The “Grill Sergeant,” “Sir Smokes-A-Lot,” and the “Hot Little Devils” all the way from El Campo, Texas, were tending their meats, beans and other delectables, their trailer-mounted slow-smoker BBQ rigs circled like a wagon train along the banks of the Guadalupe River. I walked among them in the happy mood I always am in when about to eat. Better yet I had been invited to be a judge in the cook-off. So I would be feasting in a controlled (slightly) way. As I walked past the field where the contestants were set up and into the VFW clubhouse though I immediately suspected I would end up judging more than the beans. The following then is the true story of how it all went down that day. The food, the lies, the secrecy, and of course Sarah Palin’s doppelganger wearing a dreamcatcher t-shirt, but that comes later.
First my friend Eric showed up. His waist length hair was braided. He was complaining he had been forced into it. “It’s not like I’m preparing the food,” he whined, his head swiveling around nervously in case someone was coming at him with a hair-net. We went into the VFW and sat down. At the bar a stout woman clucked her tongue while her flip-phone disobeyed her. “You’re not going to get a signal in here on your Star-Trek phone,” the Chicano bartender cracked, killing her techno-socially on the spot. Eric cackled. This bartender’s timing was so great, leaving me wondering at the latent ability hiding all over the planet, like how a comic genius with perfect timing and delivery was concealed in the VFW serving five year old cans of Pepsi.
Eric had mentioned he had personally probably been chosen to be a judge because he had lived abroad, and by “abroad” he meant Arkansas. My friend Leighton also showed up right as the contest was about to begin. I was slightly puffed up as I introduced myself as a judge, though the truth was we were all nothing special, with opinions on food that didn’t amount to a hill of, well, you know. But I was excited! It actually crossed my mind this was one of the most fun things I had ever done. I was going to eat in a new way, and it mattered!
The rules and protocols were explained. We would rate each entry, taking a palette cleansing bite of an olive, cracker, or carrot in between (more food!). We were given some helpful hints and were underway starting with the beans category. We breathed in the aroma of each 25 entries one at a time, eyeballing the victuals for, well, whatever registered, all the while still knowing there is no gold standard for beans, that we were just on our own. I mean, who can say?
After the beans we took a break, walking around outside among the cooks, their rigs, tents, trailers and redneck entourages. I began to feel a little weird, probably due to the hundreds of ingredients coursing through my veins like a spicy bean broth IV. I began to get a little freaked out. Who knew what these bandana wearing maniacs considered an ingredient? Perhaps one believed that he had sweet dirt in his backyard that gave it a kick, who knew? I had realized as judge there were no controls in this contest, but I now also realized that there were no controls over what I was eating. I continued walking it off like a bad trip at Woodstock. I went back in for the chicken round.
“You three can’t sit together,” a woman said. “You talk too much.”
I laughed my “you must be joshing” laugh before turning to look at Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher t-shirt staring me down. She was serious, very serious, but I laughed and sat down with Eric and Leighton anyway but with a huge question mark across my face. The two question marks across the table from me also looked perplexed. “We didn’t do anything”, Eric complained. I recovered and started laughing. “I can tell you’re not going to let this go,” I told him. “We didn’t do anything,” he repeated. I laughed again. Chicken was served.
The room and it’s occupants and the food were starting to get to me. I heard people next to me talking about Jane Fonda and the Vietnam war. I know we were at the VFW, I know Jane Fonda is infamous among veterans, but however you felt about it, that was over thirty years ago. If France and Germany have forgiven one another let’s give it a rest about Jane Fonda.
Let’s eat chicken! I didn’t realize I was breaking another rule. We were supposed to take one bite and then pass it on. But a good one landed in front of me and I just kept eating. I heard Eric cackle. “You found a good one,” he said, mutilating the bird in front of him as well. Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher t-shirt killed me with her eyes.
The day wore on. The rounds of ribs and sides and brisket and sausage links were threatening to turn the VFW into a Roman vomitorium. Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher T-shirt commanded us to eat efficiently, to only open our mouths for food. Eating alongside these strangers and amongst the VFW and BBQ cook-off community, here in the state of mind called Texas and alongside the banks of the Guadalupe river, I began to feel that the VFW as well as the ring of circled slow-smokers outside were attempting to seal in something more than flavor, that by keeping traditions close they were attempting to seal in culture itself.
