ENCYCLOPEDIA VEGAS: BRIEF ENTRIES ON EATING, ART AND FUNKY THINGS

My first smoke(r)

Having recently moved from sequestered apartment life to the glories of true suburban living – read: a private back yard – I did what any red-blooded carnivore would do. I made plans for meat and bought my first smoker.

In the cavernous halls of a Lowe's I found a $50 Brinkmann job. I took the assembly kit home in a octagonal cardboard box. Armed with a Swiss Army knife screwdriver implement and some manual labor sauce – read: Pabst Blue Ribbon – I spent half an hour uniting pressed steel cylinders, handles and grills. Now a forest green tube, looking like a squat bomb, stands on the back patio.

To fire this baby up for its inaugural lighting, I poured charcoal briquettes into the base and torched them with lighter fluid. Twenty minutes later – a white hot frost of ash showing, petroleum fuel expended – I added water-soaked pecan tree chips to the heat source.

I chose the pecan variety out of novelty beyond the ubiquitous Southwest mesquite, widespread hickory or fruit woods like apple. The man at the store said pecan wood is a hallmark of Houston.  A random meeting with a Houstonian a few days later confirmed the BBQ wood's regional authenticity.

I set the steam dish inside and filled it with water for indirect heat and moisture. A consecrating flavoring agent – twelve ounces of pale golden PBR can contents – was added for good mojo.

Then I added three essential BBQ meat groups – a whole chicken, beef ribs and pork ribs. The beef ribs were stacked like a vaulting Gothic cathedral roof over pews of horizontal pig segments. A local shrine to home cooking made magnificent in the miniature.

For over six hours, the land meats basted in the humid pecan smoke. I added an extra handful of chips later for extra incense at hour three. During the last hour, a half pound of formerly seafaring were added to the perfumed atmosphere.

The meats all came out  with a deep walnut brown lacquer and were tender inside. The thick smoky crust effectively sealed in the meaty juiciness. I didn't apply a spice rub to the meat in order to test out an unadulterated smoky flavor – just a few grinds of peppercorns gilt the flesh.

I served all up with homestyle sides – beans, potato salad, coleslaw and white bread buns. For post-smoking sauce I purchased a bottle of Stubb's. I like this man's smiling label visage and was persuaded by his simple, taciturn and forthright TM: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm a Cook.”

Final analysis on my first smoke(r) experience? It takes a long time to BBQ right, and you need to be close by for fire safety concerns – continually and ever-present. I was confined to the domus for the whole day-long smokus.

Next time I want some BBQ, I will head to Big Mamma's by downtown or RUB BBQ at the Rio – for time and convenience's sake if nothing else. But I will smoke again, I tell you. It is good. I will smoke again.

Thrilla on the grilla!

The weekend after my real smoking BBQ experiment, I opted for the more normal backyard bonfire of meatiness – I grilled via propane.

In barely an hour I went from grocery store to plate. A sliced ribeye with fresh chimichurri sauce, a tiny lobster tail, a goodly amount of shrimp, a forest of asparagus, a charred onion and roasted Roma tomatoes all met the table quickly. That's the hot, quick fire of efficiency, if not the loving waft of slow BBQ smokery.

(This blog was deeply infused with the psychedelic aroma of the Beachwood Sparks' “Once We Were Trees.”)

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