This might not seem like a big deal if you're not from down South, but, if you are like I am, then you'll understand that what I'm about to say actually is a big deal. Growing up, I didn't like barbecue. Not ribs, not chicken, not pulled pork--nothing.
When I was a little kid, I lived on a small farm that was kept going as a sort of hobby. There was always fresh eggs and chicken and vegetables and, looking back, my momma's and mema's cooking was just the sort of thing that I go in for now. But I was a true child of my generation and at an early age (and after a series of temper tantrums) I began making my own dinner, standing on a little stepstool at the farmhouse stove, heating up such kiddie classics as Franco-American Roller Coasters and SpagehttiOs and Chef Boyardee Ravioli.
Sometimes my mom would break down and make me a Chef Boyardee pizza. Man, was that good: a crust like warm cardboard, a sauce that was little more than thinned out tomato paste sweetened with corn syrup, and that grated parmesan cheese that I now imagine consists wholly of floor sweepings from a cheese processing plant. There was fast food too, which I devoured any chance I got. Later, after I moved away from Georgia, I would eat a barbecue sandwich every now and then, but in the Atlanta suburbs this usually consisted of drenching dry, overcooked pork or chicken in a syrupy sauce straight from the jug and then serving it on a roll or between two slices of white bread, either of which became instantly soggy.
My barbecue epiphany happened in Brooklyn one late spring afternoon. Shortly after moving there, me and my girlfriend at the time found ourselves feeling seriously homesick. We quickly agreed that Southern comfort food was the only remedy. She was from Tennessee, and had spent her summers as a kid in the mountains of North Carolina. She had to have pulled pork with all the fixin's. I had my reservations, but having worked as a cook and chef for a number of years, I agreed that I'd give it a go. I mean, come on, she may be a bitch now, but she was my girlfriend at the time. We got back to the apartment later that afternoon with a couple bike baskets loaded with pork shoulder, hickory chips, cider vinegar, brown sugar, collards, cornmeal, and whatever else we needed.
I rigged up a smoker from the little Weber grill on our terrace. Smoking a pork shoulder involves constantly burning wood chips over charcoal for about six hours. It gives off a considerable amount of smoke. The building I lived in was the old chicken plant on Roebling and North 4th that was converted into a luxury building. All the tenants were button-up, uptight professionals, myself excluded. The landlords were an older, passive-aggressive hippie couple that did the conversion themselves and were constantly on my case about something: tracking mud into the hall, not doing the recycling properly, being too loud, leaving the terrace too messy. On this particular night, they were afraid that I was gonna burn the place down. My upstairs neighboors started to complain about half-way through, saying that they couldn't leave their windows open because their apartment would smell like smoke.
We ignored their whining, and around midnight ended up with a mound of North Carolina-style barbecue, a pot of collards, and enough corn pones to feed our whole building. I normally would have shared, but everyone had pissed me off so I didn’t. After six months of arguments and harrassment, I decided to break my lease. But as far as barbecue was concerned, I was hooked.
I learned to cook barbecue in all of its glorious regional variations: Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, both the Carolinas. Whenever I traveled in the barbecue belt, I often ate nothing else.
In New York, the pickings are slim. Plus, New York barbecue is served in the wrong atmosphere. Taking something so basic and primal--cooking whole animals or at least big pieces of them over an open flame--and serving it on a white tablecloth or some urban roadhouse brimming over with country kitsch rubs me the wrong way, especially considering that some of best barbecue I've ever had has been served in gas stations, parking lots, and roadside shacks.
So whenever I go back down South, barbecue is at the top of the list of foods I gotta eat first (right up there with favorites at Waffle House and Chic-Fil-A). I get my first fix in Virgina and then try to make stops in any state I can. I'll stop and eat whether I'm hungry or not just because I like the smell of the smoke, which is, by the way, one of the telltale signs of great barbecue.
