“Where are You From?” or A Heuristic
Anthropological Perambulation
You’ve
probably been asked this questions thousands of time in your life, and answered
it without even thinking about it. “I’m from Phoenix” “I’m from New
England” “I grew up in Wisconsin” “I’m a Southerner.” But if you stop to
think about it, you’ve probably answered it hundreds of different ways. “I’m from the West Side”, “Out
on the Penninsula” “Just off of Western Ave” “Right around the corner
from the school”. These are all perfectly legitimate answers to the
question, and they show just how complicated that simple query can be.
The answer to the question where are you from assumes an understanding of where you are, and your answer to it is
necessarily going to vary depending on who’s asking the question, and where
they’re asking it. In this sense, “Where are you from?” is as much a
biographical- and, really, a historical - question as it is geographical.
Your answer will vary with respect to where you are, as well as when you are (as well as the implicit time
frame of the person asking you). If you reply “Around the corner,” or
“over by the grocery store” you imply a very different kind of history- your
own, as well as the person asking – than you do with “I grew up outside of LA,”
or “We live in North Raleigh.” “Where are you from?” carries with it all
of these personal, historical contexts.
For all of these reasons, “Where are you from” always implies another, unstated
question, that you need to answer simultaneously – that is: how do you know where you are from? How do you know
that saying “I’m a Southsider” is going to make sense when you’re talking to
somebody in the Loop, but is probably not what you’d tell somebody when your in
the Outback? Is your hometown a place you haven’t lived in forty years?
Or the city you’ve lived in for the last twenty? How do you – how do any of us
– recognize where we are from?
These are all matter that we take for granted, but how we know such things, is shaped by all sorts of
more complicated concerns. Here, in North Carolina, when you ask someone
where they (or where “so and so”) comes from, they’re likely to tell you
(something like), “I come from Duplin County,” “Up in Rockingham County,” “Out
in Buncombe County” [“Really!!! From Bunkum?!”], or “Down in Beaufort
County.” This was quite disorienting for me, not just because I had no
idea where any of these places were, but because I didn’t know how to think
about “counties” as places that you could come from. There are a number
of places that I have lived where the counties are quite important.
Los Angeles County is one of the biggest polities in the country. I knew that
the LA County Board of Supervisors exercised enormous power. I lived in
Cook County, and thought of “the County of Cook” as being quite antagonistic to
the city of Chicago – even though Chicago is in Cook County! But it never occurred to
me, or anyone I knew, when I lived in these places to say “I’m from LA County” or from Cook County, or any
of the other counties in which I’ve resided. These are all places,
but not ones that you’d come from.
When you live in North Carolina, knowing what county you come from and where
counties are - and what they are – not only helps answer the question
“Where are you from” but it tells you how you know where you are from. “Why counties” is,
of course, an interesting question in its own right, with a history specific to
British colonialism, land grants, and the like.
But what I think this
kind of example really shows is that the question “Where are you from” also
asks what kind of place are you from. Is it a place of
neighborhoods and landmarks and street corners (“You live in the Jones’ house,”
that’s what neighbors told us when we lived in the Fan.
Oh, you don’t know “the Fan”? It’s a residential zone near downtown Richmond, VA)?
Is it a place that is assumed to be instantly recognizable no matter where you
go - “California,” “New York City” “The French Quarter” – and so it
requires no further orientation? When you tell people where you’re from
you’re always telling people about the meaning of that place.
Let
me just use my own life as an example of how this has to be the case. Where am
I from? Below, I just plot my life out in chronological sequence, and lay it
out against some places I’ve resided. Conveniently enough, my life
comes in a nice, neat 50 year package, so we can trace a half century of years
matched to places.
