Cornbread Nation 2: The United States of Barbecue (Cornbread Nation: Best of Southern Food Writing) (22 page)

Due largely to South Carolina's agrarian roots, many widely circulated folk
beliefs, customs, and superstitions are directly related to early thoughts on
farming practices and crop growth cycles, specifically those regarding the
moon and its subsequent effects on harvesting. While most modern farmers
rely on the nightly television weather report more than a well-worn copy of
the Farmer's Almanac, these same agricultural folk beliefs have been adapted
to apply to other aspects of South Carolina life, particularly the preparation of
hash.

Mister Hawg's Bar-B-Q, like most South Carolina barbecue restaurants,
grew out of a localized family tradition-the "shade tree" cooking of so many
other recognized barbecue masters. With humble beginnings in the backyard
of the family home place, brothers Marion and Davis helped their father and
grandfather cook barbecue and hash for neighbors. From the backyard to the full service restaurant, the brothers experienced both the joys and the
struggles. Early on in the restaurant business they decided to alter their cooking schedule. The decision was made to sell barbecue and hash one day a
month-the last Saturday.

During one of my visits to the feed trough, I asked Marion why they picked
this particular day. Bigger crowds? Work schedules? Financial considerations?
Marion stared at me through piercing eyes, "You ever hear about digging post
holes on the dark of the moon?" With a look so earnest and penetrating it left
no doubt as to the seriousness of the question, he continued. "Why, if you dig
a post hole on the dark of the moon, you aren't going to have enough dirt to
fill that hole back in." Other men in the room grunted in agreement, and the
stories began to flow. Cutting down trees for firewood, filling up baskets and
buckets with harvested crops-all of these personal experiences dealt with the
ability to maximize one's resources when the moon is full or "on the light
side." Marion explained, "You see, the last Saturday of the month is always
going to be on the light of the moon, and our hash pots will overflow if we
aren't careful."

The common-sense solution was to cook only when the same amount of
ingredients would produce more hash. This is not a strange blip on the traditional hash radar screen. Barbecue chefs, stew makers, and hash masters alike
continue to speak quite earnestly about the powerful influence the moon has
on food preparation. "By the light of the moon," "right side of the moon," and
"waxing moon" are all phrases of deep importance, verbalized from back
roads to the strip mall.

By its very nature, folk belief is extremely versatile and has the ability to
adapt with a remarkable degree of fluidity. The commonly regarded belief that
the moon has very real, measurable effects on agricultural activity might no
longer dominate the talk around the checkerboard at the local co-op, but it is
mentioned with regularity around the hash pot.

There was something of a cathartic moment when Marion divulged the
reason for the Saturday hash preparation. On some level, he seemed a bit concerned about disclosing these stories and how it might affect my impression of
him. In very short order, I learned three things about Marion. One, he cared
very little about my impression of him and his reasons for when he cooked his
hash. Their system works; they are proud of their hash and have no need to
justify anything to me. Two, he had only a cursory interest in my reaction to
all the "moon talk." Finally, and most important, the brothers make a darn
good mustard-based hash.

Normally, after any lengthy interview or day in the field, I would pack up my gear, offer deep thanks for a day well spent, and be on my way. Not so with
the Robinson brothers. I have yet to leave without being offered a glass of
sweet tea, a comfortable chair, and a large plate of white rice smothered in the
yellow, steamy concoction-straight from the iron kettle and always under
the watch of a full moon. This is why the lure of the sultry teenager on the offramp will never draw me in to her culinary web. As for the rest of the societal
caravan, the proverb rings true-more die of food than famine.

Yes, I love barbecue, even to the point of going to ridiculous lengths to try a
new variety. But surely there are very few other zealots like me lurking around
Arkansas.

That's what I thought before articles I wrote about my favorite barbecue
spots appeared in these pages a few weeks ago.

Boy, was I wrong.

You think crime, pollution, bigotry, and official abuse of power are raging
concerns of the day? Think again. Judging from the response to my articles,
the next presidential candidate better have a barbecue plank in the platform.

I received eight letters, dozens of phone calls, and a disturbing late-night
visit from an irate barbecue man. Little of the response was even partially
complimentary, most of it consisting of scoldings for my neglecting a favored
barbecue joint.

