh oregano leaves, minced
½ cup (120ml) fresh orange juice — about 1 to 2 oranges, if they’re plump and generous
¼ cup (60ml) fresh lime juice — from 3 to 4 limes, depending on their mood
¼ cup (60ml) extra-virgin olive oil For the Pork and to Finish
1 boneless pork shoulder roast (6 to 8 pounds / 3 to 3.5 kg), rind removed
A small handful (about ¼ cup) fresh mint leaves, finely chopped
3 tablespoons fresh oregano, finely chopped
Lime wedges, for serving
INSTRUCTIONS:
In a large bowl, whisk together the garlic, cumin, black pepper, oregano, orange juice, lime juice, and olive oil. Season generously with salt — more than you think, because the pork is a sturdy fellow and can take it.
Pour half the marinade into a sealed container and pop it in the fridge — this will be your finishing sauce. Nestle the pork into the remaining marinade, turning it gently to coat. You may transfer it all into a large zip-lock bag if you fancy, then refrigerate it for at least 2 hours, but preferably overnight. Let the citrus and garlic whisper their secrets into the meat.
Heat the oven to 275°F (135°C) and set the rack to the lower-middle position.
Line a rimmed baking tray with two layers of heavy-duty foil — trust me on this. Place the pork and all its glorious marinade onto the foil. Fold it up loosely around the pork, crimping the edges to seal, but allow a little room for air to swirl and work its slow magic.
Roast for 3 hours, undisturbed.
Then, gently peel back the foil. Raise the oven temperature to 325°F (165°C), and return the pork to roast for another 2 to 3 hours, basting occasionally with its juices, until the pork barely resists the touch of a knife or skewer. The surface should be a deep, glistening bronze, with edges verging on crisp — the sort of thing that causes people to hover around the oven with a fork and pleading eyes.
Pour the accumulated juices into a bowl. Discard all but about a cup of them — rich, glossy, porky nectar.
Now, take your reserved mojo from the fridge. Whisk it together with the hot pan juices, then stir in the chopped mint and oregano. Taste. It should be bold and fragrant, cool from the mint, alive with lime, and warm with the whisper of roasted meat..
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