1962
|
1963
|
1964-66
|
1966-73
|
1973-80
|
1980-84
|
1984-88
|
NYC
|
Cleveland,
OH
|
West
Point, NY
|
Shaker
Heights, OH
|
Flintridge,
CA
|
Hanover,
NH
|
Chicago,
IL
|
Med school
[dad]
|
Intern
[dad]
|
Military
service
|
Elementary
|
Middle,
High School
|
College
|
Grad
School
|
1988-1990
|
1990-1993
|
1993-94
|
1994-1996
|
1996-97
|
1997-2003
|
2003-04
|
2004-12
|
Tanzania
|
Chicago
|
Williamsburg,
VA
|
Richmond
VA
|
Santa Fe
|
Richmond
|
Chapel Hill,
NC
|
Carrboro,
NC
|
Field
Research
|
Dissertation
|
Assistant
Prof
|
Assistant
Prof
|
Fellow
|
Associate
Prof
|
Fellow
|
Professor
|
Top lines, year> Middle, place > Bottom,
Activity.
When
you lay my life out flat like this, it’s hard to decide where I’m from.
How should I (how would you, if this were your chronotope) answer the question?
Should I tell you where I have lived the longest? As it happens, I have lived
in my current home in Carrboro for more time than I have lived in any single
residence in my life. But I would never say that I from North Carolina.
When you add Virginia and NC, that’s about 19 years of my life. As a
single block of time, that’s longer than I have lived in any other “region” of
the country? But I’m not a Southerner, in spite of that almost 20 years. I
spent a solid chunk of time in Chicago - and these were quite formative
years of my life, when I learned my trade, and created a social world that I’m
still (mostly) a part of. While I can hardly say “I’m from Chicago,” there are
a lot of contexts in which I still do say that I am from Chicago. When
we arrived in Virginia, fresh out of school and starting a new job, saying I
was from Chicago told people something about where I was a part of.
Saying I am from Chicago (which only suits certain contexts) tells people
something about the meaning of that place, and the kind of place it is, for me.
But for most purposes, today, if you
ask me where I’m from I’ll say, “I’m from Southern California.” And the closer
I get to that place the more specific I get. “I’m from near LA” “Outside of
Pasadena” “I grew up in Flintridge.” But, interestingly enough, when I
was actually living there, I had a clear sense that I was
not from there. The answer to the
question when I lived in “LA” was “I’m from Cleveland” “Ohio” “I’m from back
East.” “I’m not from here.” Throughout most of my life – and this is in
some ways idiosyncratic, but certainly not unique to me – “where I’m from” is
always “somewhere else.” Being from somewhere is a reference to acts of moving. I’m from many
places that I have left.
And this, I think, is not an unusual way for many, many people to think about
where they are from. Let me take a completely alternative example.
I can think of people in my family – and especially my wife’s family – who have
lived their entire lives in the “same” place. Many of my wife’s aunts and
uncles – and her father – were born, and raised, and raised their families, and
worked, and retired (and you get the picture) in Niagara Falls, NY. And
whenever I talk to them about “the Falls” (and I make no claim to pursuing the
matter in anything like a systematically ethnographic way) and where they’re
from, they always talk about how different the place is. How the neighborhood has changed.
How the downtown has died. How the jobs have left. How new people have
moved in. This is not just a chronicle of decline. It shows that even
those living in exactly the same place that they were born have a sense that
they are from “somewhere else.”
That, I think, is a useful way (just a heuristic! Don’t shoot me!) to think
about contemporary Americans' sense of where they’re from, and the
meanings of the places that they have come from. And – if I can really stick my
neck out – it’s even a useful way to start thinking about BARBECUE. Let
me say what I mean by that outlandish claim.
