Our resident chef schools the Chads of Chattanooga
This past weekend, I was talked into leaving the air-conditioned comfort of my home with promises of barbecue, booze, and the accompanying bliss that comes from the combination of the two.
To be honest, simply saying “burnt ends” three times into a mirror would be enough to reanimate my corpse and send it rummaging through the countryside searching for pulled pork plates, but adding free cold beverages to the mix made the invitation irresistible.
“We would love for you guys to come. Chad loves to barbecue so bring a big appetite!”
I didn’t know who Chad was, but having someone named Chad in charge of the barbecue should have been the first red flag.
The second red flag was hoisted high and fast within minutes of arriving at the barbecue. The intoxicating smell of animal flesh being kissed by fire immediately began to caress my nasal passages, but something wasn’t right. Where is the pit? Where is the smoker? All I see is a Weber Spirit II S-310 Home Depot special three-burner grill with no actual barbecue equipment in sight. Trays of skewered vegetables, burger fixin’s, and various condiments littered the table, but the heady aroma of hardwood smoke and slow-cooked meat was AWOL. I feared the worst, but hoped for the best as I approached the grill.
“What’s happening, brah?” tumbled out of the grill-keeper’s mouth in a way that told me this must be Chad. “What can I do you for? Want a burger, a hot dog, or one of these sweet cauliflower steaks?”
Within seconds my emotions went from anger, to sadness, to disappointment, then finally to empathy. This poor guy had the unfortunate luck of not only being named Chad, but he also had no clue about the difference between grilling and barbecuing.
He and his lovely partner were not tricking me into thinking I was going to get a plate of luscious, slow-cooked meats—they both sincerely thought that the delicious burgers, hot dogs, and cauliflower steaks they were serving constituted barbecue. I love a good hunk of grilled meat as much as the next omnivore, but cooking things on the grill isn’t barbecue, it’s “grilling”—at least it is in the South.
So if throwing burgers on the grill isn’t barbecue, what is it? And what exactly is barbecue?
The short answer is that when you cook something, such as a steak or burger, on the grill at a high temperature for a short period of time—that’s grilling. Barbecue, on the other hand, is when you cook something, like a pork shoulder or brisket, low and slow over indirect heat.
Experts, like competitive BBQ champion and owner of Smokin Otis BBQ, William White, put it this way: “The main differences between BBQ and grilling are heat, temperature, and humidity. Barbecue uses a combination of indirect heat (a fire box connected to the smoker), low temperatures (usually 225°–300° F) and humidity (pans set in the smoker box or a water line attached to an expensive rig). Grilling simply uses a direct flame (charcoal, gas or even a campfire) and much higher temperatures (350°–500°F) to get foods seared and cooked quickly.
That explains the technical differences between grilling and barbecue, but let’s dig a bit deeper into the barbecue experience and see what separates it from simple grilling so that no one has to face the injustice I had to endure ever again.
To properly barbecue, the meat must be cooked over coals of charcoal, wood, or some other means of harnessing flame during a long, ancient ceremony. This ceremony begins unnaturally early in the morning with an eruption of flame, typically created by an overapplication of lighter fluid. (If you carry an AARP card and grew up in Soddy or Ringgold, I need to remind you that kerosene is no longer an acceptable starter.)
Once you’ve survived the initial blast, treated all resulting injuries, and allowed the coals to become glowing red embers like your succubus ex’s eyes—it’s time to add the meat. (If you want to go full BBQ nerd, the coals should read 200°–225°F on a surface thermometer.)
Don’t just toss the meat directly over the fire—that would be grilling and damnit I’ve warned you about grilling when you should be barbecuing. For proper barbecue, the meat has to be cooked for hours over indirect heat, in a casual, dismissive way, as if you were tricking it into being cooked.
Speaking of meat, it’s probably not necessary to hunt and kill your own meat for barbecue. There are perfectly good grocery stores, farms, and black-market butchers all around Chattanooga, so lurking in the tall grass and wrestling down your own pig seems a bit uncalled for unless you’re going for a Bloodthirsty Contessa vibe.
Before cooking, the meat must spend around 12 to 24 hours in the bottom of a fridge lounging in a heavenly bath of coarse salt, garlic, red pepper, cumin, oregano, hot sauce, and soy sauce (or whatever marinade your grandpappy wrote on the back of a Western Auto receipt). If your fridge doesn’t have enough space for the meat, you can free up space by throwing out all the useless garbage like fruit, yogurt, and that terrible soy milk your wife keeps trying to make you drink.
Once the meat is on the grill or in the smoker the wait begins (yes, the thing you cook barbecue on is sometimes called a grill, just stay with me). Grab a chair, a beverage, and your favorite whittlin’ stick because this is going to take a while. Don’t let the wife distract you with less important tasks like spending time with the kids or taking care of the house.
For the next 8 to 12 hours you cannot be sidetracked from your primary duty—meticulously adding wood that has been pre-soaked in water to create clouds of rich, flavor-packed smoke that will slowly penetrate the cuts of meat you’ve been charged with overseeing. You know you’re creating enough smoke when the local fire department periodically stops by to make sure you haven’t started a brush fire.
The meat should cook gradually under your intense gaze for 8 to 18 hours, depending on the cut of meat you’re barbecuing. According to the UN’s International Guidelines for Barbecue developed by the Council on Fire and Meats, you are allowed to nap while your meat is cooking, but only if you have applied sufficient doses of beer or whiskey. To prevent malnutrition and possible starvation during the lengthy cooking process, I encourage you to add small game, corn, or even a tomato to the flame to satiate your hunger. But don’t keep opening the damn grill or you’ll lose all the smoke and heat you’ve worked so hard to build.
During this sacred cooking time, no one else should ever touch the grill. Small children and sober friends should be kept at a safe distance at all times; however, select friends named Cyrus, Georgina, Gator, or Rufus may stand next to you to provide moral support and beverage runs as you monitor the process.
Continue to maintain low, even heat and lung-clogging smoke until your glorious, smoked pork shoulder or brisket emerges with a crisp, amber shell. The outer layer of meat should crack open and fall off the bone like it does in your dirty, wet, barbecue dreams.
At this point, a small crowd should begin to gather around your blazing throne of iron and fire. Women, children, and skinny jeaned dandies will marvel at the power you possess to harness fire and produce glorious chunks of enticing, golden meats. Your countenance will glow in the soft light of dwindling embers and you will be hailed as an all-powerful, drunken god of meats.
Before you can finish the story of how you got locked up in the Soddy drunk tank on prom night, the crowd that has gathered will be nearly uncontrollable—lurching at the barbecue you’ve been nurturing for oh, so many hours. In a Walking Dead-like frenzy, the gathering hoard will tear off the first shimmering shreds of that smoke-kissed carcass and place it gently into their quivering mouths. A silence will roll across the crowd for a few brief moments before they finally blurt out an orgasmic groan of pleasure, so ecstatic your stripper sister-in-law will blush.
At no point should you sully this meaty testament of God’s love towards all human beings with a revoltingly sweet, red-dyed syrup that some marketing guru in New York decided to call “barbecue sauce”. Make your own with tomato sauce, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, molasses, and the rest of grandpappy’s secret sauce ingredients.
More than anything else, remember that both barbecue and grilling are more than just cooking techniques. The experience of hanging out with family and friends is more important than any semantic rule or culinary approach could ever be.
Just, for love of all that is holy, no more cauliflower steaks.