I was actually hungry when we stopped at the Bar-B-Q King in Charlotte. But with its giant neon sign, curb service, and a menu that not only included barbecue but also such drive-thru staples as burgers, dogs, onion rings, and milkshakes, it looked more like something out of The Hollywood Knights or Porky's than the barbecue stands I'm normally on the lookout for. Ehhh... I dunno. This might not be my first fix, I thought. I’d gone there on the recommendation of a friend, and judging by the spiky bleach-blond haired head of that dude from that food show staring back at me from a poster across the parking lot, it's no mystery where she'd heard about it. Not a good sign.
Traveling with five other people is tough. Traveling with five other musicians is even worse. Someone, if not everyone, is always broke. Someone's always got their shorts on too tight (usually me). Then, there's the general apathy of the road that leads to eating at a fucking Subway or something attached to the gas station that you just stopped at. I knew if I showed any sign of weakness, that's exactly where I was gonna eat that night.
Sometimes my mom would break down and make me a Chef Boyardee pizza. Man, was that good: a crust like warm cardboard, a sauce that was little more than thinned out tomato paste sweetened with corn syrup, and that grated parmesan cheese that I now imagine consists wholly of floor sweepings from a cheese processing plant. There was fast food too, which I devoured any chance I got. Later, after I moved away from Georgia, I would eat a barbecue sandwich every now and then, but in the Atlanta suburbs this usually consisted of drenching dry, overcooked pork or chicken in a syrupy sauce straight from the jug and then serving it on a roll or between two slices of white bread, either of which became instantly soggy.
My barbecue epiphany happened in Brooklyn one late spring afternoon. Shortly after moving there, me and my girlfriend at the time found ourselves feeling seriously homesick. We quickly agreed that Southern comfort food was the only remedy. She was from Tennessee, and had spent her summers as a kid in the mountains of North Carolina. She had to have pulled pork with all the fixin's. I had my reservations, but having worked as a cook and chef for a number of years, I agreed that I'd give it a go. I mean, come on, she may be a bitch now, but she was my girlfriend at the time. We got back to the apartment later that afternoon with a couple bike baskets loaded with pork shoulder, hickory chips, cider vinegar, brown sugar, collards, cornmeal, and whatever else we needed.
I rigged up a smoker from the little Weber grill on our terrace. Smoking a pork shoulder involves constantly burning wood chips over charcoal for about six hours. It gives off a considerable amount of smoke. The building I lived in was the old chicken plant on Roebling and North 4th that was converted into a luxury building. All the tenants were button-up, uptight professionals, myself excluded. The landlords were an older, passive-aggressive hippie couple that did the conversion themselves and were constantly on my case about something: tracking mud into the hall, not doing the recycling properly, being too loud, leaving the terrace too messy. On this particular night, they were afraid that I was gonna burn the place down. My upstairs neighboors started to complain about half-way through, saying that they couldn't leave their windows open because their apartment would smell like smoke.
We ignored their whining, and around midnight ended up with a mound of North Carolina-style barbecue, a pot of collards, and enough corn pones to feed our whole building. I normally would have shared, but everyone had pissed me off so I didn’t. After six months of arguments and harrassment, I decided to break my lease. But as far as barbecue was concerned, I was hooked.
I learned to cook barbecue in all of its glorious regional variations: Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, both the Carolinas. Whenever I traveled in the barbecue belt, I often ate nothing else.
In New York, the pickings are slim. Plus, New York barbecue is served in the wrong atmosphere. Taking something so basic and primal--cooking whole animals or at least big pieces of them over an open flame--and serving it on a white tablecloth or some urban roadhouse brimming over with country kitsch rubs me the wrong way, especially considering that some of best barbecue I've ever had has been served in gas stations, parking lots, and roadside shacks.
So whenever I go back down South, barbecue is at the top of the list of foods I gotta eat first (right up there with favorites at Waffle House and Chic-Fil-A). I get my first fix in Virgina and then try to make stops in any state I can. I'll stop and eat whether I'm hungry or not just because I like the smell of the smoke, which is, by the way, one of the telltale signs of great barbecue.
