"What makes you the big shot expert on barbeque, anyway?” That’s a fair question. I am not a big shot expert. The more I learn about barbeque, the more I realize how really amateur I am. The thing that gives me the right to expound my views as an expert from on high is that I have a pencil and a paper. I will write this down and most of you will read it and assume it is true. The evening news on television works exactly the same way.
It is one of those bright and glorious spring days that occasionally occur everywhere, but frequently occur here in K-Town on the river. I have a side of pork ribs smoking over a six-Mississippi pecan wood fire on the J. McSmoke, and am writing at my table on the deck outside, absorbing the atmosphere, and keeping one eye (the good one) on the temperature gauge.
Perhaps a word of explanation is necessary. Six-Mississippi is a measure of the heat of a barbeque fire. To properly measure the heat of a fire, hold your open hand, palm down, about four inches above the grill when the fire is ready to cook. Count one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, and so on. When you involuntarily jerk the hand away, you know how hot the fire is. A one Mississippi fire is right for a steak, two or three Mississippi works for burgers and hot dogs, and cooler temperatures, such as five or six Mississippi, are good for smoking ribs, briskets, or turkeys. If the fire is nine or more Mississippi, start over, you have let it go out. In my later years, I have found that there is no substitute for a good heat gauge. It is more accurate and you don’t burn all the hair off your hand.
The J.McSmoke is my barbeque pit. I have owned many barbeque pits and I could cook on any of them, but I had to replace them with regularity. They rusted out, usually in a relatively short time, because I lived in Houston. A pit will last indefinitely in Lubbock, but the Gulf Coast is another matter. I decided to end all that foolishness and designed and marketed the J.McSmoke, a stainless steel, teak, corian, and brass barbeque pit. So far as I know, it was the first pit built of stainless steel. Nothing on it will rust. It is a beautiful contraption and cooks superbly. Each was signed and numbered by me as a work of art and sold as a limited edition. Mine has stood out in the weather for twenty years and still works perfectly. As with most of my ventures, I put it on the market just as the country slid into a deep recession.
When I say “pork ribs”, I mean baby back ribs---I prefer them to any of the many other cuts out there. This method will work for any cut of pork ribs with only slight adjustments, but always use pecan wood if you can get it. Mesquite is good, but the taste is a bit overpowering for the delicate flavor of baby back ribs. Oak or hickory just doesn’t do much for pork. Pecan lends just the right subtle, smoky flavor. I don’t want those ribs to get anything over 250°, and I don’t want them to get under 225° or so. I squeezed a little lemon juice on them to hold the spices and then rubbed them down with rib rub before I put them on the grill, way down at one end. The fire is down on the other end, as far as it can get away from the ribs, and it’s small and deprived of oxygen, so it just smolders and smokes. I won’t touch the ribs, except to smear a little molasses or honey over them about an hour before they’re done.
Sometimes I sprinkle brown sugar on them and let it melt, but today I’m using molasses. I have even used pancake syrup. The syrup or sugar forms a sweet crust which accentuates the flavor of the pork. I don’t turn my ribs or move them. With the fire low, and at the other end, they won’t burn. I just let the smoke cook them for about three or four hours. I know they are done when the bones poke out about a half inch, and the color is a deep mahogany. At this point, I pull them off the grill and serve them.
As an alternative, cook the ribs exactly as above, but omit the sweet syrup or honey. Just smoke the ribs until they are done, then pull them and place them on a large piece of heavy foil. Baste them liberally with any good store-bought barbeque sauce, pour it on if need be, and wrap them completely with foil, then put the ribs back on the grill for about thirty minutes, until the sauce is bubbly, but not burned. They are messy, but, man, they’re good!
The subject of this letter has been nibbling around the edge of my mind for a long time. Considering the intensely personal nature of this subject, I have hesitated to bring it up. There is no doubt that I will offend and possibly lose some friends by writing this. My motive is not to be offensive, but simply to explore the subject, with an eye to shedding some light into otherwise darkened corners. I will attempt to do this by explaining my feelings on the subject, but please understand I am not trying to force you to accept my views. You may agree or disagree, but let’s try to remain friends.
If you go east of the Sabine River, after you pass through the Boudin and Crawfish country, you will occasionally find a product labeled Barbeque, but beware! I once sampled barbeque in Nashville. Only once. It appeared to be a stringy concoction of greasy pork, vinegar, and tomato juice that can be best described as “Alpo with ketchup.” I have since learned that whole hog cooking, as practiced over there, takes talent and dedication. Pork is the only barbeque east of the Mississippi and pulled pork is its highest art form.
North of the Red River, they sell a passable barbeque in some places, and Kansas City is actually renowned for its smoked meats. Once, when I was there, I visited with the owner of the K.C. Masterpiece Restaurant, a fellow named Dr. Rich Davis. I had asked about a collection of barbeque sauces on display and the cashier asked if I would like to meet Dr. Davis. I was delighted.
Dr. Davis and his wife had taken several months off and explored barbeque places in the southeast. They travelled in a motor home from Florida to Texas. He told me how many miles they drove, how long they were gone, and how many different times they ate barbeque, but I don’t remember the numbers. I remember that it worked out to about 2.6 barbeque meals per day for about four months.
As they went along, they collected any barbeque sauce that was available for sale at the barbeque joints. This collection of sauces is on display in the lobby of his restaurant, and brought us together. Dr. Davis and I spent a pleasant half hour, talking barbeque and drinking coffee. We agree on the basics of barbeque, and we agree on which is the best barbeque served in Texas. His sauce is too sweet for my taste, but he sells several million bottles of it per year, so I guess I shouldn’t knock it.
I know there is barbeque west of the Rio Grande, but I don’t know anything about it. I always eat Mexican food in New Mexico or Arizona, and let’s face it – there’s no telling what you might eat in California. That whole area, and the rest of the country for that matter, is going deep into the “southwestern cuisine” trend. Everything is covered with an ancho chile sauce, or chipotle glaze, or serrano cream.
I get a kick out of the menus. They won’t just say “stuffed pepper”, or "fried shrimp". They say, “a roasted fresh poblano chile, filled with a luscious mixture of cheese and plump Fresno raisins, dipped in a yard egg batter and then gently fried in Manteca de Puerco. This luscious creation is floated in black bean and Angus sirloin chili, drizzled with a sauce combining anchos, chipotles, and sour cream made from the milk of Holstein heifers.” A shrimp is no longer just a shrimp. It’s now a “plump, succulent prawn from the icy Pacific waters off the southwest coast of Tierra Del Fuego”. We all know why they write these flowery descriptions in the menus. You can’t get $17.95 for a chile relleno, or $24.95 for six fried shrimp.
This is the first segment of what will be a series of articles on Barbeque, with a capital "B". I will cover the history and preparation of this art form and tour the state of Texas, sampling the best and the worst. I will identify my choice for the best in the state and point out some of the worst. Mostly, I'm just going to have fun with it, and with you.
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