How does it happen that North Carolina has “Carolina Barbecue”? If you’re from
North Carolina – and even if you’re not – you might know (you SHOULD know!!)
that barbecue is directional. There’s Texas BBQ, Memphis BBQ, Northern
Alabama has its peculiar “white sauced” barbecue. Kansas City (something
of a liminal gateway city on the fringes of the West and the South) has its own
style of ‘cue. Chicago barbecue is sort of a displaced, “Up South” hybrid
of Memphis pork and KC saucing. And of course, there isn’t just Carolina
Barbecue (in fact, there may not be such a thing as Carolina Cue, tout cours): there’s Western
Carolina Barbecue and Eastern Carolina Barbecue. Here’s a short
primer: What distinguishes Western Carolina Q is its sauce, a tomato-y
(i.e. ketchup) base with vinegar and pepper (red and black). Western
Carolina BBQ is (almost always) slowly smoked pork shoulders, which are then
very finely chopped - and sometimes pulled, and even more rarely sliced –
and doused with that “red” sauce. Eastern Carolina BBQ, by contrast has
NO KETCHUP (ack!!) in its sauce – in some places it is nothing more than cider
vinegar and black (or red – or both) pepper. And sometimes a bit of sugar for
balance, too. Whole hogs are slowly smoked, and then every BIT of the
beast is chopped (fine, but somewhat shredded – not pulled, but not as fine as
Western Caroline as I’ve had it) and doused with that vinegar. You
definitely want little crusty bits of cracklin’ skin, and other less
mentionable bits, strewn through your ‘cue (trust me, you may not think you do,
but you DO!).
So much for this primer on a contrast that has produced generations of fierce
loyalists and impassioned rhetoric and heated shouting matches across the state
(in the same families, even). But why do we have this directional divide? Why is there Eastern Carolina
BBQ? In the same way that answering the question “where are you from”
requires you to say something about the meaning of the places that you’re from,
so too, barbecue is one of the things that allows that place – Carolina,
Eastern or Western – to be recognizable as a place. It makes these regions places.
How can we say that Eastern and Western Carolina barbecue are good examples of the way that
the places that we come from are always “somewhere else,” some place that isn’t
there any longer? One of the ways to think about this is to think a little
about the history of Eastern North Carolina, a region of low-lying, swampy
fields and forests, with an extensive history of both sharecropping and
independent homesteading.
North Carolina isn’t known for the intensive production of a
single staple crop – except perhaps for sweet potatoes, which are grown
extensively, but aren’t exactly a “staple"; and tobacco, which is grown all over
Eastern NC, but isn’t exactly a “staple” either. But lots and lots of people raised pigs. There were literally thousands of homes
in every county (remember those?) that raised pigs, and most of those counties
had facilities where small farm owners could take a pig or two to be
slaughtered and put up for hams and bacon and all that other good stuff. As more than one past or current
resident of the region has told me “Having a pig was like having money in the
bank.” You could store your resources in your pig, and readily convert it to
cash on a seasonal basis, or in a crisis when funds were short. I have no doubt but that communities
across the region have a long (even recent) history of working collectively,
coming together to slaughter one another’s hogs, salt and put up the hams and
bacon, let the wives grind up the small cuts for sausage, clean the chitlins,
and render lard. It wouldn’t be
unusual (and it occasionally still happens) that these neighbors would roast up
a hog and have a pig pickin’. The
pig pickin’ is just what you did at slaughter time. Or on the 4th of
July. Or for a funeral. “Whenever
you’d have a whole lot of people get together,” is how one of my friends put
it.
And,
important as all this undoubtedly is to the history, and appreciation of
barbecue in these places, this isn’t (exactly) the same thing as Eastern
Carolina Barbecue. I’m certainly not saying the Eastern Carolina Barbecue
is an “invented tradition.” There’s a long-standing practice of raising pigs,
roasting them whole over hardwoods in a pit, and serving them up to a hungry
crowd. But, at the same time, the notion that there is a singular style of
doing so that is peculiar to “Eastern Carolina,” or a “foodway” that is Eastern
Carolina Barbecue with all the standardized fixins that accompany it, relates
(in some ways) to the fact that those pigs are no longer there. Or rather,
they’re no longer in the same places that they were in Eastern Carolina.
