For real Texas taste, try to get some trimmings from smoked meats. If this isn't feasible, intensify the flavor by oven-roasting and browning the meat and vegetables for about 45 minutes at 375° F, or until they have turned into a deep brown mass (but avoid turning everything to charcoal). Seafood is the exception to the roasting rule, though smoked fish is still desirable for stock.
Toss the ingredients into a stockpot or large saucepan with a little garlic, a few peppercorns, and, if you have it, some parsley. Don't add salt; doing so could make it difficult to control the saltiness of dishes that use the stock. Cover the trimmings with double their volume in water, bring the pot to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low. Leave the pot uncovered, to evaporate the liquid and intensify the taste. Seafood stocks need only an hour or two to develop maximum flavor, but chicken and beef welcome a day (or two after-work evenings) of slow simmering. We usually cook the stock until about one-third of the original liquid remains, but you can reduce it further for greater richness and storage. When the stock is ready, strain it, and freeze it in small containers, for easy use later as needed.
THE TEXAS CLASSICS
Real Pit-Smoked Bar-B-Q
We arrived on the barbecue-grounds at about ten o'clock. More than two thousand people had already arrived, some from a distance of forty to fifty miles—old gray-bearded pioneers, with their wives, in ox-wagons; young men, profuse in the matter of yellow-topped boots and jingling spurs, on horseback; fair maidens in calico, curls, and pearl-powder, some on horseback, others in wagons and buggies.... A deep trench, three hundred feet long, had been dug. This trench was filled from end to end with glowing coals; and suspended over them on horizontal poles were the carcasses of forty animals—sheep, hogs, oxen, and deer—roasting over the slow fire.... It is claimed that this primitive method of preparation is the perfection of cookery, and that no meat tastes so sweet as that which is barbecued.
Alexander Sweet and John Knox, On a Mexican Mustang through Texas
"The perfection of cookery," Texans boasted to Alex Sweet and John Knox in 1880. Their descendants would say the same to visitors today. Barbecue has always been a matter of serious pride in Texas, as likely to stir passion as taxes or tight jeans.
We're talking real pit-smoked "Bar-B-Q," of course, not the suburban substitute scorched on a charcoal grill, the food equivalent of a walk on the wild side in Waxahachie. The genuine article cooks slowly at a low temperature from the heat and smoke of a wood fire. However cheap and tough the meat is before it goes in the pit, it comes out as succulent as a ripe peach and as tender as a grandmother's hug. Anyone who has tasted the result would dicker with the devil to get the secret of doing it at home.
We're going to save you and your soul from that fate. The secret's much simpler than we used to think, though you would never know that from reading cookbooks or food magazines. Until recently we believed the one and only way to get real barbecue today was to go to a real barbecue joint, a place such as Kreuz Market in Lockhart, Louie Mueller's in Taylor, or Angelo's in Fort Worth. We would drive hundreds of miles out of our way to get great "Q," convinced we could never match it in our backyard.
We tried everything at home except trapping a cow in the kitchen and burning the house. We made a barrel cooker out of a 55-gallon drum—the conventional approach—and we experimented with our Weber kettle grill for slow smoking—as a number of pretty cookbooks portray. Finally we even invested in a newfangled water smoker that looks like something dropped by a dinosaur on its way through the neighborhood. In most cases we got acceptable barbecue, sometimes even good, but not when we tackled brisket.
As Cactus Pryor once said, "It's common knowledge among the clergy that God invented beef briskets for Texans." The Almighty probably doesn't mind if we barbecue other things, but when a Texan has an Epiphany on the patio you can bet it's with brisket. If you can't count it among the meats you've mastered, you're stuck on the praying side of success.
The Secret of Real Backyard Bar-B-Q
We're almost ashamed about how simple the secret is—or we would be anyway if some other damned fool had just explained it before. All you have to do is buy or build a pit modeled on the ones used originally in the best of the old-fashioned barbecue joints. That's it. You cook brisket—and much more—as good as they do at Kreuz's, Louie Mueller's, Angelo's, or any of the other top dozen joints in Texas by using the same kind of pit and principles.
The first barbecue masters in human history—the ones who made supper the day fire was discovered—worked in open pits, much like the "trench" Alex Sweet and John Knox described. Early Texas settlers brought this method north from Mexico and west from Tennessee. The two traditions met in the central part of the state, where inventive German butchers took the idea and created modern Texas "Q" around the turn of the century.
These clever merchants perfected a type of closed pit, usually built of brick with a metal lid, that relied on smoke and heat from an external or offset wood fire. They came up with the contraption as a way to get rid of their worst cuts of meat, pieces they had to throw away before. Instead of accepting that loss, the butchers found they could dramatically enhance brisket and other poor fare through long, slow smoking. Closing the pit and putting the fire well away from the meat gave them better control of the cooking, and raising the pit above the ground cut down on the chiropractor bills.
