hardwood handy before the real work begins — at midnight. They
try to have everything ready by sundown on the day before so they
can catch a few winks before arriving on the job at that witching
hour, loaded down with lanterns, pitchforks, shovels, brooms, rakes,
plenty of peppers and big bottles full of Worcestershire and
Tabasco. And as soon as the pit fires are lighted you can see their
silhouettes and shadows weaving like imps around the flames as
they heap on the fuel, rake hot coals level, shovel in a little earth
here to retard a blaze, pull out a hot stone there, gradually building
a smooth, smokeless bed of embers, readying everything for the
ravenous crowd that'll arrive around noontime with jaws raring to
go.
All in all, a hangup barbecue takes about twenty-four hours
preparation and a lot of skill. The seasoned specialists in charge
know their stuff as well as a strip tease knows her burleycue, and
it's hot stuff, too, for first the juicy beef is soaked all the juicier
in fiery chili-ajo, the standard marinating bath of a whole State
that is as large as all Europe. Then each barbecuer mixes a second
sauce for basting the beast, filling wash tubs sloshing full of minced
peppers, garlic, herbs, tomatoes, lime juice and sundry condiments,
according to formulas handed down within the craft. With this
mixture the roasting longhorn is basted for eight solid hours, to
give it that unbeatable hunter's style flavor, making tame beef
taste as gamy as pioneer buffalo humps, grizzly bear steaks or elk,
and Mary's little lamb like Rocky Mountain sheep.
The enormous beef, run through from chin whiskers to tail, or
**barbe" to "cue," with a sharp steel spit to hold it securely in
place over the glowing pit, is kept turning by dexterous jabs of the
pitchfork. A steel spit is the thing; never green wood, for steel is
such a perfect conductor of heat that the inside of the meat will be
as thoroughly cooked as the outside. The basting is done wholesale
by dipping new brooms in the tubs of sauce and swabbing down the
sides of meat evenly.
After a first quick searing on all sides to seal the juices in, the
slow roasting begins and continues from dawn till high noon, when
a triumphant gleam comes into the chief chef's eye as he shoves his
rolled shirt sleeves a notch higher and sharpens his carving kit, to
BARBECUING INDOORS AND OUT III
begin the real fancy work just at the moment when the outside crust
is spiciest and the inside is cooked through to the bones. Crowds
close in to watch the knife-wielding, each expecting to get the
choicest tidbit as it*s expertly dipped in the hot sauce and slapped
onto slabs of yaller bread. In this clash between sharp knives and
sharper appetites, corn liquor passes freely and everything's hotsy-
totsy. The tang of wood fires and odor of crisping beef whip up
gargantuan appetites, especially if the artful barbecuer throws an
armful of sage on the dying coals at the finish to accent the whole
roast — then the amount of lusty munching such a crowd can do is
limited only by the size of its rounding eyes and whether the feast is
free or not.
Page 59
Presented as published in 1938. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
hardwood handy before the real work begins — at midnight. They try to have everything ready by sundown on the day before so they can catch a few winks before arriving on the job at that witching hour, loaded down with lanterns, pitchforks, shovels, brooms, rakes, plenty of peppers and big bottles full of Worcestershire and Tabasco. And as soon as the pit fires are lighted you can see their silhouettes and shadows weaving like imps around the flames as they heap on the fuel, rake hot coals level, shovel in a little earth here to retard a blaze, pull out a hot stone there, gradually building a smooth, smokeless bed of embers, readying everything for the ravenous crowd that'll arrive around noontime with jaws raring to go.
All in all, a hangup barbecue takes about twenty-four hours preparation and a lot of skill. The seasoned specialists in charge know their stuff as well as a strip tease knows her burleycue, and it's hot stuff, too, for first the juicy beef is soaked all the juicier in fiery chili-ajo, the standard marinating bath of a whole State that is as large as all Europe. Then each barbecuer mixes a second sauce for basting the beast, filling wash tubs sloshing full of minced peppers, garlic, herbs, tomatoes, lime juice and sundry condiments, according to formulas handed down within the craft. With this mixture the roasting longhorn is basted for eight solid hours, to give it that unbeatable hunter's style flavor, making tame beef taste as gamy as pioneer buffalo humps, grizzly bear steaks or elk, and Mary's little lamb like Rocky Mountain sheep.
The enormous beef, run through from chin whiskers to tail, or **barbe" to "cue," with a sharp steel spit to hold it securely in place over the glowing pit, is kept turning by dexterous jabs of the pitchfork. A steel spit is the thing; never green wood, for steel is such a perfect conductor of heat that the inside of the meat will be as thoroughly cooked as the outside. The basting is done wholesale by dipping new brooms in the tubs of sauce and swabbing down the sides of meat evenly.
After a first quick searing on all sides to seal the juices in, the slow roasting begins and continues from dawn till high noon, when a triumphant gleam comes into the chief chef's eye as he shoves his rolled shirt sleeves a notch higher and sharpens his carving kit, to
BARBECUING INDOORS AND OUT III
begin the real fancy work just at the moment when the outside crust is spiciest and the inside is cooked through to the bones. Crowds close in to watch the knife-wielding, each expecting to get the choicest tidbit as it's expertly dipped in the hot sauce and slapped onto slabs of yaller bread. In this clash between sharp knives and sharper appetites, corn liquor passes freely and everything's hotsytotsy. The tang of wood fires and odor of crisping beef whip up gargantuan appetites, especially if the artful barbecuer throws an armful of sage on the dying coals at the finish to accent the whole roast — then the amount of lusty munching such a crowd can do is limited only by the size of its rounding eyes and whether the feast is free or not.