The Weekly Meat

Barbecue

There's no better time than July 4th to light up the backyard barbecue and singe off your arm hair. This year, let it be some pork shoulder, cooked slow and low, with my loose interpretation (meaning I improved the hell out of it) of the "Rickyard Ribs" recipe from the Jack Daniel's Old Time Barbecue Cookbook. It's a great starting point for further experimentation — a tasty middle of the road sauce, with some tang, some sweet, some bite, some depth, and a little something extra.

BK Kine Cue Sauce

1 C  ketchup
<1/4 C  molasses
1/4 C  red wine vinegar
1 shot  bourbon (so, in fact, not Jack Daniel's)
1 T  lemon juice
1 T  Worcestershire sauce
1 T  soy sauce
2 t  brown mustard
1 t  horseradish
1 t  pepper
1 clove  garlic, minced
hot sauce to taste

(Big T for tablespoon, small t for teaspoon.)

1. Combine in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes.

2. Put that sauce to use. (Note: There are hundreds of folks here on The Internets to teach you how to properly cook meat and who provide you with the requisite, crystalline food porn pictures, so go visit them. Some are quite worthwhile. Perhaps the ancient race of Druids over at Meathenge.)

Enjoy.

The Sandwich Hall of Fame

Sometimes a meal is far more than just a meal. Sometimes the food and the very act of eating it join to create a transcendent experience.

This is, after all, a blog, so no, I'm not talking about food as mere survival. I'm talking about gustatory excess. Because I have just eaten my favorite cheesesteak of all time.

I'm from Philly. I have eaten, literally, hundreds of cheesesteaks. This is a notable landmark.

The event in question took place at John's Roast Pork. The sandwich — a cheesesteak with mushroom and onions, sharp provolone, and ketchup — was tremendous. The meat, infused with the taste of its roll-mates. Heavenly.

The first sandwich I fell in love with was a simple one. In high school, a friend and I used to drive over to the local convenience store for lunch once or twice a week. I would get deli turkey on a kaiser roll, with lettuce, mayo, and American cheese. Boy, I dug that sandwich. But like many first loves, I have evolved, and it was inherently flawed to begin with we have grown apart.

Love, you ask? Oh, indeed. A sandwich is more than just a slab of meat (or veggies or legumes or whatever) between two slices of bread. It's convenience. It's simplicity. It's a lifestyle. Occasionally, it is even culinary perfection.

That said, I've put together a modest hall of fame, as follows. Now the great thing about the sandwich hall of fame (SHOF) is that it's an ever-expanding (perhaps to match the waistband) entity. There are certainly classic sandwiches (say, the muffaletta at Central Grocery in NOLA), which, sadly, I have yet to consume — as well as sandwiches that have yet to be created.

In any case, the honorees thus far:

Cheesesteak — John's Roast Pork, Philadelphia
Fresh, hot, not greasy, and the perfect meld of ingredients. Thank god I don't work around the corner from this joint (I'd pretty much have to be a stevedore to do so), as I'd be a little scared to find out what the repertory of a daily cheesesteak or roast pork would do to my vascular system.

Pork Báhn Mì — Báhn Mì Saigon Bakery, NYC
I stumbled (literally) onto this place only recently, on the walk to a friend's place after a successful Fung Wah experiment. The crusty, chewy baguette, the pork, the hot sauce, the sliced cucumber and carrots, the fresh sprigs of cilantro. So good that I went back 16 hours later for another to get me through the return bus trip.

Italian Roast Pork — Tony Luke's, Philadelphia
The other Philly sandwich. Succulent roast pork pulled from a bath of broth and juice, served on a hoagie roll with sharp provolone and garlicky broccoli rabe. Mercy, mercy.

