Though I grew up in rural Virginia, the majority of my family lived in upstate South Carolina and…read moreTattnall County, Georgia.
The women in my family were superb cooks. Many of them had a specialty: one reliably fried her chicken juicy, crunchy, and golden-brown; another made buttermilk biscuits that were always flaky, layered, and tender, with a subtle, tangy flavor and a rich, buttery taste; yet another baked exceptionally delicate, intensely-flavored coconut cakes; etc.
I was taught and encouraged by these ladies - my Meemaw and my aunts - to manage a kitchen, and, to this day, their influence abides.
My father was a restaurant man, but at home, he, my grandfather, and my uncles, all of whom would've called themselves "traditional", mostly limited their culinary efforts to food they could prepare outside.
From an early age, these men taught me to work with grills and smokers, which is to say that as soon as I was strong enough, I was put to work, hauling wood before a cook and clearing ashes afterwards.
And that was as close as I got to cooking with the men, until one special day, when, at 10 years old, my Uncle Buddy allowed me to baste the hog as it spun on the spit. It was another three years before I was permitted to poke the fire.
Cooking, for the men, was guided by custom and tradition, a set of rituals that they'd learned from their elders. They didn't prevent my participation because they didn't trust my talent; they just hadn't finished teaching me yet.
But eventually, I earned my place by the fire, and, having proved myself capable, I was entrusted with special tasks of increasing importance: grilling meats (a throwaway - kid's play - in the men's eyes); making basting sauce - the "mop" - or what some call barbecue sauce; and, in my late teens, assisting with the butchery.
In the decades that followed, I traveled the United States, trying dozens of local BBQ variants. I won't criticize the barbecue of places that don't do it well, but I will say that if you're going to make the stuff and charge money for it, maybe go see how it's done in Memphis and eastern North Carolina, where my favorite types of "Q" come from. Don't just light a fire and open for business; learn something first.
At home, I've owned several smokers, and I've made and eaten a lot of a LOT of BBQ. I use pecan (or a pecan/cherry mix) when I want the taste of the thing I'm smoking to stand out, or when there's not much meat to the bite. Ribs, fish, and special dishes like pizza and involtini get the light smoke.
I use hickory or oak when I want an old-school BBQ flavor, or when the cut I'm cooking is large enough that it won't smoke all the way through. Those woods make excellent pork shoulder, prime rib, and leg of lamb.
The one wood I won't smoke with is mesquite. Never again. The few times I used it, my food tasted the way country air smells in the summer, when road crews get to resurfacing the County road.
But I know that the problem is me, because one day, a while back, I ate outstanding mesquite-smoked BBQ at Lum's in Junction, TX.
That morning, I'd left Luling for Van Horn, and, since I'd missed the more famous spots in the Houston area, I was set on finding a decent plate of BBQ before I left the state. Yelp and TripAdvisor said Lum's was a good choice, which gave me hope that the place would have what I wanted.
I walked in, happy to note that Lum's was not so much a "restaurant" as a "dining hall," the sort of place that serves a basic menu to lots of people, quickly and without complication.
You grab a tray, shuffle down the line, choosing from a meat (or two or three) and a couple of sides, a drink and maybe a sweet treat to finish. Park yourself in a comfortable chair at a heavy wooden table, and get to eatin'.
The menu board offered brisket, turkey, pork ribs, pulled pork, pork loin, and sausage. There was chicken, too, but that's not why I was there. The sides included something called "Spicy Spaghetti" which, had I been sticking around, I'd definitely have tried, but pasta wasn't on my short-list of Things To Eat In Texas' Hill Country.
I picked brisket (because Texas), pulled pork and ribs, and sides of potato and cucumber salads. My plate came with white bread. And with my feast, I drank sweet tea, as God intended. What did I miss? The spaghetti, and sausage, and pinto beans and mac 'n cheese. Next time.
The meats were expertly done: tender, moist, not greasy, and they'd been handled carefully by the pit master, so that the seasoning hadn't been knocked off as they were shifted from smoker to service line.
Before I left, I paid my respects to one of the owners and asked what sort of wood he uses, as I couldn't quite identify the smoky flavor. I was surprised when he said, "Mesquite... we're surrounded by it!" There was no acrid, creosote-y bitterness; instead, the flavor was smooth, savory, and delicious.
Lum's showed me that mesquite can work. But not at my house; I just don't have the touch.