They’re no longer in everyone’s backyard, finishing off the old sweet potato
vines, turning the ground where the tobacco is going to be planted. Most
of them – indeed, almost all of them, and in unimaginable numbers- are on a
very few confined operations that supply the Smithfield facility in Bladen
County, where 8 million hogs are slaughtered and processed – in a single plant
- each year. [Interesting note: in 1986,
there were 15,000 farms with at least one head of hogs in the state. By the
year 2006, there were only 2,300 such farms remaining]. And these hogs are concentrated in
counties – Duplin, Sampson, Bladen – that are in Southern North Carolina, not
really the heart of Eastern Carolina. Though
they do supply most of the meat for “Eastern (and, oh by the way, Western)
Carolina Barbecue,” they’re no longer “money in the bank”.
In this way Eastern Carolina Barbecue is a lot like the “hometown” that you come from and that now is somewhere else,
somewhere very different from where you are. Eastern Carolina Barbecue is
the concrete evidence of the way that pigs really aren’t there any more. Of course, there still
are some folks with hogs, of course there are backyard pig pickin’s, of course
there’s tobacco and sweet potatoes. But Eastern Carolina Barbecue is
proof of the fact that the ways of the past are changing. Today, Eastern Carolina
Barbecue is part of the legacy of the region, and part of what makes
this region a place. What makes it possible to say
“Eastern Carolina, that’s where I’m from” is the fact that it is a place that
lies elsewhere, whose heritage is now preserved and protected in Eastern
Carolina Barbecue.
Part of
the way we know that Eastern Carolina Barbecue is a cite for preserving
tradition is in the bbq establishments themselves. The ones that are
recognized as the places one goes for “the real stuff” bear with them traces of
a past that is in the present, yet so different from
it. That is, most of them appear to be falling into utter
disrepair. They may be neat, and tidy and immaculate. But they
evoke decline, and loss, and something antiquated
. The smoke house regularly burns
up. The floors are uneven and
unsteady. The humble tables and
chairs totter under dim lights. All of this evokes the past – and its collapse – in the present. Nancy Munn talks about how New Yorkers
understood the rapid transformation of the city in the antebellum period when
they described the past as being “swept away” by such change. This didn’t mean the past no longer
existed, or that traces of old New York were nowhere to be found. It meant that
what New York was for a great many of
its residents, was a place that was “becoming past”. Eastern Carolina Barbecue is
part of this “becoming past” of the state, and this region, and these lives –
this place. Part of what makes it such a place is that it is no longer what it
was - in many ways, indeed, it’s no longer even there.
Doing
work on “pastured-pork” in the Piedmont of NC, friends and colleagues often ask
me what I think about barbecue. And usually I say, not much. Pastured-
pork has very little to do with what most people in the state eat when they go
for ‘cue. Often the fatty pigs that thrive outdoors, and make for great
hams and chops, are lousy for barbecue – they’re so full of fat that they burn
up when you smoke them over wood. Of course, there’s an interest in
revitalizing even old-timey barbecue traditions. NC Choices has made an
effort to supply outdoor hogs to fine establishments - like the Pit in
Raleigh – but these efforts are fairly limited (and a great many aficionados of
Eastern Carolina Barbecue would- and do – say “that ain’t the real
thing.”) But, in its way, pastured-pork in the Piedmont emerges out of
the same social and historical process as Eastern Carolina Barbecue. Each
is a way of evoking the past and tradition, and their contemporary
decline. These pigs aren’t just raised outdoors, they’re “heritage breeds”,
in dire need of conservation because of the ravages of industrial ag.
“Heritage Breeds” like “Eastern Carolina Barbecue” bespeak the “becoming past”
of where we are. Eating their succulent meat, we reflect on who we are,
and where we’re from. We consume our own desuetude.
The
Tour!
To
which I say: bring it!! Or, in this case, Mohammed will go to the
mountain –a big, fat, low-lying meaty mountain. On a daylong slog, I
packed on the miles along with the pounds of barbecue on my “Iconic Monuments to Eastern
Carolina Barbecue” Tour. Let
me show you the relics from my pilgrimage.