Ferdi Special — Mother's Restaurant, New Orleans
When you order your po' boys at Mother's, they ask if you want it with debris. Your answer should always be "Yes." Debris is the juice, fat, and flavor-filled detritus that falls to the bottom of the pan when the meats are being roasted. It's spooned over the top of the sandwiches and soaks into the bread, making everything heavenly. Upon finishing his first debris-addled masterpiece, my good friend Spider decided that next time he might just ask for a debris sandwich.

Lobster Roll — Red's Eats, Wiscasset, ME
The lobster roll debate is a lively one, and I might cast my vote for a different place on a different day, but Red's Eats knows how to bring it, and they don't fuss with accoutrements. You're served a whole lobster's worth of meat on a toasted bun. No hacking up the meat, no obfuscation, just goodness.

Italian Hoagie — The White House, Atlantic City
Like the mighty lobster roll, the hoagie debate is strong. For my money though, good deli meat is good deli meat, and it's not tough to come by. I've had great hoagies (though they sometimes go by different names) all over the map, and passable hoagies nearly everywhere. So the deciding factors are sandwich construction and the roll. And absolutely nowhere serves better classic crusty/chewy hoagie rolls than The White House.

Turkey Reuben — The Original Turkey, Philadelphia
There is just so much to be said for a shmear of good Russian dressing and coleslaw topping a pile of fresh sliced, perfectly roasted turkey breast. I've had similar deli versions served cold — a favorite of which was a turkey/roast beef combo. But this particular goodness adds a couple slices of Swiss, puts it between good wheat bread and pops it on the sandwich press until its absolutely beautiful. This is a sandwich that simply melts in your mouth.

Cubano
I don't know that I have yet found the perfect cubano — a delicious pressed construction of roast pork, ham, cheese, spicy brown mustard, and chopped pickles — but that only serves to inspire me to continue the quest. I've certainly come close. Clearly, this may require fact-finding missions to Miami and Havana and all places Cuban. But in my own backyard, there are two places within a stone's throw of each other that do the cubano solid: Chez Henri and the Montrose Spa.

Chicken Torta — Tacos Lupita, Somerville, MA
Torta is a generic Spanish term, which, like the Vietnamese báhn mì, loosely translates to "that which makes the mouth water, the knees go weak, and the heart grow fond of foreign lands." My favorite torta starts with well-spiced grilled chicken, adds a spoon or two of beans, avocado, lettuce, tomato, a couple of jalapeño slices, and mayo. Nothing crazy, but the roll is nice and soft and the effect is outstanding.

Cheeseburger — Your Backyard, Your City
Don't let anyone make a better burger than you can serve your damn self. There is nothing more simple than grilling up your own burger, grilling it right, topping it with your favorite cheese, a perfect slice of tomato, etc.

Yes, I realize full well that the above list is guilty of a dearth of cold sandwiches. Rest assured that there are indeed plans for a future annex to the SHOF for our heat-challenged friends — once we are able to secure proper funding. Perhaps a reserved space for the buttered Parisian baguette with country ham, gruyere, hard-boiled egg, and lettuce. But for now, these are my darlings, and I'm gonna dance with them until a cardiologist looks into my heart and stomps on my soul by telling me to lay off.

Beer, Beer, Beer

I.  Before the louts that are Roger Clinton and Jeb Bush, our fine nation was blessed with one of the most influential presidential siblings of all time. With apologies to RFK, I'm talking, of course, about Billy Carter. Hell yes, he was country, and simple as a two-by-four, but brother Billy played an inspired role in the U.S. microbrew revolution — and for that, he must be celebrated.

The fact that his eponymous "Billy" beer tasted like a mixture of old bongwater, urine, and IC Light notwithstanding, you had to love his advertising approach: It's the best beer I've ever tasted. And I've tasted a lot. (A reworking of Schaefer's classic one beer to have when you're having more than one.) Billy beer didn't exactly corner the market, but it did gain a certain trashy kitsch appeal in the way that, say, a Bill Clinton cigar might.

