Hungary? I'm Starving!

It is a basic rule of Barbeque that race and class play a big part in the quality of the Q. Barbeque as we know it is basically the result of poor folks doing the best they could with what they had. The pig (suggested slogan: "Frowned upon by 2 out of 3 major world religions") was generally viewed as a beast fit for consumption only by the lower class. In his excellent book Smokestack Lightning, Lolis Eric Elie notes that, "barbecue was long hard dirty work. The white people who could afford it often hired black people to barbecue for them. Poor white people had to cook for themselves."

Cultural attitudes have shifted, and BBQ has become franchised, dressed up, and monetized. But it remains an incontrovertible truth that your chances of getting a perfectly spiced heaping of velvety hog shoulder are much higher if the person serving it up has roots in the poor American south. It simply stands to reason that folks who grew up tending pits at their uncles' knees, people whose fingers are perpetually pruned from second-hand hickory smoke, are gonna have your best gustatory interests at heart. So obviously the odds of getting a great meal are much higher if your actually in the south. For those of us who aren't, though, I've developed a general rule of thumb: look for black people. The basic migration patterns of American history mean that today the majority of northerners with roots in the American south are black. I don't think I'm telling anyone anything they don't know, or saying something offensive. I hope this isn't a Jimmy the Greek moment.

Anyway, this is a basic rule I've used, and for the most part its been a pretty good guide. If you're in DC, hit the Rib Pit rather than Urban BBQ. (Located, ironically in Rockville, MD, perhaps the most mind-numbingly suburban town in America) In Philly, The Rib Crib is most likely gonna son anything you'll find at Phoebe's. (Extra bonus basic rule - if you must get BBQ from white folks in the north, it should be cooked by an older, stouter man. A beard definitely helps. The kids at Phoebe's look like they're about my age, and can clearly fit into a pair of hipster jeans. I think I saw a lip ring on one of them. These are all bad signs.) But the most important race-related basic rule is that if you ever see BBQ being served up by someone who is neither black nor American white, run, do not walk, into that restaurant and order something. If someone can overcome the firmly ingrained cultural expectations about where good Q comes from, and develop a loyal clientele in the discerning, demanding world of pork eaters, he or she is doing something very, very, right.*

I was reminded of this truism last night as I wolfed down forkfuls of luscious, finely shredded pork shoulder from Ron's Ribs on South St. Heaped to the brim of the Styrofoam container, doused in a tangy, thick, tomato sauce, this is good chopped pork that definitely passes the morning-after test. (Yes, Mom, I had pulled pork for breakfast today. I promise I'll have a salad at dinner.) Accompanied by a crusty mac & cheese and perfectly seasoned greens, it was a great combination of textures and flavors. I also got a couple of paperback sized slabs of cornbread, which had acquired a wonderful smoky accent from sitting around in the haze that sits heavily in Ron's tiny storefront. The most amazing part of this meal, though, is who it was prepared and served by. Ron's still proudly proclaims itself Black Owned, and there's definitely a black man on the premises occasionally, but this is undeniably the province of a blond haired BBQ vixen from Hungary named Petra. With her lilting accent and her endearing habit of rounding the cost of your meal down to the nearest dollar - even if it comes out to $12.91, as mine always seems to regardless of what I order - she's a very welcoming presence and I imagine she smells quite nice. I have yet to really delve into the story behind her unlikely career path, but I have created a detailed back-story for her, involving an affair with an American serviceman in Hungary; the promise of a green card; and upon her arrival in the States, unwilling servitude in the BBQ mines, with only the occasional break allowed for a manicure and to get her hair did. But she seems pretty happy, and appears to have a wide range of motion that would dispel any theories about her being chained behind the counter, so the actual story is probably a lot less cinematic. Hey, I've got a BBQ blog now, I guess I should just ask her.



* See the landmark case study, performed by the Wind-Huron consortium over the years 1987 to 1997, of Kenny's BBQ in Washington, DC. Located on Mt. Pleasant St, in the heart of a neighborhood that was almost precisely split among blacks, whites, and Latinos, this Vietnamese owned and operated carryout served up ribs and chicken of incomparable succulence. Meaty and moist with just the right amount of char, this BBQ was good, plentiful, and economical (one noted researcher was heard to comment, more than once, that you just couldn't get a better deal anywhere in DC.) And though the quality went downhill once the Vietnamese family sold the store to some Salvadorans who made the sauce too salty and started to add papusas to the menu, the memories of many a perfect Mt. Pleasant meal linger in the mind like sauce under fingernails.