What you need in your backyard is a small-scale version of that old German meat market pit. You don't want gas, electricity, charcoal, petroleum products, secret sauces, or any other recent refinements being pushed today at your local grilling emporium. To get real with barbecue you've got to return to the roots.
Prime Pits
Anyone with the time, the skills, and a lifetime address should consider building a brick pit. Those of us less fortunate may prefer to buy our way to glory, a time-honored prerogative in the Lone Star State.
An increasing number of companies, mostly in Texas, are manufacturing metal pits with fireboxes attached to the sides, as in the illustration. The design marks a major advance over 55-gallon drum cookers, giving you the same advantages as the real barbecue pros at a price comparable to that of a much more limited gas grill. You can burn wood logs, keep the flame away from the meat, maintain a constant low temperature for extended periods, and produce optimum amounts of smoke flavor. You regulate the heat with damper controls on the firebox and chimney.
We looked at all the brands we could find before settling on one for ourselves. The choice ultimately was the Pitt's and Spitt's pit that's pictured, a gem that cooks barbecue as good as we've ever had. With a variety of models starting at $595, the Houston company makes more expensive pits than some of its competitors, but the Pitt's and Spitt's pits are outstanding in looks, durability, and capability. Each pit features an offset firebox with quarter-inch plate walls, stainless-steel parts, an accurate thermometer, a water reservoir with a drain, and superior smoke drafting. Call 800-521-2947 for more information or stop by the Houston showroom.
A Pitt's and Spitt's pit is a capital investment to pass on to the kids, but you've got alternatives if the budget won't stretch that far into the future. Check at barbecue supply stores for similar smokers, or in national mail-order catalogs that sell outdoors gear. Just be sure you understand the trade-offs in price and quality, what you lose for what you save. If you restrict what you cook, you can also get along moderately well on your old Weber grill or barrel drum, as we'll discuss later in the chapter.
However you manage it, do some "Q." It could be the most fun you've ever had cooking, and the meals you make may get you elected to the Texas Hall of Fame.
The One-and-Only Barbecued Brisket
Despite being all the way up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Chef Chris Schlesinger knows a bit about "Q". In The Thrill of the Grill he reckons "beef brisket just might be why the barbecue process was invented." This has the ring of truth, but the good chef goes astray when he claims that it's also the hardest of all meats
to master. Anyone can do it to perfection in a brick or metal pit with an offset firebox.
1 8- to 12-pound packer-trimmed beef brisket
2 cups Lone Star Dry Rub ([>])
Bowl of beer Mop Sauce for meat ([>])
Serves 20 to 25 people In Cambridge and a dozen in Houston
Be sure to get a packer-trimmed brisket, that is, one with a thick layer of fat on one side. On the day before the big event, pat the dry rub into every little pore on the brisket. Place the meat in a plastic trash bag and refrigerate it, preferably overnight.
Take the brisket out of the refrigerator first thing in the morning, to bring it closer to room temperature while you start your fire and warm your pit to about 210° F. After a couple of cups of coffee, when you and everything else are ready, put the brisket in the pit on the opposite side from the firebox. Be sure the untrimmed fat side is up, so the juices will help baste the meat.
Maintain a temperature between 180° F and 220° F until the brisket is well done, which takes 1 to 1¼ hours per pound. Every hour or so, when you feel an urge to look, dab the mop sauce on top of the blackening hunk. The mop isn't really necessary with brisket, because of the self-basting fat, but we believe in playing with your meat as much as your religion allows.
About the time the sun's setting, shut down the fire and remove the brisket. Let it sit 20 minutes, then cut the fatty top section away from the leaner bottom portion. An easily identifiable layer of fat will separate the two areas. Trim the excess fat from both pieces and slice them thin against the grain. If you wish, serve barbecue sauce on the side, but never risk insulting a connoisseur by slathering the stuff on the meat.
Variation: Smoke the fatty top section of the brisket for an additional 3 or 4 hours to make some great "burnt ends." The extra cooking makes this piece leaner and blacker, and tasty enough for a last meal. If you don't want to take the time for this on the same day, freeze the meat and put it back on the pit when you fire up again.
* * *
Leftover brisket is super in sandwiches. Warm the meat, pull it into small pieces, and pile it onto a heated flour tortilla spread generously with Creole or yellow mustard. We top it off with chopped onion, chopped pickled vegetables, chowchow, or all three, which we like better with the brisket than any barbecue sauce.
* * *
Lone Star Dry Rub
A dry rub is a mixture of spices that serves the same purpose as a marinade. It coats the surface of food, enhancing the flavor, and during the cooking process adds a crusty texture. This is an all-purpose rub, suitable on almost anything you barbecue. Add or subtract spices according to your tastes or to complement whatever you're smoking.
¾ cup paprika
¼ cup ground black pepper
¼ cup chili powder, preferably homemade ([>]) or Gebhardt's
¼ cup salt
¼ cup sugar
2 tablespoons garlic powder
2 tablespoons onion powder
1 tablespoon ground cayenne
Makes about 2 cups
Mix the spices thoroughly in a bowl.
