In Search of Smoke
I am a traveling eater. I do not eat merely to live, and perchance enjoy; I enjoy or else. My avowed mission on vacation – and pretty much all the time – is to find something good to eat that agrees with my food allergies. If people think I spend too much time considering my food, they can form a line to the left, where I will pelt them with gluten-free biscuits.
On a recent flight my reading material was Calvin Trillin’s Third Helpings, which not only kept me entertained but produced ferocious barbecue cravings - inconvenient in an airplane. The first time I read Alice, Let’s Eat, it inspired me to turn my upcoming trip to Kentucky into a barbecue-hunting expedition. I have always thought that a road trip based purely on barbecue was a very sound project. Unfortunately, I was hampered by not having any forward-thinking friends. They seem to have trouble grasping the idea. ‘You drive down to Kentucky,’ I would begin, and they'd interrupt to suggest sightseeing or shopping or hiking. ‘No,’ I'd continue patiently, ‘You drive around and eat barbecue. They sell it by the side of the road. You can smell the smoke.” (The material being barbecued is secondary: the smoke is the important thing.) My friends look aghast. Has someone replaced their germaphobic friend? Who is this person who wants to eat food off the side of the road? ‘It’s the smoke,’ I tried to explain, ‘It kills everything. Lots of stuff in smoke.’ Then they'd give up in mild sadness and plan their next trip to Cedar Point.
I did find excellent barbecue in Kentucky – or maybe Tennessee – at one of those places where people know there is a state line, but nobody is overly concerned just where. I was cajoled into forgoing my barbecue hunt to have Sunday dinner in a Mexican restaurant, but the buffet, not the enchiladas, was the popular choice. The cook had gathered such an outstanding reputation that whenever she changed restaurants, her name was simply displayed on a sign, and those in the know flocked. She was famous, it turned out, for two things: a real old-fashioned Sunday dinner with all the sides, and all-day smoked barbecue. And barbecue it was – tender smoky beef and pork, the sauce embracing sweet, smoky, tangy and tomato tastes without staying too far into any. I didn’t pass up the greens, pot roast, mashed potatoes or grits – but I went back for seconds on the barbecue.
There was, though, a noticeable void: I had not had barbecued mutton. I had practically hung out the car window to sniff up all that lovely barbecued smell, but I had not convinced anyone to stop. When we reached Lexington, I gave up all hope. My mission remained unfulfilled, apparently impossible.
I was lamenting as much to Lynne, my cooking buddy. She is the only person I have met who thought that having a Chinese Soup Dumpling party was a really fun idea. (I should’ve taken her with me on the Kentucky trip.) When I mentioned the barbecue, although good, was not mutton, her eyes lit up. Her husband was born in Kentucky. This I knew. What I didn’t know was that his father had been a cook in the barbecued-mutton center of the world – according to people from that region of Kentucky, anyway - and he had an authentic recipe for barbecue mutton and burgoo. And, like a good father, he had passed the recipe on. It took some planning, but eventually all the necessary schedules aligned and it was time to make some real barbecued mutton.
Lynne arrived – alone, but bearing stained recipe cards. Her husband was coming practically immediately, no worries. We could get started on the prep work.
We prepped. He didn’t come.
Probably should get started on the sauce, she said, selecting a card. I was slightly apprehensive to notice that she had spelled burgoo ‘bergue’. We started the sauce. We started the burgoo. Hesitantly, I began to grill the lamb over a slow flame.
He came just before we served dinner and was nice enough not to comment that the sauce was way too vinegary or that the burgoo was rather more spicy than absolutely necessary. In fact, he didn’t say too much. I asked him about three months later if the meal had been at all like how he would’ve made it.
“Nope,” he said, trying to see if he was hurting my feelings. He needn’t have worried. It had not been a worthy barbecue. I was relieved. The search could continue.
On a recent flight my reading material was Calvin Trillin’s Third Helpings, which not only kept me entertained but produced ferocious barbecue cravings - inconvenient in an airplane. The first time I read Alice, Let’s Eat, it inspired me to turn my upcoming trip to Kentucky into a barbecue-hunting expedition. I have always thought that a road trip based purely on barbecue was a very sound project. Unfortunately, I was hampered by not having any forward-thinking friends. They seem to have trouble grasping the idea. ‘You drive down to Kentucky,’ I would begin, and they'd interrupt to suggest sightseeing or shopping or hiking. ‘No,’ I'd continue patiently, ‘You drive around and eat barbecue. They sell it by the side of the road. You can smell the smoke.” (The material being barbecued is secondary: the smoke is the important thing.) My friends look aghast. Has someone replaced their germaphobic friend? Who is this person who wants to eat food off the side of the road? ‘It’s the smoke,’ I tried to explain, ‘It kills everything. Lots of stuff in smoke.’ Then they'd give up in mild sadness and plan their next trip to Cedar Point.
I did find excellent barbecue in Kentucky – or maybe Tennessee – at one of those places where people know there is a state line, but nobody is overly concerned just where. I was cajoled into forgoing my barbecue hunt to have Sunday dinner in a Mexican restaurant, but the buffet, not the enchiladas, was the popular choice. The cook had gathered such an outstanding reputation that whenever she changed restaurants, her name was simply displayed on a sign, and those in the know flocked. She was famous, it turned out, for two things: a real old-fashioned Sunday dinner with all the sides, and all-day smoked barbecue. And barbecue it was – tender smoky beef and pork, the sauce embracing sweet, smoky, tangy and tomato tastes without staying too far into any. I didn’t pass up the greens, pot roast, mashed potatoes or grits – but I went back for seconds on the barbecue.
There was, though, a noticeable void: I had not had barbecued mutton. I had practically hung out the car window to sniff up all that lovely barbecued smell, but I had not convinced anyone to stop. When we reached Lexington, I gave up all hope. My mission remained unfulfilled, apparently impossible.
I was lamenting as much to Lynne, my cooking buddy. She is the only person I have met who thought that having a Chinese Soup Dumpling party was a really fun idea. (I should’ve taken her with me on the Kentucky trip.) When I mentioned the barbecue, although good, was not mutton, her eyes lit up. Her husband was born in Kentucky. This I knew. What I didn’t know was that his father had been a cook in the barbecued-mutton center of the world – according to people from that region of Kentucky, anyway - and he had an authentic recipe for barbecue mutton and burgoo. And, like a good father, he had passed the recipe on. It took some planning, but eventually all the necessary schedules aligned and it was time to make some real barbecued mutton.
Lynne arrived – alone, but bearing stained recipe cards. Her husband was coming practically immediately, no worries. We could get started on the prep work.
We prepped. He didn’t come.
Probably should get started on the sauce, she said, selecting a card. I was slightly apprehensive to notice that she had spelled burgoo ‘bergue’. We started the sauce. We started the burgoo. Hesitantly, I began to grill the lamb over a slow flame.
He came just before we served dinner and was nice enough not to comment that the sauce was way too vinegary or that the burgoo was rather more spicy than absolutely necessary. In fact, he didn’t say too much. I asked him about three months later if the meal had been at all like how he would’ve made it.
“Nope,” he said, trying to see if he was hurting my feelings. He needn’t have worried. It had not been a worthy barbecue. I was relieved. The search could continue.
