ambiance similar to a county-line beer joint" When a longtime
barbecue landmark was threatened with closing by the state health department, one zealot protested the action and complained that "anyone with a lick
of sense knows that you can't make good barbecue and comply with a health
code."
As advice to the novice, one old hand recommended a parking lot survey to
the neophyte seeking the Holy Grail of pork ambrosia. "If you can spot an
equal number of Mercedes sedans and Ford pickups, you've found a good place. Too many expensive new cars and the joint is likely to be fake; too many
pickups and it's liable to be a dive. Balance is the key word. Beware of new
buildings. Everything in a barbeque joint, including the help, should be old. It
takes a certain amount of seasoning to get good barbeque, and that goes for
the building as well as the food."
The high priests of barbecue, both the self-anointed and the popularly acclaimed, labor vigorously to maintain their reputations. One restaurant in
Dallas houses a "Barbecue Hall of Fame" to honor famous white Texans who
hosted gargantuan feeds for multitudes of followers, but it seems to have selection criteria based upon the quantity served rather than the quality of the
product. John R. Wills Jr. of Memphis, two-time winner of the Memphis in
May Barbecue Contest and recipient of Memphis magazine's "best sandwich"
award, decorated his restaurant with pig portraits (not intended to resemble
the Stations of the Cross) and barbecue trophies (not intended to resemble religious icons). No Southern barbecue professional would make application
for the Hall of Fame, for as Brantley observed, "The barbecue man doesn't
have the time for conventions. He's up early to tend his fires and on his feet up
to sixteen hours a day, smoking his meat, brewing his sauce and serving his
creation. He is surrounded by family members and precious few others. The
barbecue man, even the mediocre one, is serious about the secrets of this
trade, and a grunt is the standard reply to questions on a potion's ingredients.
The majority of barbecue men, if not barbecue stand owners, are black."
The status of mythic hero, or superhuman, conferred on black barbecue
artists contributes, at least subconsciously, to the erosion of past patterns of
racial discrimination and leads to genuine interracial communication and
understanding in a context unrivaled by the prevailing practices in most
Southern churches. That is not, however, to suggest that the religious analogy
fails here. One of the shrines of barbecue in Arkansas, Lindsey's, in North
Little Rock, was founded in 1955 by AME bishop D. L. Lindsey, and in the tradition of hereditary succession, it is still operated by his descendants. The
Arkansas Times award for best barbecue in the state was recently given to Sim's
Barbecue, and establishment started by Allen Sims, high priest of barbecue
and "purveyor of pork nonpareil," and presently managed by his nephews,
Ronald and Russell Settlers. Sims's dedication and devotion to preparing his
fare is legendary; he "is the man who once told a reporter after a man and
woman shot each other in his dining room, `I didn't see nothing. I was just
basting my ribs."'
One of the most obvious religious parallels is between the old-time camp
meeting and the contemporary barbecue cook-off contests, exemplified by the Memphis in May festival in Memphis, Tennessee, "Pork Barbecue Capital
of the World," where 295,000 people from fifteen states came to watch 200
teams compete for the 1983 title. At this famed event, the 1984 contestants included such teams as Trichinosis Terry and His Borderline Swine, Sooie and
the Piglets, and the River City Rooters. The Hog Doctors wore scrub suits, dispensed their sauce from an intravenous bottle, and donned surgical gloves to
cut their ribs entry on an operating table for the official judging.
Such antics were not unheard of at the frontier camp meetings
barbecue landmark was threatened with closing by the state health department, one zealot protested the action and complained that "anyone with a lick
of sense knows that you can't make good barbecue and comply with a health
code."
As advice to the novice, one old hand recommended a parking lot survey to
the neophyte seeking the Holy Grail of pork ambrosia. "If you can spot an
equal number of Mercedes sedans and Ford pickups, you've found a good place. Too many expensive new cars and the joint is likely to be fake; too many
pickups and it's liable to be a dive. Balance is the key word. Beware of new
buildings. Everything in a barbeque joint, including the help, should be old. It
takes a certain amount of seasoning to get good barbeque, and that goes for
the building as well as the food."
The high priests of barbecue, both the self-anointed and the popularly acclaimed, labor vigorously to maintain their reputations. One restaurant in
Dallas houses a "Barbecue Hall of Fame" to honor famous white Texans who
hosted gargantuan feeds for multitudes of followers, but it seems to have selection criteria based upon the quantity served rather than the quality of the
product. John R. Wills Jr. of Memphis, two-time winner of the Memphis in
May Barbecue Contest and recipient of Memphis magazine's "best sandwich"
award, decorated his restaurant with pig portraits (not intended to resemble
the Stations of the Cross) and barbecue trophies (not intended to resemble religious icons). No Southern barbecue professional would make application
for the Hall of Fame, for as Brantley observed, "The barbecue man doesn't
have the time for conventions. He's up early to tend his fires and on his feet up
to sixteen hours a day, smoking his meat, brewing his sauce and serving his
creation. He is surrounded by family members and precious few others. The
barbecue man, even the mediocre one, is serious about the secrets of this
trade, and a grunt is the standard reply to questions on a potion's ingredients.
The majority of barbecue men, if not barbecue stand owners, are black."
The status of mythic hero, or superhuman, conferred on black barbecue
artists contributes, at least subconsciously, to the erosion of past patterns of
racial discrimination and leads to genuine interracial communication and
understanding in a context unrivaled by the prevailing practices in most
Southern churches. That is not, however, to suggest that the religious analogy
fails here. One of the shrines of barbecue in Arkansas, Lindsey's, in North
Little Rock, was founded in 1955 by AME bishop D. L. Lindsey, and in the tradition of hereditary succession, it is still operated by his descendants. The
Arkansas Times award for best barbecue in the state was recently given to Sim's
Barbecue, and establishment started by Allen Sims, high priest of barbecue
and "purveyor of pork nonpareil," and presently managed by his nephews,
Ronald and Russell Settlers. Sims's dedication and devotion to preparing his
fare is legendary; he "is the man who once told a reporter after a man and
woman shot each other in his dining room, `I didn't see nothing. I was just
basting my ribs."'
One of the most obvious religious parallels is between the old-time camp
meeting and the contemporary barbecue cook-off contests, exemplified by the Memphis in May festival in Memphis, Tennessee, "Pork Barbecue Capital
of the World," where 295,000 people from fifteen states came to watch 200
teams compete for the 1983 title. At this famed event, the 1984 contestants included such teams as Trichinosis Terry and His Borderline Swine, Sooie and
the Piglets, and the River City Rooters. The Hog Doctors wore scrub suits, dispensed their sauce from an intravenous bottle, and donned surgical gloves to
cut their ribs entry on an operating table for the official judging.
Such antics were not unheard of at the frontier camp meetings
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