Maybe it was the bean slurry talking, but there was some metaphor here, and even more attractive to me, science. The physics of trying to seal in flavor through smoke are fascinating and elusive, as is the attempt to seal in culture and separate yourself from the world, to seal off time, to preserve traditions, all these things and more were at play here. I ate some more, eating my way through these issues, not knowing if I was among my people or not, who can say? We shared the food and judged. I took another bite. The winner.
First my friend Eric showed up. His waist length hair was braided. He was complaining he had been forced into it. “It’s not like I’m preparing the food,” he whined, his head swiveling around nervously in case someone was coming at him with a hair-net. We went into the VFW and sat down. At the bar a stout woman clucked her tongue while her flip-phone disobeyed her. “You’re not going to get a signal in here on your Star-Trek phone,” the Chicano bartender cracked, killing her techno-socially on the spot. Eric cackled. This bartender’s timing was so great, leaving me wondering at the latent ability hiding all over the planet, like how a comic genius with perfect timing and delivery was concealed in the VFW serving five year old cans of Pepsi.
Eric had mentioned he had personally probably been chosen to be a judge because he had lived abroad, and by “abroad” he meant Arkansas. My friend Leighton also showed up right as the contest was about to begin. I was slightly puffed up as I introduced myself as a judge, though the truth was we were all nothing special, with opinions on food that didn’t amount to a hill of, well, you know. But I was excited! It actually crossed my mind this was one of the most fun things I had ever done. I was going to eat in a new way, and it mattered!
The rules and protocols were explained. We would rate each entry, taking a palette cleansing bite of an olive, cracker, or carrot in between (more food!). We were given some helpful hints and were underway starting with the beans category. We breathed in the aroma of each 25 entries one at a time, eyeballing the victuals for, well, whatever registered, all the while still knowing there is no gold standard for beans, that we were just on our own. I mean, who can say?
After the beans we took a break, walking around outside among the cooks, their rigs, tents, trailers and redneck entourages. I began to feel a little weird, probably due to the hundreds of ingredients coursing through my veins like a spicy bean broth IV. I began to get a little freaked out. Who knew what these bandana wearing maniacs considered an ingredient? Perhaps one believed that he had sweet dirt in his backyard that gave it a kick, who knew? I had realized as judge there were no controls in this contest, but I now also realized that there were no controls over what I was eating. I continued walking it off like a bad trip at Woodstock. I went back in for the chicken round.
“You three can’t sit together,” a woman said. “You talk too much.”
I laughed my “you must be joshing” laugh before turning to look at Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher t-shirt staring me down. She was serious, very serious, but I laughed and sat down with Eric and Leighton anyway but with a huge question mark across my face. The two question marks across the table from me also looked perplexed. “We didn’t do anything”, Eric complained. I recovered and started laughing. “I can tell you’re not going to let this go,” I told him. “We didn’t do anything,” he repeated. I laughed again. Chicken was served.
The room and it’s occupants and the food were starting to get to me. I heard people next to me talking about Jane Fonda and the Vietnam war. I know we were at the VFW, I know Jane Fonda is infamous among veterans, but however you felt about it, that was over thirty years ago. If France and Germany have forgiven one another let’s give it a rest about Jane Fonda.
Let’s eat chicken! I didn’t realize I was breaking another rule. We were supposed to take one bite and then pass it on. But a good one landed in front of me and I just kept eating. I heard Eric cackle. “You found a good one,” he said, mutilating the bird in front of him as well. Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher t-shirt killed me with her eyes.
The day wore on. The rounds of ribs and sides and brisket and sausage links were threatening to turn the VFW into a Roman vomitorium. Sarah Palin with the dreamcatcher T-shirt commanded us to eat efficiently, to only open our mouths for food. Eating alongside these strangers and amongst the VFW and BBQ cook-off community, here in the state of mind called Texas and alongside the banks of the Guadalupe river, I began to feel that the VFW as well as the ring of circled slow-smokers outside were attempting to seal in something more than flavor, that by keeping traditions close they were attempting to seal in culture itself.
Maybe it was the bean slurry talking, but there was some metaphor here, and even more attractive to me, science. The physics of trying to seal in flavor through smoke are fascinating and elusive, as is the attempt to seal in culture and separate yourself from the world, to seal off time, to preserve traditions, all these things and more were at play here. I ate some more, eating my way through these issues, not knowing if I was among my people or not, who can say? We shared the food and judged. I took another bite. The winner.