First
stop: Dudley, NC, a few miles south of Goldsboro.
At the end of a long road to nowhere, and
after more than one wrong turn, I found “Grady’s Bar-B-Q.” And boy am I
glad I did. I had some trepidation as I headed out. Grady’s is only open
4 days a week, and I was pretty sure that Wednesdays were one of them (my
informants were sketchy). As luck would have it, it was open! And at
11:30 the kitchen was dishing up some simply astonishing food. Knowing
that I had a long day ahead of me, and limited space, I resolved only to
purchase barbecue, and avoid the extras. Ok, sauce, I’d have to get
sauce. But at Grady’s, I also decided to get a sandwich to go with the
two pounds of well-packed ‘cue.
|
Ordering at Grady's |
Hey, I’ve got to eat something
for lunch, and I’d just driven 100 miles. I was only a mile or so from Wilber’s,
the reputable establishment in downtown Goldsboro, and I thought I’d get my
bbq, and add some hushpuppies to go with Grady’s sandwich (all documented
here).
Grady’s
may not be the best sandwich I have ever eaten, but it is easily as good as any
sandwich of any kind, that I have ever had or hope to have again. The
language of food eating (as opposed to “food writing” a typically execrable
genre, with some exquisite exceptions) is pretty thin, but let me give it
shot. Grady’s pork is – porky! It has a rich, full aroma – an ODOR, even
– that is unmistakably redolent of the pig that provided it. The meat is
strikingly moist, but not drippy, or greasy, or fat. Though it is nicely mixed
with chunks of flavorful fat and crisp, but not rockhard skin and – um, other
stuff. Above all, Grady’s pork achieves exquisite balance. The spicing
pervades the meat, and never tastes added on. There’s some sweetness in the
sauce, some heat in there, too. The sandwich comes, by definition, with a
cole slaw that is maybe a touch creamy from mayonnaise, without being the least
bit greasy, or – well- mayonnaisy. It clings to the meat, and the bun
forms the whole into a compact, integrated whole. It is one fine sandwich.
The
hushpuppies from Wilber’s, down the road, are a very nice accompaniment.
They are not greasy, the crust is crisp, but not hard, the interior is well
cooked. Not light and airy, but not leaden, or gooey.
Cakelike might describe it, if you like
your cupcakes deep-fried. It was a helluva lunch, and a good start.
Wilber’s is an institution, not a joint. Gingham tablecloths.
Uniformed waitresses (!!), tourist paraphernalia (t-shirts, ball caps, swag
galore). But the place is pretty full, and the line for take-out is long for a
Wednesday lunch, so they have surely been doing something right for 50
years. The governor, Bev Perdue, was
literally in Wilber’s the day before I was to celebrate their
anniversary.
Next
up: the town of Ayden, on the way to Greenville. The Skylight Inn has achieved a bit of national notoriety,
James Beard Awards, and Road Food panegyrics, and such.
I was eager to try it, but primed to be
skeptical. The Inn sits at the edge
of a field in a surprisingly clean and airy establishment. A minimalist aesthetic to be sure,
nothing fancy. But it is well lit, and well kept (so is Grady’s, but the dรฉcor
is clearly older and, frankly, cheaper – though no less charming for it).
|
Skylight Inn Smokehouse |
|
with wood! |
At the Skylight Inn, all of the chairs
match, and that’s a bit of a surprise. If I were smart, I would have gotten a side of the chartreuse slaw, and
a plank of the cornbread that looks like nothing so much as golden hard
tack.
|
BBQ Kitsch |
If I have one regret on this
trip, it’s that I stuck to the ‘cue and sauce, and didn’t get any slaw or
cornbread at the Inn. Dang it.
Eight-tenths
of a mile from the Skylight Inn lies Bum’s.