Regardless, it was Billy who convinced POTUS Jimmy to do away with moldy blue laws against homebrewing, which gave both everyday Joes and entrepreneurs permission to legally brew beer in small batches. In this case, as in many, a little experimentation in the garage went a long way. It took a good 10 years to catch fire, but once folks perfected their recipes, it was game on.

So raise a pint to Billy, because today's package store shelves look a far sight better than they did in the '80s. And many of us can hit up a local pub and find draft offerings from Dogfish Head, Victory, Sierra Nevada, and the like.

II.  The first beer I can remember drinking (and I don't mean that in an Amy Winehouse sort of way) was a Carlsberg "Elephant" beer, at a party back in tenth grade. It was basically OE for the suburban set. Bad beer, but it made us feel cool, and it gave me something to hold while those with an even greater need to feel cool experimented with the latest from Medellín.

While growing up, I had tasted beer my dad poured for himself, and never really liked it all that much. But when one wants to develop a taste for something, one can, and for good or ill, beer was an integral part of my college experience.

I didn't necessarily drink good beer in college, mind you, but I did drink it. It was after those four years that I had the good fortune for my culinary tastebuds to come of age at the moment the microbrew industry went public with their IPO of IPAs, presenting delicious alternatives to those of us boring Americans daring enough to drink anything darker than Bud.

Yes, I know there are still plenty of light-beer–swilling folks out there, and all I can say is thank you for leaving more of the good stuff for those of us who like it. Just get your simple ads off my hockey telecasts, eh?

III.  Cheers.

Coach: What's the story, Norm?
Norm: Thirsty guy walks into a bar. You finish it.

IV.  Two weeks ago, I went to the New England Real Ale Exhibition (NERAX) — which, as luck would have it — is held in my neighborhood each year. This is a somewhat small but well-organized affair held over several nights, and damn if they don't bring in some hella ales each year.

"Real ale" is defined by the Campaign for Real Ale as "beer brewed from traditional ingredients, matured by secondary fermentation in the container from which it is dispensed, and served without the use of extraneous carbon dioxide." You can read plenty more about the distinction here, but in a nutshell, real ale is to brewing what "slow food" is to cooking — a natural, old-school approach meant to highlight both the product and the process.

The beers tend to be smooth, and less carbonated than most non-cask beers. If beer had tasted like this when I was growing up, I might actually have taken a dinner-table liking to it much sooner. Not that these are kid beers (for lack of a better term); most are very flavorful and complex in a way that surpasses many of the better bottled beers.

In fact, I found it interesting to sample the real ale versions of beers I can readily buy in bottles at the liquor store. Last year, I discovered first in cask form and then in bottles what I'd been missing in Geary's Hampshire Special Ale, a delicious beer. On the other hand, though I liked Harpoon's (then) new Brown Session Ale from a cask, its bottled equivalent leaves something to be desired.

Clearly, in the name of both science and of blogging, I need to do a bit more "research," and report back. Until then, thank god for the brewer patriots out there, giving us freedom of choice, and the choicest of hops. And thank god for Billy Carter.

The Clancy Brothers — Beer, Beer, Beer

Meat Addiction

I had no clue when I named this blog that folks might stumble their way onto these pages by googling "meat addict" and the like. Apparently, it's an increasingly popular thing to search for. Not as popular as "Scarlett Johanssen" perhaps, but let's not digress.

The name of this site, plus my post on (cheese) addiction, plus Google's proprietary algorithms place me fairly high on the list of results for that particular search. Now, don't get me wrong (especially you meat addicts out there — I appreciate the hits), but meat addiction? Who knew?

Yet, enough folks are afflicted by, or curious about, such a thing as to search the internets for it, and some of those folks are in turn curious enough or desperate enough to click on The Weekly Meat for answers. Well, I'm flattered — albeit naively curious — and hey, I'm here to serve my constituency (even those just passing through). So I've put forth some research to get to the bottom of this burgeoning phenomenon.

First off: Is there such a thing?

