the formula for the perfect
barbecue sauce is more akin to a magic spell. As Malinowski observed, "The
spell is that part of magic which is occult, handed over in magical filiation,
known only to the practitioner. To the natives, knowledge of magic means
knowledge of spell, and . . . it will always be found that the ritual centers
around ... the spell. The formula is always the core of the magical performance." In his analysis of the cultural impact of magic, he also provides insight to the function of the high braggadocio associated with the barbecue ritual. Magic, he said, serves "to ritualize man's optimism, to enhance his faith
in the victory of faith over fear," and to express "the greater value for man of
confidence over doubt, of steadfastness over vacillation, of optimism over
pessimism." Perhaps the magic of the barbecue ritual is the perfect antidote
for overcoming the pessimism and sense of failure inherent in the burden of
Southern history.
These sauces are not for the weak of stomach, for almost all the sludgebottom cooking cauldrons start the day filled with vinegar, black and red pepper, salt, lemons, onions, sugar, water, and in some versions tomato puree.
When Lipton decided to test-market Wish-Bone Western Style Barbecue
Sauce in a plastic squeeze bottle, the company chose Kansas City, Milwaukee,
and St. Louis for their trial balloons, wisely avoiding the South, where the
doctored ketchup would have failed regardless of the packaging.
Other arguments most frequently arise over whether the pork should be
sliced, chopped, or torn; whether the pit should be dug into or built above ground; whether the wood should be mesquite, oak, sassafras, or hickory;
whether the meat should be rubbed before or basted during cooking; and
whether it is a sacrilege to include tomatoes in the sauce base. The prevailing
wisdom seems to support torn, dug, hickory, rubbed, and tomatoes.
As with all things religious, there are those who seek financial gain from
mass audiences, and barbecue is no exception. Luther's Bar-B-Q, Inc., is the
Southern culinary equivalent of the Southern televangelists. Founded in
Houston nine years ago, Luther's is now a regional "cafeteria-style" barbecue
chain with approximately fifty stores in fourteen states. Acquired by Diversi-
foods, formerly Chart House, of Itasca, Illinois, in 1981, Luther's corporate
headquarters has been moved to Atlanta, but that does not disguise the carpetbag philosophy behind the chain's marketing strategy to expand to 700 stores
during the next four years. Ron Crews, marketing vice president, projected a
$1o million annual advertising budget and said, "It's a total research and a
total positioning job ... the barbecue segment is not very developed. We feel
we're creating a new segment." No real barbecue proprietor would talk like
that nor suggest spending that kind of money to paint smiling pigs on their
signs when RC will provide them for free.
Generally, even successful barbecue joints have difficulty expanding to a
second location without losing something in the process. In a review of one
establishment's efforts at expansion to an "underserved" area, Brantley gave
the fare a favorable rating, then added, "But, there is a but and this is it:
Stubby's is a West End barbecue stand. That is, it sells middle-of-the-road barbecue aimed at a large audience. There's none of the one-of-a-kind, take-itor-leave-it funkiness in either the sauce or the surroundings that you find on
the other side of town at such legendary places as Sims' or Ballard's."
Taking note of the ritualistic nature of barbecue, an article in Southern Living suggested that Southerners "revere legendary haunts as if they were
shrines," and most seem to prefer the rectitude found in "barbecue eateries
identified by torn screen doors, scratched and dented furniture, cough syrup
calendars, potato chip racks, sometimes a jukebox, and always a counter, producing an
barbecue sauce is more akin to a magic spell. As Malinowski observed, "The
spell is that part of magic which is occult, handed over in magical filiation,
known only to the practitioner. To the natives, knowledge of magic means
knowledge of spell, and . . . it will always be found that the ritual centers
around ... the spell. The formula is always the core of the magical performance." In his analysis of the cultural impact of magic, he also provides insight to the function of the high braggadocio associated with the barbecue ritual. Magic, he said, serves "to ritualize man's optimism, to enhance his faith
in the victory of faith over fear," and to express "the greater value for man of
confidence over doubt, of steadfastness over vacillation, of optimism over
pessimism." Perhaps the magic of the barbecue ritual is the perfect antidote
for overcoming the pessimism and sense of failure inherent in the burden of
Southern history.
These sauces are not for the weak of stomach, for almost all the sludgebottom cooking cauldrons start the day filled with vinegar, black and red pepper, salt, lemons, onions, sugar, water, and in some versions tomato puree.
When Lipton decided to test-market Wish-Bone Western Style Barbecue
Sauce in a plastic squeeze bottle, the company chose Kansas City, Milwaukee,
and St. Louis for their trial balloons, wisely avoiding the South, where the
doctored ketchup would have failed regardless of the packaging.
Other arguments most frequently arise over whether the pork should be
sliced, chopped, or torn; whether the pit should be dug into or built above ground; whether the wood should be mesquite, oak, sassafras, or hickory;
whether the meat should be rubbed before or basted during cooking; and
whether it is a sacrilege to include tomatoes in the sauce base. The prevailing
wisdom seems to support torn, dug, hickory, rubbed, and tomatoes.
As with all things religious, there are those who seek financial gain from
mass audiences, and barbecue is no exception. Luther's Bar-B-Q, Inc., is the
Southern culinary equivalent of the Southern televangelists. Founded in
Houston nine years ago, Luther's is now a regional "cafeteria-style" barbecue
chain with approximately fifty stores in fourteen states. Acquired by Diversi-
foods, formerly Chart House, of Itasca, Illinois, in 1981, Luther's corporate
headquarters has been moved to Atlanta, but that does not disguise the carpetbag philosophy behind the chain's marketing strategy to expand to 700 stores
during the next four years. Ron Crews, marketing vice president, projected a
$1o million annual advertising budget and said, "It's a total research and a
total positioning job ... the barbecue segment is not very developed. We feel
we're creating a new segment." No real barbecue proprietor would talk like
that nor suggest spending that kind of money to paint smiling pigs on their
signs when RC will provide them for free.
Generally, even successful barbecue joints have difficulty expanding to a
second location without losing something in the process. In a review of one
establishment's efforts at expansion to an "underserved" area, Brantley gave
the fare a favorable rating, then added, "But, there is a but and this is it:
Stubby's is a West End barbecue stand. That is, it sells middle-of-the-road barbecue aimed at a large audience. There's none of the one-of-a-kind, take-itor-leave-it funkiness in either the sauce or the surroundings that you find on
the other side of town at such legendary places as Sims' or Ballard's."
Taking note of the ritualistic nature of barbecue, an article in Southern Living suggested that Southerners "revere legendary haunts as if they were
shrines," and most seem to prefer the rectitude found in "barbecue eateries
identified by torn screen doors, scratched and dented furniture, cough syrup
calendars, potato chip racks, sometimes a jukebox, and always a counter, producing an
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