This is a modest spot, but in a commercial strip of an
old-timey street in what passes for downtown Ayden. Bum’s is less a BBQ joint (in spite of its emblematic pig),
and much more what could be called a Meat-and-Three place. A cafeteria style diner of sorts, where
the hot bar holds a range of meats-
‘cue, as well as some fish, and some of the most ridiculously perfect
looking fried chicken I’ve laid eyes on. I had heard that the sides were a must at Bum’s, and that Ayden is the
collard capitol of the Carolinas, so collards it is!
At this point, I wised up and decided the coolers I was filling and
keeping the meat warm, actually would be better off filled with ice to keep
everything cold. I was directed to “Twice the Ice!” to load up. Maybe
you’ve seen one of these before, but I never had. A kiosk that
dispenses a huge quantity of ice. For $1.75 you get 16 pounds of ice that
drops down a chute in a plastic bag; or bring your own cooler and get 20 pounds
for the same price. A frozen bonanza! Just what the
barbecue doctor ordered.
Now, another word about Ayden, home of two (at least) World Class bbq
joints. In my drive through town I was struck by its undeniable
prosperity. Turn of the 20th century craftsman style
houses line at least one street in town under large and lush arbors (Ayden is a
“Tree City”) on substantial plots of land. What is up Ayden? If anyone
knows more about the town history, I’d be interested.
Next up, Greenville. Again, I have some trepidation, as I’m headed to B’s,
which, rumor has it, closes at irregular hours - when they run out of food,
they close the door. On a busy day, that may be an hour after they
open.
And it’s already 1:30. Yikes! But I persevere. B’s finds itself at
the very end of “B’s Barbecue Road” – imagine the coincidence! I was also
struck by how other roads in the vicinity are eponymous. Thus, just down
the street from B’s Barbecue Rd, lies Wellness Rd, that leads to the local
Wellness Center. And how far can Barbecue be from Wellness? In any
event, I make it to B’s just in time! A huge pile of ‘cue is being chopped to
bits on the block behind the
counter as I arrive.
They serve up
my pound, add some sauce- but then the bbq being worked gets stuffed in a foil
tray, wrapped in more foil, and sent off for catering. That’s it! Closed for
the day!
The Cue gods have smiled on me.
That
makes 5 Icons down, and one to go. Next stop, Farmville, not too far from
Greenville. I’m looking for Jack Cobb & Sons located on the main
street it town, conveniently named, Main St. Farmville looks less like an
agricultural center than much of the rest of the Eastern towns I’ve traversed.
It resembles the milltowns of the Piedmont, with wide streets laid out on a
regular grid, a single commercial strip bordered by small, tidy homes. There is
not much left of Farmville, if you ask me. Cobb & Sons is at the edge of
this commercial street, in a wide plot to itself.
The red brick building out back is smoking away to provide
the fare dished up in the very, very simple concrete restaurant. On the inside, Cobb & Sons is
dominated by a single countertop that runs the entire width of the
establishment. There’s nowhere to
sit, to speak of, so, more than any of the places I’ve been, it’s a take-out
joint (though I’d be hard-pressed to actually eat in B’s - but people
do). Mr Cobb is kind and
courteous, and shakes my hand. I buy some hushpuppies for home. Extra sauce. I
have a quart of collards, a bag of puppies, assorted sized and packaged
containers of sauce, and seven pounds of barbecue in the backseat. My work for the day is done. It’s 100 miles to home.
Other than my waxing rhapsodic about that sandwich from Grady’s, I haven’t said
much about the FOOD, have I? When I got home, I set the oven to 350ยบ, and
loaded up a baking sheet with nice portions of each of the 6 Icons’ offerings –
along with the hushpuppies. And then Julie and I had a tasting of barbecue. But
first: we tried the sauces. Now the sauce is meant to go with the cue, so
tasting sauce on its own, well, it’s kind of like having a tasting of turkey
gravies. And what’s wrong with that!? I had sauce from all but
Bum’s (how’d I forget??), and we supped from each. There was a pretty
wide range in these sauces for something so simple. Cobb’s was almost
straight cider vinegar, with a hint of red pepper. It tasted simple and direct,
but tasty. Wilber’s, well, sorry Wilber, but no. It was too much.