I realize addiction can be a tricky thing. Clearly, the most pandemic of addictions seems to be that of booze — something the human body does not historically/biologically need to survive. But meat? Homo sapiens have depended on it for eons. True, in our post-industrialized global reality, we can now get by swimmingly (if not happily) on a meat-free diet. Or to generalize, if you're reading these words, it's a fair bet that you do not need to kill wild game for the sake of sustenance. Not that there's anything wrong with it, mind you — I appreciate game as much as the next guy. I'm just saying it's no longer essential to our survival as a species.

Maybe it's more a problem of psychological dependency. If one works at it long enough, I suppose we can become addicted to nearly anything. Videogames, crosswords, blogging. Watching hockey fight videos on YouTube. Whatever.

And where might meat addiction rank in the world of addictions? Might it threaten the addict's well-being more seriously than, say, heroin? Dubious, but as with all addictions, it's a matter of degrees. I mean, is the afflicted in the habit of sneaking meat at work? Running late for appointments, furiously slugging down mouthwash to cover the smell of Slim Jims? Not-so-discreetly surfing barbecue porn sites behind the spouse's back? Cutting out of the office early to head over to the local butcher shop? Suffering meat blackouts? The mind reels with possibilities.

Maybe there's another angle I'm missing.

Ah. Further searching shows that some of this business about meat addiction is to do with Big Meat (that is, the Industry, à la "Big Tobacco"). And on that score — though we might differ a bit on some details — I'd agree that yes, certainly we do have a meat problem in this country.

Our problem is this: The meat that we most often consume does not come from healthy stock. Rather, it comes from animals who live nearly their entire brief existence while penned together like the shrink-wrapped food product they will become; hopped up on drugs and hormones to keep them from dying, because they're being fattened up on "food" they were not physiologically meant to eat and that they cannot digest without said drugs; all while wallowing in their own excrement. (For much more on this, I highly recommend reading Michael Pollan's excellent book The Omnivore's Dilemma; or more briefly, this Time article; or even the politically correct CDC website.)

So, we have a problem. But are we "addicts"? Whether or not we eat too much of it, or whether we have a compulsive need to eat it, I'll leave up to the evangelists out there — or better yet, to you. Rather, what I'd argue is that "meat addiction" may be missing the point. For we are in denial of an addiction to something much bigger: We are addicted to cheap goods, and it is this addiction that feeds our meat troubles.

We have convinced ourselves that it is our American birthright to pay next-to-nothing for nearly all goods and services. Thus, we turn our backs on the reality that behind our $5 t-shirts, 50¢/liter soda, and $2/pound meat is sweat-shop labor, high-fructose corn syrup, and "Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations" (CAFOs).

And our $5 t-shirts, soda, and factory-farmed beef are slowly and methodically killing us as surely as heroin. The meat and soda are doing it medically, thanks to our country's #2 corn fetish (For an entertaining look at how and why, watch King Corn or Supersize Me or The Meatrix). Even the t-shirts are doing it culturally, (macro)economically, and spiritually.

Big Meat is a scourge, and it has been since the advent of, well, ice, which in combination with the railroads, allowed the shipping of meat. Upton Sinclair's The Jungle exposed horrifying slaughterhouse conditions over a hundred years ago, and effected fairly sweeping change, but not nearly enough. And the meat and farm lobbies have become exponentially stronger in recent years (amazing how the strength with which they argue is directly proportional to the damage they are causing), and once again, they are abetting the fouling of our food sources.

So, what to do? The answer, as with any addiction, is simple — if not easy. You want to start putting the Big Meat CAFOs out of business? Don't buy their products. Tell ADM, Cargill, Monsanto, et al. to go screw. Check out some of the great sustainability resources, find a local farm where they allow cows to eat the grass they were born to eat, join a meat CSA. The difference in taste and nutrition between CAFO and pastured beef is astounding.

"I would," you say, "I'd eat that way every day, but it's expensive."

