Hungry for fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits topped with tender bacon and succulent sausage, foodies lined up early Sunday morning to pay top dollar for 5- or 10-pound shares of very special swine.

And when the pig ran out early, there were some very long faces.

"I'm crestfallen," said Camron Assadi, 36, of Oakland. Assadi stood by for nearly an hour, after reserving a 10-pound share online, only to learn he waited in vain. The pork ran out before he could collect. "I don't really eat meat unless I know where it comes from. The more local the better. But I don't think I've ever had furry pig."

"Furry" refers to fact that heritage breeds like some of those available Sunday are covered in thick hair; one of the varieties is also known as "wooly pig" or "curly-hair hog."

[Disclaimer: Assadi was in line right ahead of me; I didn't get my pre-ordered box either.]

Assadi and about 200 others came together Sunday to buy the rare pork, shelling out $35 for the small share, $60 for the large box or $6 per pound for fresh ham. As a bonus upon paying, customers received two coupons good for coffee or the biscuit-sausage-bacon combos, which they picked up after waiting in a second line outside.

All in all, event organizers said they sold 800 pounds of Mangalitsa, Ossabaw and Berkshire pigs that had been raised free-range in northern California on four different diets: acorns, almonds, triticale (a wheat and rye hybrid) or alfalfa and apples.

"The Mangalitsa and the Ossabaw especially, they're fat factories," said Kylan Hoover, head of swine for Shasta Valley Farm, which provided the meat for the day's event. The farm is located in Gazelle, Calif., just south of the Oregon border. "To a fat aficionado, this is as good as it gets."

Hoover raised the pigs during the past three months in a trial program for the farm to determine the best combination of breeds and feeds. He said the pigs' appeal for foodies is twofold.

"On a sensational level, they're more flavorful. Richer. Fattier," he said. "On an intellectual level, they're rare."

At 11:15 a.m., more than two hours after the sale started, people still hoping for hog were lined up body to body at Blue Bottle's new coffee roasting facility in downtown Oakland. One way or another, they'd all learned about the "Pork Prom," as organizers dubbed the event, which was basically a way to showcase and sell the pigs raised during Shasta Valley Farm's trial program.

A similar event is planned for Groundhog Day, Feb. 2, in honor of "ground hog," said Anya Fernald, director of Live Culture, an Oakland-based consulting agency that specializes in connecting people with sustainable food. (The agency organized the Eat Real Festival in Oakland in August.)

Fernald stood behind the grill Sunday, serving up biscuits and pork and fielding questions about why there hadn't been enough swine to go around. The shortage came down to a greater-than-expected demand and pigs that just aren't as predictable as their commercial cousins.

"Who knew everybody would show up?" she said, in reference to the crowds. "We're dealing with heritage breeds, and they're literally a different beast. We used a conventional yield analysis to figure out how much to sell, but it just didn't quite work."

Hoover, head of swine, picked up just after her.

"The Ossabaw in particular are variable. That's why commercial ranchers do what they do. For them it has to be like a calculator," he said. With any animal, the exact amount of meat it will provide isn't known until after slaughter. But, because Ossabaw pigs are so good at storing fat, it's hard to predict how much meat will be left once the fat is removed.

And, as is the case with any meat-sharing, or vegetable-sharing, effort, shares are reserved before harvest. Live Culture stopped accepting meat reservations after 100 people signed up, but the supply ran out even sooner than they anticipated.

Jeff Forward, 40, took a chance and drove to Oakland from his home in Woodland, just outside Sacramento, even though he didn't even make the reservation list. Forward, who described himself as "an out-of-work journalist and foodie," was stuck on the waitlist. As he watched the frozen trotters and ribs dwindle, he took matters into his own hands.

"Anything you want to sell?" he shouted to a woman walking by with her box of chops, ribs and fresh sausage. She frowned, shook her head and kept walking. Others, Forward said, had been more receptive.

"I got jowl. I got ribs," he said. "I have it on ice in the car."

Forward said he'd made the hour-plus drive because "you just can't find these breeds." He said he likes that heritage breeds, which have more marbled meat than traditional pork stock, allow him to experiment with recipes he wouldn't otherwise get to try. A former restaurant cook, he said he loves the immediate satisfaction people get from eating a well-prepared meal.

For those who left empty-handed, the immediate satisfaction of snacking on biscuits with sausage and bacon was the only reward.

"At least we can taste what we can't get," grumbled Ladi Markham, 43, of Oakland, as she walked to the grill outside. She said she learned about the Pork Prom through the Bay Area Meat CSA, a social network for meat lovers who prefer to buy direct from ranchers rather than from grocery stores. Growing up, she said, her family had often bought quarters or sides of various meats. As a result, Markham said, her preference is to buy direct.

"I'm pretty disappointed," she said. "Next time, I will be the first in line."

About Emilie Raguso

Emilie Raguso is a multimedia reporter in Oakland who focuses on issues of criminal justice, food and Oakland culture. She is passionate about social media, documentary photography and sustainable living. Her work has appeared on Salon and NPR, as well as in The Modesto Bee, Greater Good magazine and the East Bay Express. Write her at eraguso@gmail.com, follow her on Twitter (@emraguso) and see more of her work at http://raguso.us.