Meat Musings

I recently came across this page that features a set of photographs of famous barbecue joints. To answer your first question: yes, there are pictures of Dreamland. But most are of places in Texas and a couple in Kansas City. There is one North Carolina restaurant—Lexington’s, which I’ve not heard of before (the site that directed me to these pictures says it’s overrated).

Why the Texas bias, you ask? Good question. Maybe the journalist lives in Texas, but still it’s a poor representation of the state of the cuisine. I lived in Texas for two years, and I had some decent meat on occasion. At a friend’s house in Houston, I tried brisket for the first time, and it was fantastic. Also, Waco had a place called Vitek’s, which was respectable but nothing worth making a special trip for. When I went in the first time, I talked to the owner about BBQ and asked if he’d had Dreamland. “Yeah, their stuff is all right,” he said casually. I started to call him a lowdown, filthy liar and ask him to fight it out, but I had to get to class.

Other than that, I couldn’t tell you a thing about Texas barbecue. But even if, for the sake of argument, the Lone Star State does barbecue the best, why no shots of Mississippi’s offerings (Jones, as I recall, swears by Leatha’s)? Why nothing more from Carolina, or the hickory pit stuff you find in Alabama or Tennessee? Rendezvous? Corky’s?

Kansas City, I’ll grant, has a great barbecue reputation, which may seem odd to my fellow Southerners. I tried it the one time I was in KC, but I can’t tell you a single thing about the meal—not the sauce base, the meat, the sides, or even the restaurant’s name. We were on our way to Lawrence, KS to see some friends, and I had just returned from visiting London for the first time, so my interest in Kansas City and the cuisine to be found right off I-70 was understandably dampened. I wish I’d been able to get some authentic stuff.

St. Louis claimed to have its particular style of BBQ. It’s easy to replicate at home. Take some Log Cabin brand “Maple” syrup, and heat it up in a pan. Now add a little Tabasco, but not so much as to overpower the saccharine flavor of the syrup! That’s pretty much it. We tried it once, and then we vowed never to make that mistake again. Even now I speak of it only in hushed tones. There was a lot of wonderful food to be had in the Bigass Metal Arch City, but that wasn’t one of them.

Surprisingly, we had access to pretty good barbecue in Grand Rapids. Our neighborhood had a pretty large African-American population, and they set up two rib joints within spittin’ distance of each other. I tried one of them: The Rib Crib. The owners were originally from Memphis, and they knew what they were doing. It added to the strangeness of GR, which in many ways was a colder version of a Southern City. Ask me sometime if you want me to draw all the parallels. The other thing I liked about the Rib Crib was the sign explaining all the rules for the juvenile clientele: no swearing, no drinking or drug use, no wearing pants that continually fall down around your knees thus showing your underwear, etc.

Surprised as I was to get good barbecue in Michigan, it was nothing compared to my disbelief at hearing that there was a distinctive BBQ style here on California’s Central Coast. And yet, it’s true. It’s called “Santa Maria style.” It starts with a cut of beef called tri-tip, which I’d not heard of before moving out here but have quickly come to love. The meat is rubbed down with spices, grilled, and usually served with salsa. I know, salsa should disqualify it from consideration. But trust me—it’s good stuff.

The best tri-tip I’ve had out here comes from Los Olivos Grocery. It lies just off Hwy 154 in the Santa Ynez Valley. We stop there every time we go to wine country. The store itself is a wonder: a first class gourmet grocery in such a rural area. They have a fantastic selection of local wines, plenty of great cheese, and a small bakery that serves Lavazza espresso (none of your Starbucks swill for me, thank you). And they make one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had anywhere.

It’s quite simple. You can see them grilling the tri-tip in the parking lot, and the smell alone gets your salivary glands working. They slice the meat into thin strips, and serve it on a French loaf, with a side of salsa. I prefer it with barbecue sauce. I don’t know if they make their own or pour it out of a giant restaurant supply vat, and I don’t care. It’s a divine meal. And the bread they use is absolutely perfect—a hint of crustiness on the outside, but plenty soft on the inside. I’ve long realized that a great sandwich starts with great bread (even though so many places skimp on that part of the equation). And the Los Olivos Grocery gets it right.

The first time I tried it, I was really just looking for something to fill my stomach so I wouldn’t get completely soused at the first winery we went to, so I wasn’t expecting a culinary epiphany. But by the time I finished it, I seriously thought about getting another one. I could go for one right now, come to think of it.