You can store leftover rub in a tightly sealed jar in the refrigerator, but it will lose potency over time.
* * *
The next time you're in Luling for the annual summer Watermelon Thump, have lunch downtown at the old City Market. The experts at the pit here fix such juicy brisket and links you might find yourself wanting to enter the watermelon seed-spitting contest. If you can reach 69 feet in the sport, you'll break the world record, currently held by a Luling pro.
* * *
Beer Mop Sauce
Some pitmasters would consider us slap-happy with our mop sauce because we use one with almost everything we barbecue. If you want to be frugal, lazy, or just technically correct, baste only food that will dry out in the cooking process. The mop adds moisture more than flavor, so it can contain anything wet, from water to wine. Always be sure to include plenty of oil when smoking anything that doesn't have a protective layer of fat, and never use ingredients that will burn (such as a ketchup-based barbecue sauce) before the last 30 to 45 minutes of cooking. These two versions of one basic recipe will mop up almost everything.
BEER MOP SAUCE FOR MEAT
12 ounces beer
½ cup vinegar, preferably cider or white
¼ cup oil, preferably canola or corn
½ medium onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons Lone Star Dry Rub ([>])
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
BEER MOP SAUCE FOR POULTRY AND FISH
12 ounces beer
½ cup fresh lemon juice
½ cup oil, preferably canola or corn
½ medium onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons Lone Star Dry Rub ([>])
1 tablespoon White Wine Worcestershire sauce or 1½ teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
Makes 2 to 3 cups
Throw everything together and stir. Add up to an additional ¼ cup oil when the food being smoked is lean and dry. Apply with a small string mop made for barbecue, or with a pastry brush.
Variations: Substitute stock for the beer, or inexpensive dry wine (red for the meat or white for the poultry or fish).
* * *
When he was elected Texas Governor in 1939 and 1941, "Pappy" O'Daniel invited everyone in the state to inaugural dinners in Austin. Some twenty thousand people showed up at the second shindig and consumed almost a pound of barbecue per person.
* * *
Ol' Red's Barbecue Sauce
We're dedicating this recipe to our publisher because he's one of those unfortunate folks who grew up thinking barbecue was a charred chicken drowned in a "secret sauce" invented by Mr. Heinz. When we submitted a draft of this chapter without a barbecue sauce recipe, he thought we were smoking loco weed instead of brisket. We explained that real "Q" needs added flavor like Nolan Ryan needs a third arm, but he prevailed as usual with his business perspective, saying "look, errant authors, in the book trade purity went out with Cotton Mather." People talk like that in Boston. Anyway, we dug out one of our favorite Texas country cookbooks, Red Caldwell's Pit, Pot and Skillet, and borrowed this recipe. It's a terrific sauce, whether you use it on barbecue or something else, but be warned that it's hot. When our publisher tried it, friends had to dunk him in the Charles River to stop the howling. He never mentioned sauces again.
2 tablespoons oil
4 cups chopped onions
¼ cup minced fresh jalapeños
¼ cup minced fresh serranos (or substitute additional jalapeños for a touch less heat)
15 garlic cloves, minced
2 cups ketchup
1 cup Worcestershire sauce
1 cup strong black coffee
⅔ cup dark brown sugar
½ cup cider vinegar
½ cup lemon juice
6 tablespoons chili powder
3 tablespoons prepared yellow mustard
1 tablespoon salt
Makes 8 cups
In a saucepan, heat the oil. Add the onions, jalapeños, serranos, and garlic, and cook them over low heat until soft. Add everything else, cover the pan, and simmer 40 minutes. Allow the mixture to cool to room temperature.
Strain out the remaining solids, liquify them in a food processor, and add them back to the strained liquid, stirring thoroughly. Set the sauce aside for several hours before serving to permit flavors to blend.
Refrigerate the sauce, covered, and use it as needed. It will keep for weeks.
Drunk and Dirty Tenderloin
From brisket in Texas to pork shoulder in North Carolina, traditional barbecue meats are tough, cheap cuts that need long, slow cooking before they're worth eating. The smoking process significantly enhances these meats, as it does many foods. We apply this principle here to the choicest cut of beef, the tenderloin. It's juicy and flavorful any way you cook it, but this smoked version is as luscious as any you'll find.
/> MARINADE
1 cup soy sauce
½ cup bourbon
¼ cup Worcestershire sauce
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
½ teaspoon powdered ginger
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 pounds beef tenderloin
2 tablespoons coarse-ground black pepper
1 teaspoon white pepper
¼ cup oil, preferably canola or corn
Serves 6
Combine the marinade ingredients. Place the whole tenderloin in a shallow dish and pour the mixture over the meat. Marinate the tenderloin for 4 to 8 hours in the refrigerator, turning occasionally, and a final hour at room temperature. Start a fire in the pit about the time you take the meat from the refrigerator, and get the temperature steady around 200° F.
Texas Home Cooking Page 3