Now you may think that reporters for major metropolitan newspapers are
swamped with letters and calls after every by-lined effort. You may even think
that swooning teenagers line up outside the portals of the oldest paper west of
the Mississippi to tear hunks of clothing from Arkie Wood-steins. If you think
that, you are wrong.

Not long after I came to the Gazette in 1973, I wrote an article about raising
turtles, the kind that dime stores paint yellow so kids can buy them for a dime
and lose them under the house. The article was noteworthy, although it took
me a while to realize it.

You see, I got a note from an interested reader the day after the turtle opus
appeared. Two years would pass before I again got an indication from someone other than a friend or my mother that anyone out there was reading. (And
then it was from a state political figure who called me at 7 A.M. to wonder why
I was "crucifying" him for reporting about his drunken driving arrest.)

Take my word, the response to barbecue was astounding.

Here's a sample.

A woman from Malvern referred to McClard's at Hot Springs, my favorite,
as a "greasy spoon." Moreover, she said, she planned to begin avoiding my "socialist paper" henceforth because my article failed to mention Stubby's at Hot
Springs-"Oh those beans in the little clay pot."

Stubby's had the most vocal supporters. A Tulsa ad man took me to task in
two lengthy letters for neglecting Stubby, although conceding that McClard's
was plenty good, too. The omission of Stubby's was an oversight. It is good,
and I had intended to mention it as the Avis to McClard's Hertz at Hot
Springs, but space ran out.

One thing bothers me, though. Every Stubby's booster mentioned the
wonderfulness of his baked potatoes. How do you ruin a baked potato?

The venerable Shack responded quickly and curtly to my assessment that
their product wasn't as good as it used to be. The firm canceled its advertising,
but only after I had a telephone conversation with the boss. He insisted that I
tell him what I didn't like about the place; I did, and he was not amused. Nor
was the one Shack supporter who also called to register his exceptions.

Some North Little Rock residents were offended that I would cover their
hometown's offering with only a mention of Lindsey's. "You actually eat
there?" one woman asked incredulously.

Richard's Hickory House and the Burger Basket north of the river had their
fans. Cabot folks plumped for the Hickory Pit, whose owners were kind about
my omission, certain that a meal there would put them at the top of the list.

One blowhard told me that the barbecue sandwich was invented in the
Arkansas Delta; another pinned the spot down as Blytheville. Bowles' at Osceola got a particularly high report.

Some folks spent their own money to call long-distance with recommendations. Among them were supporters of the Little Pig at Hazen and Tommy's
and the Triple-B at Pine Bluff. The most intriguing suggestion was for an unnamed black man's house at Arkadelphia where you knock on the door and
receive a barbecue sandwich, presumably after the proper incantation.

Gratifying responses came from those whose establishments received good
words, as well as many offers of freebies. To some of you callers, I repeat, every
meal was paid for. (The closest anyone came to a free meal was when an unscrupulous reporter from a Tennessee paper tried to impersonate me at
McClard's after the articles appeared. The ruse was uncovered and, lucky for
him, the McClards were too nice to give him less than their normal heaping
platter, albeit at the normal price.)

The most disturbing thing about the whole business was the reaction of
Robert McIntosh, the major domo of Say McIntosh, a restaurant that some
insist has the best barbecue and sweet potato pie going.

I'm not so enchanted by Say's barbecue-and said so. That was in the first
article, and he phoned his disappointment the next day. But when the concluding article appeared, in which I dared to compare Ballard's pie to Say's,
the ribs hit the fan.

McIntosh stormed into the Gazette newsroom about eleven P.M. the next
day, toting a sack of 'tater pies. The point, which was missed in the hubbub,
was that the pies were Ballard's and that McIntosh wouldn't serve such a lowly
offering. By the time he had explained that to me, a crew of Gazette copy editors had demolished two pies. McIntosh did not laugh. Nor did his huge companion, who mostly uttered ominous sounding "that's rights" at pauses in
McIntosh's machine-gun delivery.

McIntosh's main point seemed to be that I had never said my barbecue
pronouncements were only my personal opinion. I would have thought that
was obvious. But just in case:

Yes, Mr. McIntosh (and friend), it is only my opinion that Ballard's barbecue is better and that his sweet potato pie is just as good.