I was actually hungry when we stopped at the Bar-B-Q King in Charlotte. But with its giant neon sign, curb service, and a menu that not only included barbecue but also such drive-thru staples as burgers, dogs, onion rings, and milkshakes, it looked more like something out of The Hollywood Knights or Porky's than the barbecue stands I'm normally on the lookout for. Ehhh... I dunno. This might not be my first fix, I thought. I’d gone there on the recommendation of a friend, and judging by the spiky bleach-blond haired head of that dude from that food show staring back at me from a poster across the parking lot, it's no mystery where she'd heard about it. Not a good sign.
Traveling with five other people is tough. Traveling with five other musicians is even worse. Someone, if not everyone, is always broke. Someone's always got their shorts on too tight (usually me). Then, there's the general apathy of the road that leads to eating at a fucking Subway or something attached to the gas station that you just stopped at. I knew if I showed any sign of weakness, that's exactly where I was gonna eat that night.
So despite my misgivings, I rolled down the window, pushed the call button, and ordered. I was rewarded with a Pork Bar-B-Q Tray with beans, slaw, hush puppies, and a sesame seed bun. Not the best, but better than I'd had since the last time I was down south. Fletcher, who happens to be a Palace Fried Chicken regular back in Brooklyn, got the chicken. It was weird. It was really good. Imagine tossing fried chicken in equal parts Mrs. Butterworth's and Tabasco, then trying to eat it. I wanted more, but I had a hard enough time getting that first bite from him. Joseph got the onion rings with whatever he ordered. Luckily for me, there were a lot of them, and they were awesome. It boggles the mind as to how they get 'em so damn crispy.
JAMESON PROCTOR
Read the first of Jameson's food tour dispatches here, and watch his band, The Weight, in their VBS Practice Space session here.
Holy shit, Jameson. I'm with you. Grew up in north Alabama, which has its own regional barbeque thing going. It's a mix of North Carolina pulled pork and vinegar-based sauces and Memphis ribs. We also have something that originated in north Alabama: white sauce.
Roadside shacks and backyard pits are the best. Low and slow and without any pretentious attitude or (God forbid) waiter flair.
Just got a smoker and can't wait to get going. The pulled pork recipe I have calls for 14 hours of smoking. It's going to be a long, glorious day.
Posted by: MRM | 18/09/2009 at 21:07
Here's an example. Some of the best ribs I have ever had came from this shack in a backyard in Northport, AL.
www.flickr.com/photos/deepfriedkudzu/64193513/
www.flickr.com/photos/madeinmississippi/457796196/
Posted by: MRM | 18/09/2009 at 21:11
as someone from the south i completely agree that choices are much too limited in new york and when you can find a place that's decent it unfortunately comes along with a hearty helping of cheesy ambiance.
Posted by: dixon | 18/09/2009 at 21:23
Brazilians know how to make a proper BBQ. Churrasco all the way.
Posted by: Cara | 18/09/2009 at 21:45
Slow food is all right but 14 hours is out of control. I couldn't wait for that.
Posted by: Janson | 18/09/2009 at 21:50
Gates BBQ in KC- How may I help you! How may I help you!
Posted by: DelBoogs | 18/09/2009 at 22:02
BBQ is god! that is all.
Posted by: luxisabandit | 18/09/2009 at 22:22
MEAT is god.
Posted by: Soulson | 18/09/2009 at 22:38
Another thing. A barbeque does not mean burgers and hot dogs and sausages on a grill. That is a cookout.
Posted by: MRM | 18/09/2009 at 23:50
memphis places to check out
tops bbq- any location
cozy corner- north parkway and danny thomas blvd
Posted by: paul | 18/09/2009 at 23:50
Sweats BBQ in Georgia (can't remember the town, but I think it's on the way to Vidalia).
Also, Spiced Right BBQ in lilburn Ga on US29. Day-um, smokey!
