The Barbecue Diary – part 4

Ricky Ginsburg (former head cook of The Boca Boys)

I’m on the beach in the most comfortable lounge chair I’ve ever sat in. The sun is gently turning my skin to a golden brown. The mojito that I’ve been sipping has stayed perfectly cold and seems to be refilling itself even as I sip. The waves are…

I never get to hear the waves; my assistant is screaming that the chicken is on fire as I tumble from the aluminum folding chair that I’d been dozing in for the past hour. We lift the grate out of the Weber kettle just in time to save our chicken thighs. As I slam the cover back on the fire goes out. One of the great secrets of barbecue is that you can hide just about anything with barbecue sauce. This will be one of those times. While he packs the turn-in box with our entry I check the rest of the meat to see if there are any other disasters pending. The Boston butt has slipped from 165 back down to 162. Something I’ve learned about Boston butt is to never ask “Why?” The brisket is chugging along, wondering why it’s not in a crock pot like my grandma used to make and the ribs are starting to smell like…ribs; a good sign. Remember what I said about smells? Ribs reach a point where you can smell them and you just know they’re getting done. The cooker needs more charcoal and just a bit more water so I fill both and turn my attention back to our work table.

I take a look at the nine chicken thighs in the box and realize that he’s loaded the box upside down. We quickly transfer them to another box, right side up, and head off to the turn-in table with plenty of time to spare. There’s a small crowd of cooks holding boxes and various space-age heat-holding, meat-holding containers filled with chicken pieces. I always cook thighs. Not only are they one of the most forgiving pieces of chicken but they’re my personal favorite. Even if the judges don’t like our entry at least I’ll have something to eat.

We’re 2 minutes early but it feels like we’re 10 minutes late. And those 2 minutes feel like 2 hours while we’re all standing there. Once you pack that box all you want to do is get it turned in so you can get ready for the next one. As the clock ticks to five minutes to the hour I carefully place our Styrofoam container on the table, turn and walk away. We’ve done the best we can do; skill is no longer the deciding factor. Hopefully we’ll get a good table of judges.

Back at our cook site we get our first taste of the chicken and we both start grinning; this is some good chicken. We tear apart six pieces checking for blood and are rewarded with clear juices all around. The sauce has covered any signs of the fire and we have really crispy skin! He mutters something about “cayenne pepper” as I grab a couple of pieces and march over to another cook site for comparison. The first category is now in the hands of the judges and it’s time for barbecue breakfast.

… to be continued.

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