And there's the rub. We are so far removed from our food sources that we have no appreciation for their true cost (neither monetarily; nor environmentally; nor ethically/morally). We spend far less on food than we used to. Further, our elected fat cats have so devalued both food and nutrition, that we don't seem to care to spend the money necessary to perhaps help us live longer. Instead, we subsidize the growth of more and more shit corn to feed our livestock. Crazy, when you consider how much we as a nation spend on the care of serious (and clearly related) health issues like diabetes, high cholesterol, heart disease, colon cancer, hip and knee replacements, etc.

Sure, the immediate situation is complicated too by the fact that our housing costs are so high (i.e., After rent/mortgage, who has money left over to eat well/righteously?). But housing costs have risen at a rate inversely proportional to food costs. Not directly, but the case could be made that we are willing to overpay for housing precisely because we underpay for food.

So where does all this leave us? I don't know, frankly. If I did, I like to think I'd have a more influential day job. But I do know this: I don't have to buy products that contain high-fructose corn syrup; I don't have to buy sick chicken eggs; I don't have to buy factory-farmed beef. I don't have to be an addict. I've got some say in this thing. And there's no need for me to start throwing meat on the fire of our national dependence. However much it might help bring traffic to this blog.

Feedlot photo via USDA. Turkeys photo by Scott Bauer, via the USDA.

Addiction

With the holiday party season nearing full tilt, I think it's time I come to terms with some personal trouble I've been having lately. OK, for a long time.

One year, in my bachelor days — when life was both more exciting and more boring — my age-old friend Spider and I decided we'd each make our New Year's resolution to develop six-pack abs. We were both fairly active guys who had once been in shape. We each figured what the hell, the mutual competition would keep us honest and spur us on, and the rippled stomachs would surely, we thought, be a hit with the single ladies.

I can't remember how close Spider got to that six-pack, other than to say that he has only slightly less body hair than Robin Williams and Tom Selleck combined, and I believe he ultimately chose to simply comb the hair on his stomach in such a way as to give the impression of a six-pack. God knows what was actually under the hair.

My own quest was more enlightening than successful. No matter how many sit-ups, crunches, etc. I did, I was never really able to get past a solid four-pack. Those bottom two ab cuts just would not show themselves. It didn't take long for me to realize why. Beyond the fact that I simply did not have the mental discipline to work out every single day, I knew at a core level that those two muscles would be forever hidden under an unyielding layer of beer and cheese.

So, a few months into the year, I gave up my resolution. The experiment had paid some dividends, but when push came to shove, I was not willing, at that stage of my life, to give up either beer or cheese.

Soul searching ensued. If I had to choose one, I wondered, which could I actually give up, beer or cheese? Ultimately, I decided, it would be far easier for me to give up beer. I would miss it, sure. But life without cheese? Get real.

I don't just like cheese, I dream of it, pine after it, live for it. Always have. I have my cheeses of choice, for those times I need something stronger than vacuum-packed cheddar, and I love nothing more than spending a good hour in a proper, local fromagerie. Going to Neal's Yard in London was like a personal cheese hajj.

Mind you, my cheese eating has not all been quite so glamorous. I've had more than my share of cubed orange colby-jack at office parties. And I mean cubes that have been sitting for hours, sweating under the glow of holiday cheer and bad jazz. I've opened the tub of squeaky-fresh cheese curds before even exiting Wisconsin farm stands, eaten poutine for breakfast, and scraped the last bits of jarred Whiz onto my cheesesteak. I've reveled in individually-wrapped slices of pasteurized process cheese food product, creamy WisPride logs, and bacon-cheddar squirt cheese. I've had my brushes with hitting rock bottom; I know why the caged cow laughs.

But am I addicted?

To find out, I turned to the source. Alcoholics Anonymous has a list of 12 questions for self diagnosis. They tell us that "Yes" answers to four or more questions may indicate that you have a problem. Highlights are as follows. My honest answers are in line with the questions.

1 - Have you ever decided to stop [eating cheese] for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?

Yes.

