"Barbecue is the most American of foods; to hell with apple pie.
If Congress decided to declare a national dish,
barbecue should win by acclamation."
– Dotty Griffith, Celebrating Barbecue
There are those who ski. There are those who golf. And, in America, there are those who barbecue.
When Paul Street toyed with the notion of converting Dusty’s to a barbecue nirvana some five or six years ago, he had no idea that he’d be swept up whole hog, so to speak, into the cultish Budweiser-annointed world of competitive barbecuing.
And he certainly never pictured himself – bona fide Canuck and mere mortal immersed in food and beverage management for Whistler-Blackcomb – in a park on the banks of the Mississippi River in sultry Memphis, Tennessee, grinning from ear to ear with his teammates after being declared overall grand champions (plus masters in the hog category), beating out some 230-odd teams in the 24-hour barbecue marathon known alternatively as the "Superbowl of Swine" or the great Memphis in May World Champ BBQ. Take your pick.
But once Paul started researching the notion of bringing gen-u-ine BBQ to Whistler – something we Canadians often confuse with mere grilling – he quickly found out that barbecue is nothing without a competitive edge.
"If you’re talking to a barbecuer, if you can’t go out and cook with these guys, who are you?" Paul points out. "There’s an amazing lack of restaurateurs out there willing to put it all on the line because they are going to get beat. A restaurateur who’s going to beat a seasoned competitor? It’s not going to happen."
Oh no?
• • •
Paul doesn’t mince his words, nor does he exaggerate. In fact, he’s a humble man who’s the first to admit that the key to the championship bestowed on his team, Jack’s Old South BBQ, was Vienna, Georgia’s own claim to barbecue fame, Myron Mixon.
"We’re his support team," he says. "We help him and do what needs to be done. But when it comes to recipes and formulating strategies, he’s the man." AKA: pit master.
Picture the – ahem – pit team in an Indy race. Myron drives the car and Paul and his six mates change the tires; they keep the fire going; they help put the sauce together; they keep the site clean; they help prepare the hogs they cook; and generally do what needs to be done to cook for 24 hours and come out with a world championship hog.
I know, I know – Dusty’s, or maybe Dixx down in Yaletown, has got you stoked on real BBQ. Or maybe you picked up your taste for it in Kansas City or Texas. A pile of ribs or brisket, cooked long and slow with just the right combo of sauce and smoke. You want all the little secrets behind that honkin’ hog. And so do I.
But there’s no way Paul, and certainly not Myron, will spill the beans.
"The marinade that Myron uses – he doesn’t allow people to taste it. I didn’t even taste it," says Paul. "He makes them by himself. He doesn’t give that responsibility to anybody else because that’s one of the key elements of what he does."
Now, this may or may not surprise you, but even though championship recipes are secret weapons of mass attraction, potentially revealed only to someone chained to a train track with the 6:10 due in 30 seconds, the basics are, well, pretty basic.
Lots of competitors start with an off-the shelf barbecue sauce like Bull’s Eye then tweak it for sweetness or heat, adding, say, chipotles or Tabasco or Frank’s Hot Sauce, honey or maple syrup to get it to where they want it to be. Liquid smoke is popular, too, if you don’t use wood.
"One thing about the palate of barbecuers, being American, they don’t have an exotic palate," says Paul (not realizing this comment may trigger a letter or two to the editor and possibly a whole new trade war and series of countervailing duties on Canadian hogbacks). "I’ve seen people marinate with Kraft Italian dressing. I’m not kidding."
Cripes. And it gets worse. Or better, depending on where you’re coming from.
"A lot of people slather mustard on their ribs to start before they put their rubs on (Note: rubs are the blends of dry spices rubbed or patted on to the meat before its barbecued.) And they’re not using Russian seed mustard. They’re using French’s hot dog mustard," he adds. "They use things like ketchup in their sauces – things people identify with.
"If you ask Myron what the key to his winning is, it’s the fact that he does exactly the same thing over and over again. Just like what Heinz does when they put a bottle of ketchup in front of you that looks and tastes exactly the same as it did a few years ago."
Yes, barbecue fires up palates, and breaks down class barriers and any foodie snob factor within a 100-mile radius. In fact, there’s nothing exotic about it. What pit masters like Myron do is figure out flavours that appeal to everyone, otherwise known as tapping into the vernacular of the popular.
• • •
But back to basics and that winning hog.
Beyond the sauces and rubs and mops (better known this side of the 49th as basting sauce) ’tweren’t no secret that the Jack’s were cooking up two 200-lb hogs over Georgia peach wood for 24 hours. Which added up to a lot of ballast anchoring the competition’s five basic food groups: BBQ, coleslaw, baked beans, Bud – and cola, the requisite pick-you-up after so much braking material is dumped into your bloodstream.
But not to make fun. Barbecue in America is serious business, especially at the big three competitions like the one in Memphis.
"We ski and we rock climb, but these people barbecue, it’s what they do," says Paul. "They spend their free time barbecuing." Myron, for instance, used to golf. Not any more. Now he barbecues. In competitions. All the time."
Cult might be too strong a word to describe this world. Maybe sub-culture is more like it. A cool sub-culture, but a sub-culture nonetheless. So what are these people like?
"They like to eat. They like food and they like competition," says Paul. "They’re addicted to the competition as much as they’re addicted to eating barbecue. I mean, they’re not all a bunch of fat men. There are some big people on the barbecue circuit, but I expected to see more big people, to be honest with you, than I actually saw.
"People get into it. It’s something they do to impress their friends. You can have your friends over and cook something for them they could never cook for themselves, but is as good as anything they’ve ever tasted, and that’s pretty cool.
"So people want to be good at it so they can win at competitions, but they can also win with their friends and do something special for them. I found these people were as interested in competing and in finding something they were good at, as they were about sitting around eating all day. I mean, it’s not about that. It’s like any other competitive sport – debating or whatever."
Paul also points out that you don’t have to be a chef to barbecue, you just have to practise to get good at it.
"In the course of 24 hours of cooking a whole hog, you’re not doing a lot to it. But if you’re not doing it right, you’re not going to get the results," he says. So what are those "right" things? The temperature must be kept constant, and you have to apply the right amount of smoke so you don’t kill it but add the right amount of flavour. That’s about it.
As for Paul’s relative position in this whole barbecue cosmos, I confess, I exaggerated a bit. He really hasn’t fallen for barbecue whole hog. Maybe half hog is more like it.
"I’m not a fanatic. I’m a businessman and I’m a rock climber," he says. "Barbecue is fun for me and it’s good for Whistler-Blackcomb, we get something out of it.
"I enjoy it. These are real characters, so it’s become sort of a cult interest for me. But I don’t sit up at night thinking about how I’m going to cook my next pork butt."
As for actually cooking barbecue, he does it once or twice each summer and that’s about it.
"It takes too much time," he says. "I have a lot of other things that I do. I can’t slave for 16 hours over a pork butt. I can come home and cook a perfect steak in 10 or 12 minutes. I can give you something good off the grill, like most Canadians."
