The Great American BBQ

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The mustard-based sauce that dominates the central part of the state is the most unusual and thus the most hotly defended. "Most people who think they like barbecue have never even tasted it," mused one loyalist sadly. "Bless their poor hearts, they think barbecue sauce is red. When all the time it's yellow." Whatever the sauce, South Carolina barbecue is slow-cooked pork, often served with rice and liver hash, a soupy stew made from the "waste" parts of the pig, such as the liver and jowls.

An exception to the Southern pork rule is western Kentucky, famous for its mutton barbecues, which have been held around Owensboro since the 1830s. Although everyone gets in on the act, the tradition has been maintained primarily by the Catholic parishes. No one knows exactly why. ("Barbecue takes teamwork," suggested one poker-faced native, "and there's too much free will among Protestants to do it right.") The mutton is slow-cooked and served sliced or chopped with no sauce at all or a tangy, tomato-based one.

The West

"In my youth, a skilled barbecue cook in the average Southwestern community occupied a position far above that of the town mayor."

— Mel Marshall

In the wide open spaces of the old American West, when people came to visit they stayed awhile. Saddled with guests who had traveled long, hungry distances by horseback and who intended to stick around for a fair number of meals, hosts needed to cook up something substantial—say, a steer. Barbecues became Texans' way of celebrating everything from weddings to elections to the 4th of July.

Two groups were especially important to the tradition. The Germans who settled in the Hill Country of central Texas brought a rich tradition of marinated and smoked meats; in the southern and eastern parts of the state, Mexicans contributed fiery seasonings and sauces. As the cattle drives headed west and north into other states, Texans took along their favorite form of cooking.

Not surprisingly in a state crowded with cattle, Texas barbecue is beef, especially brisket. Unlike Southeasterners, Texans like to cook in closed pits. The wood may be any thing available, but given a choice, Texans burn mesquite, a hot-burning, smoky wood. (Once a waste tree and the bane of Southwestern ranchers, mesquite is now exported to restaurants and markets from Manhattan to Berkeley.) Another popular fuel is pecan, the state tree, which imparts a delicate, spicy flavor. After the pit is dug and the wood has burned down to hot coals, the meat is placed at the opposite end of the trench from the fire, the hole covered with sheets of tin, and dirt shoveled over that. The brisket, not a terribly tender cut, cooks slowly for 14 to 18 hours. Like other things Texan, barbecues can be larger than life. In Dumas, a small town on the panhandle that serves up 7,000 plates of barbecue at its annual summer festival, they dig the cooked meat out with a backhoe.

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