Apparently so. And they are worth making a detour for at a restaurant called Publican.
According to the N.Y. Times' Frank Bruni, who wrote this review:
At Publican, an outstanding newcomer in this city’s Fulton Market neighborhood, the wrinkle is rinds.
As you sit under three monstrously large illustrations of pigs, you can nibble on slivers of fried pigskin that aren’t anything like the clunky, often gratuitously crunchy wedges plucked from a plastic bag.
These rinds are airy — as if pigs really could fly and you’re touching bits of their wings — and subtly fiery in taste and color, courtesy of Espelette red pepper and cheddar dust. They’re rinds made-over, rinds classed up: a Pig-malion story.