Photograph by Kevin A. Roberts
How serious is my family about barbecue? More than four decades ago, my grandfather buried an underground gas line in his backyard to fuel his grill directly from the source.
During the late ’80s and early ’90s, my father created instruction manuals for Sunbeam, the home-appliance company that once made grills. He spent his days assembling grills on a factory floor, then trying his best to convey how he did it to others. Occasionally, he added my mother’s recipes in the back of the manual—a perk for those who actually read the instructions. (Of course, some didn’t follow directions so well: My father still recalls one farmer who constructed something closer to an abstract sculpture than a barbecue grill.)
My Uncle Todd, however, remains my family’s undisputed BBQ King. “No one in the world makes a better barbecue chicken,” he says matter-of-factly—and it’s hard to argue. A commercial meat-cutter for more than 25 years, he barbecues five or six nights a week, even in the dead of winter. “My neighbors think I’m a nut,” he says with pride.
When I call to ask for a time that he could lend some of his barbecue advice, he says, “Well, I’m off work and have a cold beer right now.” (That, it turns out, is his first tip: Make sure the beer is cold.) He launches into a detailed 15-minute tutorial—from how to pick your meat (buy USDA Choice-grade steak and ground round hamburger) to how to grill it. Along the way, he throws in some rather unusual tidbits: “Massage Bad Byron’s Butt Rub into your steak and let it sit on a cookie sheet for at least 45 minutes before throwing it on the grill.”’ “Spray your chicken with apple juice every five minutes.” “Rub down your ribs with plain yellow mustard before adding the rub.” (For Uncle Todd’s detailed recipes, visit stlmag.com.)
Of course, as with my family, the beauty of barbecue is that it’s always personal—and rarely formulaic. As you’ll discover in this month’s cover story (p. 70), barbecue joints are somewhat of an anomaly in this city’s dining scene. The atmosphere means little; it doesn’t matter whether the restaurant is in a strip mall or a one-time Wendy’s, because the food is what counts. Service is secondary, too; patrons will stand in line for hours and sit at an unbussed table for a good slab of ribs. Most barbecue cooks forgo the fancy credentials, learning the trade from countless hours in front of a grill, rather than at a French culinary school.
And if you’re like my Uncle Todd, triumph springs from a passion so deep that you’re willing to stand in the snow with a spray bottle of apple juice and then brag that your neighbors think you’re crazy—but no one, no one serves up better barbecue.
