The Barbecue Diary – part 7
Ricky Ginsburg (former head cook of The Boca Boys)
I come from a place where brisket is prepared by boiling the
daylights out of a piece of really cheap beef in a stew pot on the stove with
veggies and spices. The process starts on Friday, continues on Saturday and the
meal is served on Sunday afternoon. The most heinous of crimes is to remove
anything from the brisket that faintly resembles fat. My grandmother explained
that all the flavor was hidden in the fat and if you cut any of it off the
brisket would taste like... a piece of really cheap beef.
This process, of course, is about as far from barbecue that
you can get.
Today's brisket started out as piece of "Certified
Angus Beef" that was anything but cheap, about a buck less per pound than
sirloin steak. We carefully trimmed the fat, made a mark across the grain so
we'd know how to carve it, and carefully rubbed it with our secret Boca Boys
Brisket Rub (yes, lots of cayenne.) It only had 18 hours to cook (grandma would
say that it's still raw.) And now it sits in a tin pan covered with foil wrap to
keep it warm while we search for the last turn-in box.
If you've never judged a barbecue contest, you've missed one
of life's little pleasures - judging the brisket entry. Now, I know this is not
Texas where brisket is a daily staple, but even here in Florida you will find both
perfect briskets and edible rubber bands. There's a point where this really
cheap piece of beef turns into a slice of heaven. In our case it's usually a
slice of hell. And at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, after gorging on chicken,
ribs, and pork, most judges are both relieved that the last entry is being
served and fearful of what might actually be in the box. The brisket entry is
the only one where you can loosen your dentures or wonder in amazement how
someone could even consider this thing edible. And yet, there is always a
chance that a cook team has got it bolted to the floor and you get a piece that
is just perfect!
I slice off a dozen nicely marbled pieces about as thick as
a pencil and my assistant carefully lays them in the box so that the smoke ring
shows on the first piece. There’s a gallon of gravy in the bottom of the foil
pan that I brush on the meat hoping to give it some flavor. I send him off to
the turn-in table and decide to take a taste. "Another crappy
brisket", I think to myself and start to clean up the work table. On a
whim I grab a couple of slices of rye bread and cut some slices of brisket from
the fatty end of the meat. On my first bite I know that something is different
about this brisket, it actually tastes good. A dash of hot sauce completes the
sammich and a cold beer knocks it down.
A good brisket? Nah, couldn't happen to us.
… to be continued.
Next installment