The Making Of The 'Cue

When last we left the Blue Ridge BBQ Festival, in the quaint mountain hamlet of Tryon, N.C., I had soldiered bravely through the "Anything But ..." contest judging and was heading, with a full stomach and a head still ringing from fireworks, back to my cozy room at the Days Inn.

Dawn broke Saturday to find me still slumbering, but there was no sleeping out at the barbecue grounds. Pits were being fired, coals laid, sauce applied and marinades emptied. Rubs were being mixed and applied and just the right balance of hardwoods to achieve perfect flavoring was being calculated.

You see, barbecue contests are no longer the "10 guys with grills and beer" operations they were years ago. Teams came to Tryon from all over the Eastern Seaboard and Midwest to lay their wares in front of the judges. The really big-budget teams paid for retail booths where they could sell their wares to the general public, but the greater number of competitors inhabited what I call the Pit Camp, where teams were arranged in more-or-less even lines and set up their trailers, grills, displays and other implements.

For a barbecue restaurant, the right to display a trophy from a contest like the Blue Ridge can mean sales, and it certainly looks good in a catering brochure. For sauce makers, being able to say their concoction was on the winner is another feather in their cap and another line on their Web site.

So, how do I explain the team to which I was attached, the Drunken Parrotheads? Team captain Chuck Britton runs a home improvement company, and his team cohorts are all "average guys," not a restaurateur in the bunch. They cook 'cue because they truly love to do so. They use recipes born out of endless backyard and driveway cooking sessions, and have the kind of camaraderie that you don't get from a group of "fellow employees." These guys are friends, and the ribbing that flies back and forth both within the team and with their cooking neighbors, the Tennessee Butt Rubbers, run by Chuck's brother, is a lesson in hilarity.

The team grill is a great illustration of the dedication these men have to their craft. It is cobbled together from an old stove, a pickup truck, a different truck's axle, part of a house and other sources. And yet, it works. In fact, I was tempted to back my Explorer in and see if my hitch would fit and slip quietly away with it in tow.

But it was all serious business when I hit the Pit Camp at 8:30 a.m. Chuck was busy checking the temperature on his main pit, where the pork butt, brisket and ribs were in various stages of cooking. Like many teams, the Parrotheads elected not to pursue the whole hog portion of the competition. Whole-hog cooking is far more complex than other forms of barbecue, and the expense is not insignificant.

I did get the chance to sample a number of different cookers' whole hog efforts, and I was amazed at the wide range of flavors produced. My favorite was created by the Allnight Cookers, a team owned in part by a Harley-Davidson dealer and located in my hometown. The Allnighters also cooked up a brisket that was as tender as any ribeye I've ever tasted, but were very cryptic about just exactly how that result was achieved.

The cooking continued through the morning, with sample pieces being consumed and much use of beer to clear palates. At least that was my excuse for drinking before noon; I don't know what the others had to say.

The first meat judging began at 11 a.m., when chicken entries were due at the judging area. I was surprised to see that Chuck and company cooked their chicken thighs on a humble Brinkmann smoker, just like the one I use in my back yard to smoke pork butts. The smoke ring in the bird bits was impressive, and the sauce, a locally made concoction called Old Mule (more on that next week), was tangy and meshed well with the smoke flavor.

As with all categories, the selection of which pieces to submit is of utmost importance. Of course, submitting the right number of pieces is important, as well. Last year, the Parrotheads were disqualified in the chicken category for submitting only five pieces of meat, rather than the required six. This year, one team member was tasked solely with the responsibility of counting the meat before the submission box was closed. I assisted in this critical endeavor, at least until my palate-clearing activities made reliable counting difficult.

Then the merry-go-round truly kicked into high gear. As soon as one meat was sent out for judging, it was time to begin culling and tasting, selecting just the right bits of the next one to send to the judges. Of course, my opinion was sought when it came to taste, but I honestly tried to stay out of any more specific selection. This is serious business, with some big cash prizes dangled for the winners, and I didn't want to be responsible for costing my cohorts a prize through rookie mistakes.

As it turned out, however, the Drunken Parrotheads didn't place in the money (the top five) in any of the meat categories. They DID, however, win the top award for Best Booth, for their Tiki-lounge-meets-beach-cabin look, complete with palm fronds.

Of course, the whole thing almost came to naught at one point when one of the aforementioned fronds got a little friendly with one of the Tiki torches. But these guys weren't about to let a pending conflagration keep them from pursuing barbecue glory.

While the Parrotheads didn't finish in the chips, their scores did improve in every category over the past year, in some cases by a considerable amount. Who knows? By next year, I might even be a regular member of the team ... and their scores will suffer accordingly.

A Rub To Love

This past weekend, I smoked more pork butts, and one of them was rubbed down with a new seasoning blend from Mark DeYoung. The mix, called DeYoung's Fore Seasons, is a fascinating blend of herbs and spices that I've so far tried on potatoes, salmon, chicken, mashed potatoes and now smoked butt. It has yet to disappoint.

It's hard to describe the flavor. Mark has hit upon that most rare of critters: a truly original taste. There are sweet and smoky notes, a bit of heat, and a fresh "green" flavor I attribute to what appear to be parsley flakes.

It's bargain, too. At just $5 for a very generous packet of blend, you'll quickly find yourself digging around to find new things to try it on.

You can add some to your spice cabinet by clicking here.

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