B>We reached the river delta just before dawn. Enemy fire was heavy, and the air above our heads was scorched by the metallic streaks of tracer rounds. We slogged ahead through the mud and knotted mangrove roots, sometimes passing the torn bodies of our own men. The sunrise was bloody; the swamp air hung heavy like a curtain before the jungle, impenetrable from where we crouched a few hundred yards away. The enemy, unseen, lurked somewhere within its verdure. We were too exposed—any movement could be fatal. And then we heard it: low and far away, but definitely coming closer until they were upon us: the gunships of the Air Cav, their rotors beating the air like drums, lighting the sky with their fire. The ships in the rear dropped the supplies we had been waiting for, the black packages that would complete our mission. The ships ahead razed the jungle systematically, their missiles and guns felling whole sections of trees and, with them, our enemies. Convinced of our safety, we cleaned the blood and dirt from our faces and assembled our equipment on the beach.
See end of article for related links.
It was time to barbecue.
Such is the power held by the barbecue in my dreams. The sleek, coolly sexy metal shapes of the newest grill models suggest more than an arcane piece of militaria or the economically complex creations of NASA (in fact, another dream involves Weber-landers exploring some of the most removed celestial bodies) than they do a simple grill. Which, sadly, is what I found in my own backyard: a mundane grill, incapable of producing an exquisite piece of meat. A new grill would be my grail, and I, its Percival.
I began my quest—as any good quester should—with a visit to my oracle, the 72-year-old grilling guru Bob Lyon, secretary of the Pacific Northwest Barbecue Association. My vivid dreams notwithstanding, I felt a tad trivial accosting Mr. Lyon at his home in the name of sizzling meat; yet he seemed a willing patron, asserting his desire to speak to anyone about barbecues at any time—a comforting message for those who follow in my naive footsteps. I approached the meat magus, who bade me to look within for the true purpose of my quest; barbecuing, he told me, is a different pursuit than grilling. When faced with this demarcation, I found my skills to be sorely lacking.
Hi, my name is Dan, and I am just a griller. I have not tested my open-flame mettle, challenged my culinary patience with the slow-cooked serenade that is true barbecuing. Mr. Lyon and his cohorts at the PNWBA have. He explained slowly, gently, that barbecuing is the art of slow-cooking meat (six hours or more!) by an indirect heat source, where your only tools are your eye and an air vent. Grilling is barbecuing’s more proletarian cousin, and tends to satisfy my penchant for immediate gratification with its quick, direct flame. Mr. Lyon pointed out that barbecuing may be accomplished on the most modest piece of equipment. This left my thirst for the latest in grills unslaked. I pressed on.
Eagle Hardware and the like have a fine selection of everyday grills, but I was looking for the fire-breathing machines of myth, brands whose names are uttered only in hushed tones. I found my personal barbecue Camelot not in the East or the West, but in Ballard, at Sutter Home & Hearth. There I encountered Bob Hollingsworth, whose quick recognition of my quest resulted in a path beaten directly to the top of the line. Here were machines in shimmering, stainless steel, porcelain, and brass. Here were price tags approaching, and in some cases even exceeding, $3,000.
I quaked inside, as the names dripped off Bob’s tongue like molten grease: The TEC, an infrared grill capable of “slamming a steak” at 700 degrees; the Lynx, whose gorgeous brass burners will outlast the next millennium; and the majestic cast-iron class of Vermont Castings, undeniably as much outdoor furniture as cooking equipment. For the charcoal purist (according to Bob, there’s no difference in taste), the beautiful inelegance of the Cajun Grill, built by some good-ol’-boy machinists deep in Louisiana, is the pinnacle, though few can best the all-time classic, the Weber kettle. I touched the cool metal, marveled at the massive knobs, and vowed to find some use for the Jack Daniel’s wood chips (actual pieces from veteran whiskey aging casks). With the ultimate vessel found, I believed my quest to be fulfilled and my knight’s errand at an end. Now the only thing left was to satisfy my hunger. Steak, anyone?
Related Links:
Homepage to the Pacific Northwest Barbecue Association http://www.usa-smoke.com/pnwba.htm
Recipes and links to other bbq fanatics http://infoest.sbc.edu/barbeque.html
