After Watching Too Much TV,
Chuck Strives to be a Pit Master
Adventures in Amateur BBQ, Part One:
“The Legend of the Meat Guy is Born . . .”
©2011 F. Gordon Hubbell
Note: In this first episode, Chuck, a wannabe Pit Master, wakes up early and launches on an adventure in barbeque. Parts of his endeavor make him locally famous.All I could think about was barbeque . . . the “urge” was so intense my mind was totally focused on smoking up a batch that would result in the much touted mama-slappin’ associated with only the most delicious foods. So, after surveying the freezer and finding only pizzas, plastic French fries and mystery bags, I headed for the grocery store.
Now, I planned to devote my whole day off to this effort. No quickie burgers or brats would do. I wanted to take some time, go “low and slow” like the pros and have some meat that would bring tears to the eyes, induce unending compliments from my family and guests, and totally pollute the neighborhood sky with vast clouds of smoke. Thus, I was greatly pleased to find the store open at two A.M. (one doesn’t sleep much when one really, really needs a barbeque fix and I wanted to get started).
My store is a giant multi-purpose wonder mart. Acres of edibles and supplies! So, directly to the meat counter I charged expecting vast quantities of ribs, briskets, pork butts and maybe even a chicken or two. My plan was to get lots and lots – enough to fill my oversized smoker. After all, if you’re going to go to the trouble to fire that thing up, fill it up. I’d heard that on TV.
The meat counter was empty. Not even a weenie or a pack of fake crab. There was a kid wiping the whole thing down with a rag and a bucket of something smelly and green like industrial restroom detergent. “Where’s the meat?” I croaked, unintentionally sounding just like the late Clara Peller in the old Wendy’s ads. “Butchers’ll put it out in a coupla hours,” he mumbled, quite intent on his sanitary chore and a text on his cell phone.
“Excrement!” I said, actually using a shorter word I knew he’d be familiar with. What was I going to do? My plans were now significantly delayed. I gathered my wits and headed for the spice aisle where I knew I could get some stuff I was out of. Kill some time. Cope with the sudden stress.
First, paprika. Big can of the good imported kinda hot stuff that adds lots of character to a rub according to the Internet. The shelves hadn’t been re-stocked and they only had the store brand. A glance at the label revealed the ingredients as “paprika” along with “extenders” and some chemicals I couldn’t pronounce but that I suspected were in that bucket the kid was sloshing around. Then I tried to find nutmeg, mace, marjoram and mustard seed. All were available in thimble-sized plastic “jars” for about six dollars a pop. I decided to delay my selections and clean out the spice rack shelves at home later.
Oh, how about some more sauce? I can kill some time browsing for that, I’m certain. The barbeque sauce is located to the right of ketchup and to the left of Worchestershire Sauce on aisle 59C. The shelf, called a “gondola” for some reason even though it isn’t in Venice, is eight feet high and seventy feet long. My quick mathematical mind ginned up an estimate that there were about forty two thousand bottles of sauce from four hundred different manufacturers plus or minus a couple. How the hell does anyone make a decision when confronted by so many options! I selected an extra large plastic bottle of one of the best-selling brands and tossed it in my cart.
One shouldn’t toss these things. With a sickening “splork”, it cracked clear up the middle and began oozing through the wires, down onto the tires, making a reddish brown puddle the kid would have to address once he finished with the meat counter. No meat, no paprika, no sauce . . . just more stress I didn’t need.
By now I’d been in the store an hour and all I had to show for it was a slippery mess on the floor. This is the kind of stress only felt by air traffic controllers and pit masters, I guess. So, I retraced my steps back to the meat counter, found the kid still wiping away with his noxious brew, then headed straight for the beer case. Five o’clock was a long time ago and the sun wasn’t up yet so I was “legal” there. Problem: There was this big gate kind of thing that pulled down over the entire cooler. There was a sign on it saying something about sales hours for alcohol. It was totally illogical. If one needs beer at three A.M. and one is of legal age, one should have it! Discovering a pretty good sized gap in the gate at the end, I extracted a six-pack of some fancy imported brew that cost eighteen bucks. My favorite and significantly cheaper “lite” was out of reach. I didn’t care, it was an emergency. I twisted a cap. It hurt. There was blood on my fingers from the rough serrations on the cap. I needed an opener! How many years has it been since I’ve had to deal with that? Dang foreign beer!
