According to the popular books, pulp magazines and comics of my misspent youth, Native Americans did all sorts of things with the buffalo, once they had learned unerring accuracy with the bow and arrow while riding bareback and joined the Screen Actors Guild. Horns became jewelry and skins became tents and robes, but the bulk of the buffalo -- and a lot of bulk there was -- became dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. And between-meals snacks.
We connected with our native-American past a few weeks ago when we drove into the country, took a gravel-and-dirt road for many bone-crunching miles and joined a group of people for a picnic. On a grill and a carving table lay a lot of meat and two men with sharp knives working on it.
"Would you like some?" asked one.
"Sure," I said confidently. "Is the skin as crackly and tasty as roast pig?"
"Well, not quite. Besides, this one got a little overdone. It's kinda tough."
"Oh," I said, not quite as confidently. "I'd still like some."
He labored for a few minutes while I reached out, grabbed a piece of skin, tore it off the buffalo and put it on my plate.
"I'm going to be cutting on the other side," he said. "It will be a lot more tender. I"ll bring it over to you."
The meat was tough. Very tough. The skin was tougher. There was some good meaty flavor, but it was tough as the proverbial boot. And then the cook returned carrying a plate with more meat. This was good. Very good. The meat, quite tender, had a dark, rich flavor, hard to describe but extremely meaty. Excellent with an inky, rich Petite Sirah.