Posted by: bc | 19/09/2009 at 03:09
ATL: Ribs at Daddy D'z are tried-and-true awesomeness. Fox Bros is the up-and-comer to watch. Fat Matt's is over-rated and always dry the times I went. Rolling Bones is satisfactory. The Albert's 'cue will make you cry, but they only do it Sundays.
Nashville: Haven't lived there in years, but Hog Heaven straight-up rules. Chicken with white sauce, please!
Posted by: yep | 19/09/2009 at 03:57
Here in California no one gets the regional bbq subtleties (the rare "soul food" restaurant is generic "southern" with maybe some cajun thrown in). I was lucky enough to have an ex introduce me to Texas bbq and to this day I think smoked brisket might be one of the foods of the gods.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/benzadrine/168005696/
Jameson: our generation's Calvin Trillin?
Posted by: anon | 19/09/2009 at 07:45
Carlisle's in B'ham, AL. Same pit burning since 1946! AND it's only about 10 blocks from the house.
Posted by: johnny | 19/09/2009 at 07:49
If you're in or going to savannah ga, go to angel's bar b q, the best bar buh que ive ever had.
Posted by: Charles Glass | 19/09/2009 at 10:45
This story gave me a boner.
Best BBQ in Brooklyn = Fette Sau. They serve whiskey in glass jugs too. Just walking by the place makes me start to drool.
Posted by: Franklin footfuck | 19/09/2009 at 17:20
Perfectly fine piece on Southern Style BBQ but I have to say...
Nothing like an out of towner hipster who moves to Williamsberg and complains about the douche-bags in the berg. Williamsberg is specifically for douche-bags. And the bit about savoring Waffle House and Chic Fil A. - cut me a fucking break - oh how the corporate Christian fundamentalist fast food of the South is so much better. The whining about serving BBQ as fancy food is also retarded - did you forget where you are. This is NYC.To say there aren't enough good BBQ spots done right would be like complaining that there is nowhere to get a proper Philly Cheesesteak even though Philly is only 90 miles away. Isn't it a nice thing that provincial specialties remain the little secret of each unique place.
Posted by: Chunkybalonky | 19/09/2009 at 22:10
As someone born and raised in the South by Southerners who now lives in the Northeast, I always encounter other ex-Southerners who really play up that shit, acting like true rednecks ("I'm a-gonna smoke this heah meat on muh terrace, and mayne who give a dern what thu neighbors say"), when in actuality that kind of behavior is what caused them to get the hell out of the South in the first place ... such as the author of this post.
Posted by: clap shitty | 20/09/2009 at 17:58
danggum it Clap Shitty you shore is a steeeck in da mud.
Posted by: DelBoogs | 21/09/2009 at 00:27
This story gave me a boner.
Best BBQ in Brooklyn = Fette Sau. They serve whiskey in glass jugs too. Just walking by the place makes me start to drool.
Posted by: Rocker | 21/09/2009 at 17:21
This story gave me a boner.
Best BBQ in Brooklyn = Fette Sau. They serve whiskey in glass jugs too. Just walking by the place makes me start to drool.
Posted by: Rocker | 21/09/2009 at 17:22
I don't understand why you thought the place would not be good because you saw a picture of Guy Fieri (and judging by the spiky bleach-blond haired head of that dude from that food show staring back at me from a poster across the parking lot, it's no mystery where she'd heard about it. Not a good sign.) Umm...Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives is pretty much dead on with places that serve amazing food.
Posted by: MmmMmmmYumYum! | 22/09/2009 at 03:43
Anyone seen my dog ??
Posted by: Jack Russel | 19/11/2009 at 03:35
I used to be so jealous of bbq places out along the east coast and down south too, but I recently tried a bbq place here in SLC Utah called Smoking Apple. it's so fantastic! Man now I just feel bad that all you guys out there don't have the amazing bbq that I'm so close to here.
Posted by: flooring lilburn | 25/08/2010 at 18:45
I bet you get that BBQ sauce all over your carpet, and have to buy a new one. In Salt Lake, I found the best place to get new carpet.
Posted by: Lilia | 11/01/2011 at 18:19