3 - Have you ever switched from one kind of [cheese] to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting cheese-drunk?

Yes.

4 - Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year?

One word: pizza.

7 - Has your [cheese eating] caused trouble at home?

No. But my wife might be what they call an "enabler"; or worse, an addict herself.

8 - Do you ever try to get "extra" [cheese] at a party because you do not get enough?

God, yes. I eat party cheese like a starving college student, uncertain as to when and where I might stumble onto my next free meal.

9 - Do you tell yourself you can stop [eating cheese] any time you want to, even though you keep getting cheese-drunk when you don't mean to?

Yes.

12 - Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not [eat cheese]?

Yes. Specifically, my cholesterol and might be lower, my weight slightly lower, I might be more in fighting trim, with a thinner waist — and six-pack abs.

The addiction question. According to my answers — as the Magic 8-Ball likes to say — "signs point to yes."

So what next? Am I ready to give it up? I don't honestly know. The program tells us that the first step is to admit we are powerless over cheese. Forget the other 11 steps for now; I'm living one day at a time, one holiday party at a time. If you see me on the street, wallowing in a self-pitying stink-breath cheese hangover of yet another aged gruyere, get me to a meeting. My name is BK, and I'm a cheese addict.

Praised Vegetables

There has been much great writing lately about the local food movement and the societal evils of number two corn. During the summer, you can't swing a hoe without bumping up against odes to local heirloom tomatoes (and, as my mom likes to say, "I don't disagree"). But some veggies get short shrift. Yes, the blog is called The Weekly Meat, but I'd like to praise the orange root veggie we grow  from seed in our modest middle-urban backyard, because the difference between a fresh local carrot and the orange imposters we find in our grocer's produce aisle is like the difference between a Santarpio's grilled sausage pizza, and, well, Wonder bread with a slice of "pasteurized process cheese food product" on it.

Our carrots taste like carrots were meant to — sweet and crisp, but also rooty and earthy, with a hint of bitterness toward the top. Bagged, shipped-cross-country grocery store carrots taste like the idea of a carrot. They have the texture but not the soul.

This is all somewhat new to me. I'll admit to not fully appreciating (okay, not liking) too much in the way of vegetables until well into my sideburns years. Growing up, I made my mom's compulsory nightly iceberg lettuce salad palatable by drizzling over it not dressing but applesauce. But at some point (read: college), as my mind expanded, my stomach — realizing it could not remain trapped in puberty forever — grew up too.

I'm not a veggie freak, but I am a food freak, and these days (perusals of a certain daily specials menu aside) it's tough for me to eat well without also eating right. Not just well-balanced meals, but locally-grown, mostly in-season meals.

The following recipe* works just fine w/store-bought everything — hell, give it a shot today if you need a quick starter — but try it sometime with real carrots, local to your yard or a nearby farm. You won't be able to ignore the difference.

BK's Quick Carrot Soup

1 lb carrots, cut into large chunks
1 onion, chopped
1 clove garlic (~Tblsp), chopped
1/2" nub of fresh ginger (~tsp), chopped
1 qt. chix stock (homemade or boxed)
1 dollop light sour cream (~1/3 C)
salt/pepper to taste
spice to taste (pinch of cumin or curry if you go in for that sort of thing)
fresh chive if you've got it

1. Add a splash of olive earl to a (>3 qt) soup pot and saute the onion for a few minutes. Add garlic and ginger and continue sauteeing for another minute or so. Then add carrots, and saute for ~5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

2. Add stock to the pot, cover, and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat, and let simmer for 45 minutes to an hour (until the carrots are soft, but not mush).

3. In two batches, transfer the contents to a blender, add a dollop of sour cream, and blend until the soup is pureed. Add salt/pepper to taste, pinch of cumin or whatever tilts your kilt.

4. Top soup w/fresh cut chives if you've got em, and eat.

Serves 4

* I'm really not big on writing down (or following) recipes, so forgive me if this seems roughly remembered (it is).