The Meaning of "Barbecue"
On one hand, there's no food more uniquely identified with America than any dish with the letters "BBQ" in front of it — and no food-related compulsion so strong among Americans as the one which compels generation after generation to stand in backyards, parking lots and public spaces, cooking meat, with varying degrees of competence, over open flame. On the other hand, the practice is so old, the definitions so varied and the word so widely and loosely applied as to become nearly meaningless.
For purposes of this discussion, let's concede that one or the other of the two major theories of the origins of the word "barbecue" are probably right: that it came from either the Taino Indian word "barbicoa" — for a "meat cooking device", either a makeshift grill or a hole in the ground, or from the French "barbe au cul" — meaning "beard to tail" a reference to the early Bucaneers' practice of cooking up whole goats on a spit. And allow me to suggest that however much we might want to think so, murdering a burger or a steak over a backyard grill — or dumping "smokehouse flavored" sticky sauce onto a chicken nugget does not mean you are barbecuing. As much as I love Korean "barbecue" in which all sorts of meat and guts are marinated and quickly grilled, and as fundamental to my life as a charcoal-charred hot dog might be, they would not — technically speaking — qualify as "barbecue" for the people who make a lifestyle of it, or do it for a living.
I like to think that a good definition of barbecue would be "the slow, loving and careful application of heat and smoke to various tasty meats — over or near open flame — usually wood." While that would preclude the Australians, for instance, from claiming to "throw shrimp on the barbie," a credible case could still be made that the barbecue community is even older and more international than some might believe. Most purists agree that the original American barbecue appeared in the South — in the form of "pig pickins." From early Jamestown settlement days, wild pigs were an easily available food source, and later, hog production ensured cheap sustainable and delicious meals for rich and poor alike. They were usually cooked whole — and dressed only with vinegar and pepper. That noble tradition continues in Eastern North Carolina, where old school practitioners still proudly cook "whole hog" over low heat, splayed out on a grill hour after hour until the skin is divinely crispy. The bones are quickly removed from the now fork tender meat — which is then chopped and dressed with vinegar, pepper, sugar and salt before being replaced in the canoe of now crispy skin — or simply portioned and served with cracklin's. I count myself as an adherent of the old school when it comes to my personal favorite American style of barbecue. For me? North Carolina whole hog is as good as it gets.
Which is why "lechon," the whole pig spit-roasted over flame found in lechoneras in Puerto Rico and the coconut water-basted roast pig of Bali resonate so deeply with me — why they speak directly to my soul. I'm all about the gorgeous mosaic of flavors and textures that compromise a well-treated, well cooked pig: the contrasts of crispy, caramelized skin, unctuous fat, and various shades of lean that comprise the beast which no less an authority than Homer Simpson refers to as a "magical animal." Chinese roast pork, Mexican "barbacoa" — in fact, any pig thrown by anyone — be they Portugese, Maori or French into a pit, hung from hook, draped on a grill or harpooned on a spit — as long as they're cooked low and slow and with respect, until tender — I consider compatible with the Great BBQ traditions.
"Tender" being a common denominator — particular in America's BBQ Belt. From the Western (Piedmont) North Carolina variety, chopped pork shoulder dressed with various and tasty tomato/vinegar concoctions, to Kansas City and Texas, correct barbecue texture reflects the early requirements of bad dentistry. Simply put: early settlers were long on tough cuts of meat — and somewhat light in teeth. Their cooking methods and traditions — as with most classic methods of food preparation — addressed very real problems. In this case, difficulty chewing.
I started getting hungry three paragraphs ago, by the way — and pondering the magnificence of Kansas City style barbecue is not helping. In KC, barbecue — and doing barbecue right — is an obsession. Beef brisket is usually rubbed with spices and slow cooked in a "pit" — often removed from direct exposure to a firebox of smoking wood blends. A brisket can take 7-8 hours or more — depending on how fanatical the pit master, and monitoring of heat and smoke is constant. Pork ribs are treated with similar deference, and judgment can be harsh. A true KC aficionado looks for a perfect "pink ring" of coloration indicating proper absorption of heat, spice and smoke. Sauces, made from mysterious and closely held recipes, are most often served on the side. To say that Kansas City makes the "best" barbecue in the country is always a safe and respectable answer. Whatever your personal preferences, it is an unassailable position. Certainly no one will ever be able to prove you wrong.
Texans will certainly try. With a more "if it moves, barbecue it" attitude and a long tradition dating back to the movement of early German butchers to the area and the beef-centric appetites associated with early cattle drives, the Texans do wonderful things to beef, sausages, pork, chicken, shrimp, and game birds — usually accompanied by a frosty beverage — all in the name of barbecue. If anybody can slather sauce on something — even beans — cook it slowly and proudly call it barbecue, it's the Texans. They've long ago won the right to use the word anyway they like.
Shamefully, I'm ignoring Memphis, Virginia and South Carolina only because I have yet to experience them. I hear they do damn good stuff there... The menus of Chinese restaurants everywhere frequently refer to Beijing style roast duck or pork as "BBQ." And there's very good reason to think that if it's cooked — no matter how it's cooked — the Chinese did it first. They were certainly late to use the word; more a cynical marketing ploy than any reference to the American tradition. But if you have stood, as I have, in a tiny hutong courtyard in Beijing, and watched an old man — who's been slow roasting ducks and pig parts over wood for fifty years..if you've sunk your teeth into the sublime results, you will recognize that every American practitioner of the barbecue arts has a soul brother elsewhere in this world — be it Borneo, Beijing, or Bali. Anywhere where humans gather around the flame — as our apelike forefathers did, telling stories, sharing food — and cooking the flesh of animals — they are part of a glorious shared continuum.
And that, finally, is perhaps the true glory of barbecue: No matter what barbecue you've eaten, someone will always tell you there's better. No matter what "home of the original barbecue" you've visited, knowledgeable people will tell you it in fact lies elsewhere. "Best sauce," most "authentic," to rub or not to rub, baste with sauce or sauce-on-side — ultimately, who cares? To wander this country and this world looking for the best barbecue — and never actually finding it would be a life well spent, a delicious journey in which enlightenment comes with the search — not the arrival.
