The first time I ever saw a “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” we had gone to the rodeo with Hugh and Susie. Hugh had been invited to stop by a “little barbeque booth” somewhere on the north end of the Astrodome parking lot, and we decided to go there before the rodeo. In the far northeastern corner of the lot, about a dozen “teams” had set up camp and were busy smoking meat, drinking beer, playing country music, and having fun.
There was a small group of visitors, including ourselves, who strolled from booth to booth, just soaking up the atmosphere. Everyone invited us into their area, forced a cold beer, a chunk of brisket, or a sausage wrap into our hands and said something like, “How do you like that brisket? Cooked it fourteen hours over Bullnut, the finest cooking wood in East Texas.” Or “Try some of this here sausage. Made it myself, last fall.” The evening was clear and crisp for Houston, even in February. The music, the barbeque, the aromas, and the people all blended together, and mesquite smoke permeated the whole scene. The sun went down, and we never made it to the rodeo. We were hooked.
Rules were few back then. Sort of, “You give us two hundred and fifty dollars, and don’t ruin our parking lot, and we’ll let you have a forty foot square “booth.” Get in here Thursday or Friday, judging will be Sunday, and you clean it up and get out of here by dark Monday. We mean broom clean, too, boys.”
As quickly as Hugh and I could get a team together, which didn't take long, we started in the “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” business. Now understand that this is not a real profitable business. Five or six of us would chip in and pay the entry fee, buy about forty cases of beer, a few dozen briskets, some chickens, sausage, ice, cokes, whiskey, assorted bar supplies, utensils, plates, napkins, and several bales of hay for seating. We’d get a trailer mounted barbeque pit, some tables and chairs, a flat bed truck (for the band), a generator, some lights, a motor home, two Porta Cans, and a cord or so of mesquite wood.
Friday morning, we’d all show up out there with tools and lumber and build our booth. Someone would cook up a bunch of fajitas and smoked sausage for “camp meat,” and we’d eat them with tortillas and picante sauce while we worked. By mid-afternoon we were set up, and had brisket and chickens on the pit, beans on the butane stove, potato salad, jalapenos, pickles, onions, and “light” bread on the side. Friday night was usually spent just working out the kinks in the system and our cooking equipment, visiting with other teams or friends that dropped by, and looking at the people. The “people” we looked at, incidentally, were mostly female, and many of them were spectacular. I’m not sure why a happening like this seems to attract a disproportionate number of very attractive women, but it always seems to be that way. You won’t hear me squawking about it.
Saturday, the pace quickens. Each team is assigned a committeeman to coordinate its efforts, enforce the rules, and monitor the cooking of the contest meat. For several years, our committeeman was a girl, a nice looking blonde C.P.A. She was responsible for about three teams, and worked closely with each of them. We could cook about anything we wanted back then, and the only rule was that it be fresh and raw twenty four hours before the judging. The chief cook would arrange for the monitor to come by and tag the meat anytime after noon Saturday.
Tagging the meat was a simple process. The monitor provided a numbered strap of metal and a special pair of pliers to fasten it. I’ve seen the same kind of straps used to seal box cars or truck boxes on eighteen wheelers. They pull the numbered strap through the meat, slide on a small metal sphere, and crimp it together with the special pliers. The meat can then be put back in a cooler, marinated, or thrown on the grill, the monitor doesn’t care. When the meat is cooked and ready, the strap will still be attached, and the number will be checked before the meat is sliced.
While that little drama is unfolding, the rest of the team is busy, getting ready for serious partying. Friends, relatives, employees, and customers of team members have been dropping by all day, having a beer, Bloody Mary, scotch, or just a coke or iced tea. They nibble on fajitas, shrimp, quail, chicken breasts, catfish fillets, rib eye steaks, or whatever else might be on the grill. The range of food is fantastic, the more unusual or exotic, the better. Rattlesnake, alligator, or armadillo were not uncommon. Some Cajuns had a big fry pot set up, and were constantly deep frying whole turkeys. That was about the only recognizable thing those guys served.
By mid-afternoon Saturday, Western bands are setting up, some are already playing, people are strolling around, all the booths are complete and making smoke, color is everywhere. Almost every booth is adorned with flags of some sort. American and Texas banners are most popular, but many other states, several foreign countries, colleges, universities, corporations, and cities are all represented. Corporate logos are plastered in every conceivable place, and the team names run from the sublime to the ridiculous. We were the “Jalapeno Pickers” one year. I tried to get “Jalapeno Peckers” past the thought police, but it didn’t work.
I better stop now. I don’t want to bore you and these things get pretty long if I don’t exert some discipline.. I know, I know. Why start now?
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