BEER IS A GATEWAY DRUG. Craft beer is more of a golden gateway drug. I know. I became interested in the craft beer movement innocently over the last year or so, lured in by my son and son-in-law, avid fans. Little did I know that lurking beyond that sudsy horizon was another plane of existence, another element to be consumed at all cost. Naturally, I’m referring to barbecued meat.
Perhaps craft beer does something magical to the taste buds that make smoked meats irresistible. Perhaps it’s the plain fact that most folks like barbecue, beer or no beer.
I cannot say that barbecue cookoffs and craft beer go together. Often they do not. Barbecue cookoffs have traditions going back decades at least. Craft beer is new. The two have not wedded yet in public, but behind closed mouths the party has started.
We took our grandkids, Tyler and Jack, to Oakland’s big annual Oaktown Throwdown back on Aug. 2, where they close off most of downtown around Frank Ogawa Plaza, near the Marriott Hotel. A variety of bands played from three stages. The meat was prepared in various ways covering a wide strata of outrageous goodness. However, for beer, Bud was king of the taps, in many Bud flavors.
Don’t despair. Wait. The tide is shifting. Salivation salvation is at hand. These two robust individualistic gustatory delights, craft beer and smoked meats, are finding each other amidst the mist and smoke. This weekend we’re slated to attend two more barbecue-brews-and-blues festivals, one in downtown Napa next Saturday with three stages and 30 craft beers, and the one in Benicia Sunday at the Camel Barn from noon to 4 p.m.
Both of these events will celebrate the engagement of barbecue and craft beer. At least we know the two are dating. Benicia’s event, hosted by the Historical Museum, includes a beer brewing exhibit, barbecue meals from Beaver Creek Smokehouse, and museum entrance for $15. Come on out, sit under the shade tents, and let them smack your lips.
Of course, I’ve liked barbecue all my life, but I’ve never gone out of my way to attend cookoffs and festivals. The Oakland trip was a 60-mile loop. Napa is no picnic to get to, and barbecue events are on the rise, right in sync with the craft beer movement. I’m driven by my desires to attend these coming events, though I intend to do my own parking. This weird connection between barbecue and beer, perhaps it is the ghostly return of the cows and pigs back to the barley fields.
I took a running leap this summer into the abyss. I smoked my own rack of ribs — baby backs. Never smoked meat before in my life, don’t own a smoker, didn’t understand the process. Chad, my son-in-law, is the family smoker. He processes a few cows, pigs and salmon a year.
That’s what a long vacation can do for a person. Idle in July, I decided to study the art of smoking. It began academically, at the keyboard, reading recipes, techniques, advice. I watched several films, from professional food channels to backyard amateurs on YouTube. I read Michael Pollan’s book “Cooked.” He travels the country, living and cooking with grassroots chefs, and shares the secrets.
Rather than invest in a smoker, which can be pricey, I decided to test my skills using my gas barbecue. I removed the grates from over the stones. Wood chips soaked in water were wrapped in tin foil, one handful each rolled up with the ends open. It took six all together. When the barbecue was hot, I placed two foil logs together on one side, right down on the flaming rocks, and placed an iron skillet of water on the other side, down on the rocks. A small grate went over the skillet. Steam and smoke would do the rest.
I laid out my baby backs, which spent their last night on Earth rubbed in sugar, salt, paprika and other spices and plastic-wrapped in the fridge, and were just seared eight minutes per side on broil in the kitchen. I kept the smoker temperature at 275 degrees for a little more than two hours. Baby backs don’t take as long as full ribs, which need three hours.
The smoke rolled slow and steady out from under the closed lid, scenting the air around my cozy watch chair, where I sat with my spray bottle full of apple juice, moistening my babies every 20 minutes after the first hour.
I slathered them in barbecue sauce for their last recline on the fire, and set the table. Susan had been waiting all day expectantly. Neither of us knew how this would turn out. When I lifted the lid, they looked good, golden brown and juicy. I cut them apart at the dinner table and gave Susan the first taste. “Mmmm.”
Then I had a taste. “Mmmm.”
Then she had another taste. “Mmmm. Mmmm.” And so on.
The experiment was a great success. I could smoke my own ribs. What a sense of liberation it gave me. No more must I pay $30 for a smoked rack. No more must I Yelp and drive to eat good barbecue. The next weekend I picked up more ribs at the Browns Valley Market in Napa and cooked them for friends, Bud and Sandy. They were impressed enough to feel guilty about eating so many. That’s OK. I’ll make more.
Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.