And those letters are P-I-G (although H-O-G is also acceptable). Never is BBQ a verb. That’s final. No debate.
My Texan brother-in-law sends me a link (not to be confused with Hot Links which are grilled sausages sold under the name barbecue in parts of Texas) about some poor deluded folks in Athens, TX. The secret to their non-pig, non-hickory-smoked burnt brisket “the right amount of black pepper and brown sugar.” The right amount of those ingredients is none, you misguided poor chillin!
When I was nearly held over in DFW on Friday night, I decided that even in my panic about travel, I would try to eat some food from Dickie’s BBQ Shack at the Food Court in honor of my Texan in-laws and of my friend Betty Adcock who flew in Texas food the other weekend to a party that I had to miss.
The meal was no meal. They had no coleslaw. They did not offer pig. They did offer turkey, hot links or brisket. The brisket which Texans seem to prefer and which I had on a white bread bun was dry as shoe leather. Even though it had burnt edges, it was edible once drowned in a sauce made of corn starch, sugar and catchup. No greens of any kind were available. I now understand cause of the stern and firm looks on the faces of the native Texans in the airport. You understand that the smirk of George Bush is not so much a smirk as a look of, well, constipation.
You need sweet moist pig, red peppers, and enough greens to keep you moving!