Hot! And peppery – and those aren’t the same thing. You could taste each
separate ingredient, but the whole thing tasted like a bunch of different things-
vinegar, check, black pepper, check, red pepper, check – but didn’t really pull
together. This was the only one I really did NOT like. B’s is good. Also
hot, but nicely balanced. Flavorful. The Skylight Inn’s was really good. It
sort of sneaks up on you. First, a nicely tempered vinegar, and then - whoosh!
– here comes the heat! But not so hot that it simply burns. You can taste the
sauce itself. Next, and last: Grady’s. Whoa. This stuff is good. It
has a nice burgundy color that looks like it comes from soaking the pepper
flakes in the vinegar. But the sauce is actually not THAT hot (but it is
hot), as it has some sugar mixed in that pulls the whole thing together.
It actually tastes like an infused balsamic vinegar, but I am quite confident
in saying that no balsamic vinegar has ever set foot in Dudley, NC. This
sauce is something else, and shows you how a master chef can create something
uncanny from simple, basic ingredients. But that Skylight Inn sauce is
not to be missed either.
NOW we
get to the Eastern Carolina
Barbecue itself, that for
which many miles have been sped, and many a tree put to sanctified
purpose. And I hate to let anyone down here, but it is all good!!
No, really, really good. Now, if you twist my arm, I’ll say that Wilber’s
cue, like it’s sauce, is a bit out of whack. It’s really flavorful, but
the flavor is all up front and in your face – POW! I am barbecue!! I am smoked
and spicy!! But, you WOULDN’T have to twist my arm to get me to eat if you
brought me a Wilber’s sandwich. On the other hand, if we were in
Goldsboro – and it wasn’t a Sunday, Monday or Tuesday – I’d say, hey, let’s
skip Wilber’s and go to this place I know. Grady’s!! Because, as I said above,
whoa, THAT is some barbecue. And it’s a whole lot cuter than Wilber’s
too.
As for the others, they each have their charms, and there isn’t a bad thing to
say about any of them. Cobb & Sons has less “stuff” in their
‘cue. No fat, no real bits of skin to speak of – it’s whole hog without
the whole. But what it lacks in varied texture it makes up for in
succulence – it’s the most like pulled pork of all the joints – and the aroma
is sooooooo very piggy. Cobb & Sons is all about simple, simple,
simple. And if what you’ve got is good on its own, simple is a good way
to go. Bum’s and B’s, probably the most alike. Really smoky, but
not harsh or tannic (as smoke can be). Peppery, but the taste of the meat
comes through. I’m sure many a customer would happily say it’s the best
barbecue ever, and I wouldn’t say otherwise (though that wouldn’t be my
opinion). Now Skylight Inn. THAT is another animal. Straight
up I’d have to say, it may not be for everybody. It is some piggy q. You
half expect the thing to sit up and squeal it is so chock loaded with crunchy,
chewy, squeaky (yeah, squeaky) bits of rind, and snout, and all that good
stuff. And they carry sooooo much flavor, and they are so nicely hacked
that they meld in with the meat. Skylight Inn is one of the few culinary
establishments I’ve been to that actually match the hype they enjoy.
For me, it’s
Grady’s. Or Skylight Inn. Or Grady’s. Do I have to choose? I’ll eat any of
these – and I WILL be eating more of each of these, because when you haul in
this much barbecue, you’re going to be eating it for a while (note: bbq freezes
wonderfully) I won’t be embarking on this bit of self-indulgence any time
soon again (I have other self-indulgences to get to – like blogging). But
this little jaunt was about as successful as I could have hoped it would
be. If you’re anywhere near Carrboro in the next few months, feel free to
stop in for a bite. And if you’re anywhere near Dudley (what the hell are
you doing there?), could you bring me a sandwich??