Mustering up as much ingenuity as I could under the stressful circumstances, I braced the rim of the cap against the square edge of the gate and “popped” my free hand forcefully down on top of the other one holding the bottle. I’ve seen this done in lots of movies where it appears to be really cool and is always done by the hero. In real life, however, it results in the cool, wet, slippery bottle dislodging from one’s grip and making a fast trip to the hard tile floor. I opened the beer all right, but it was open all over the place and had a lot of glass shards in it. Interestingly, the cap was still firmly attached to the neck of the now multi-piece bottle. All I could think about was the kid needing a mop for this clean-up. And a broom and a dustpan. Between the beer and barbeque sauce he was going to be busy.
Then, I remembered my Swiss Army knife had an opener blade! I applied the handy-dandy device to my problem and was soon happily guzzling the strange brew. It wasn’t bad for a peach-flavored low carbonation fortified import with a hint of cloves. It took me about five minutes to chug one, belch heartily, and open and repeat with three more bottles. I could feel the buzz. Also a little nausea. However, my problem didn’t seem as bad as it had back on the sauce aisle. “Sauce aisle!” I thought “Now here’s sauce to the sauce” I toasted out loud . . . my sense of humor was returning and I was chuckling to myself in the mostly empty store. I was borderline charming, I thought, and certainly no longer as badly stressed out.
My plan was to drink the last beer, find another cart, put the empties in it (well, except for that defective one now on the floor) and explain to the check-out lady that I’d already consumed my purchase but that she could still charge me for it. That’s when I sensed a “presence” beside me.
He was about seven feet tall, wore a green apron, had huge biceps, and obviously didn’t have a clue that I was on a meaningful if not holy quest for meat. To his perception I was a miscreant probably chased from some dive at closing time and I had violated his beer cooler. I tried to explain but the peach and clove flavoring had affected my enunciation and I stopped to burp several times during my spiel. “Lola,” he said very loudly into a walkie-talkie, “Call the cops.”
“Buh I neesome meat!” I finally blurted out along with a few fumes, a little too close to his face. “We all do,” he replied sourly. “It’s high in protein.”
“I gonna bareeku it all day n’ have a big parny s’night,” rolled off my not too well controlled tongue. To emphasize my firm resolve I reached for my wallet and pulled out my gold American Express card. That made something in his eyes reflect thought of the fiscal variety. His attitude changed. I may be a spur-of-the-moment inebriate, but I was on a mission and I had means. I mean, let’s be real here. Everyone loves barbeque, even night managers at mega-markets.
Ignoring the broken glass, the spreading puddle of expensive ale and my less than executive appearance (did I mention I had on my pajama bottoms and a KCBS hoodie?) he grabbed my arm and led me back to the meat counter. “Homer!” he yelled loudly enough to scare the kid resulting in some spillage of the offensive green slime. “Get this man some meat!”
Homer came out from the mysterious back room, rubbing his hands on his shirt and squinting at me. After sizing me up, he nodded, dismissing the big guy who, I think, left to go assess the damage again. It can be a dull life around a mega-mart at four A.M. and I think that’s when the legend started about the “Meat Guy”. That’s what I hear, anyway.
Homer and I bonded in an instant. I knew he’d be my salvation. “Brishetts!,” I confidently blurted. Homer smiled like maybe he’d been through this kind of thing before. “An I nee some port buss an some raxarizz an a cupla nize chinins, too” I added confidently. “I gonna smoke tiday and yer invited!”
Thirty minutes later Homer confiscated my car keys and put me in a taxi with eleven plastic bags full of meat. Mother Theresa had nothing on this guy’s humanitarianism. Being a true brother in barbeque he did not call my wife. The taxi driver, for an extra twenty dollar bill, helped me get the stuff into the house. French beer, I have discovered, has a negative effect on my equilibrium.
Two aspirin and a big glass of orange juice later I began to sort out my acquisitions and plot my strategy for the rest of the day. The sun was rising in the eastern sky and I had already been delayed long enough!
Next time . . .Chuck Combusts!