The Great Lenexa Barbecue Battle

That "fog" you see in the photo above isn't fog at all.  It's the pungent, sweet smell of barbecue smoke, thanks to this weekend's Great Lenexa Barbecue Battle.  Faithful readers of 8MM know that Kansas Citians consider themselves to be at the epicenter of the best barbecue restaurants and backyard smoking in the world, and the cookoff this weekend is yet more proof that 'Cue is King in KC.

Most contests like these are two-day affairs.  Things kick off on Fridays, and nearly 200 teams converge on Sar-Ko-Par park, less than a mile from Casa Scampwalker.  It's easy to know when it's competition weekend -- we're greeted by the telltale aroma as soon as we walk out our front door.  Friday nights are typically social affairs.  It pays to know people -- all the parties (replete with outstanding smoked meat and copious amounts of beer) are private, but the mood is jovial and it usually isn't too difficult to find someone that's willing to throw you a bone (so to speak).

We walked over to the park this morning to snap these photos, and while the crowds were gone, the scene was just heating up, with plenty of hungover guys getting ready to plate their offerings for the judges.  As big as this event is, it's small potatoes compared to the American Royal Barbecue, held every fall in KC and considered the biggest and most prestigious contest of its kind anywhere.

The Holy Trinity of Smoke

Barbeque makes old ones feel young

Barbeque makes everybody someone

If you're feelin' puny and you don't know what to do

Treat yourself to some meat - eat some barbeque

-Robert Earl Keen

Like millions of Americans over this past Memorial Day Weekend, I participated in the ritual of the barbeque. For many (mostly panty-waisted easterners), "having a barbeque" means grilling hamburgers, hot dogs, or some other form of meat. Not so in Kansas City. Here, it means honest-to-God smoked meat, cooked low-and-slow over a wood fire.

For my entire life, I've used a Little Chief smoker for jerky, salmon, and chickens, but it wasn't until I moved to KC that I began dabbling in what I call the Holy Trinity of smoked meat -- ribs, pulled pork, and brisket. Ribs are probably the easiest to master -- rub 'em down with assorted spices, fire up the smoker, and pull 'em off when the meat is tender but not yet falling off the bone.

Pulled pork -- a pork butt -- was a bit of a challenge, at least until I purchased a remote digital thermometer that allowed me to measure doneness by temperature and not time. Time, I've learned, is a bad way to measure BBQ, since there are so many variables in the equation -- smoker temperature, ambient temperature, and the actual cut of meat, to name a few.

Even with a thermometer though, beef brisket remained my bugaboo -- until last weekend. I had tried many different recipes, and every single one of them produced a piece of meat that was either tough or dry -- or many times both. I used an adapted version of Meathead's Barbeque Beef Brisket Texas Style, and the results were terrific.

The leftovers ain't bad, either. Sliced beef sandwiches, chopped brisket with scrambled with eggs, or minced in homemade flour tortillas with cilantro and onion (today's lunch) are all great ways to make this meat sing.

Texans: They Like Their Meat

Thanksgiving is a day that, among other things, our entire nation uses as an excuse to gorge ourselves.  It's in that spirit that I write about my most recent visit to the Lone Star State.

After last week's successful deer hunting trip, I met my parents in San Antonio for a brief 24 hours.  On the way from San Antonio to Fredericksburg, we stopped at Rudy's Barbecue, something of a legend in those parts for quality 'cue.  I hadn't eaten there since college (many more years ago than I care to admit), and my memories were fond.

I opted for the "beef" (also called brisket or sliced beef, or any combination thereof).  It was outstanding -- smoky, tender, and not a bit dry.  Wedged between two slices of stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Wonderbread, slathered in sauce, it was heaven.  In my opinion, sliced beef defines Texas barbecue, and you won't get much better than Rudy's.  Appropriately enough, Rudy's is also housed in a convenience store and gas station -- not unlike my K.C. favorite, Oklahoma Joe's.  Coincidence?  I think not.

That evening, my parents and I attended the Gillespie County Wild Game Dinner at the fairgrounds.  And good thing, because I'm sure it attracted well over 500 attendees.  What a hoot!  For 20 bucks, you were entitled to every kind of wild critter under the sun, as well as an open bar that served Pilsner Urquell on tap and Becker Reserve Cabernet.

But the real belle of the ball was the dinner.  It was served buffet style from seven stations, and I had everything from axis venison chili to smoked wild turkey to chicken fried scimitar oryx.  And it was all good (which can't always be said for some wild game feeds).  Most notable?  Not a vegetable in sight!  (Of course, back when I lived in the Lone Star State, I quickly learned that a Texan's idea of vegetables typically includes pinto beans, mashed potatoes, and corn.)

After the dinner, there was a huge live auction that featured tons o' guns, hunting trips, and various assorted Texana.  It was a quick trip, but uniquely Texan nonetheless.

Now It's Settled: Best BBQ In The World.

Well I'll be damned. I've known all along that Oklahoma Joe's Barbecue is top flight stuff, and now the experts confirm it. Then again, I live in Kansas City, where killer 'cue can be found in sleepy suburban backyards as well as packed restaurants.
Cracking open the June 2009 issue of Men's Health Magazine, I read that Anthony Bourdain has proclaimed Okie Joe's as one of 13 Places To Eat Before You Die. (Others on the list include the French Laundry, elBulli, and Katz's Deli, so they're in highfalutin' company.) Bourdain, the celebrichef, author, TV personality, traveler, and world-class raconteur calls Oklahoma Joe's "The best BBQ in Kansas City, which makes it the best BBQ in the world." Heady praise, for sure.
And he's right. But to me, naming the "best" barbecue in Kansas City is akin to choosing the "prettiest" girl between Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson in Vicky Christina Barcelona -- you're just not going to go wrong whatever way you go.
And while virtually everything on Oklahoma Joe's menu is outstanding, my favorite is the Chicken Z-Man Sandwich, which isn't on the chalkboard but one that they'll happily make anytime for you. It's chunks of smoked chicken, a slice of smoked provolone, and a crispy onion ring inside a pillowy white kaiser roll, slathered with piquant sauce. Order it with a huge side of seasoned fries (we call them "crack fries," because it's impossible to put them down until they're gone) and dip them in Night of the Living Sauce, a spicy BBQ sauce made with chipotle peppers. Heaven.
Part of the charm of the place is its location -- inside an otherwise nondescript but fully functional gas station. We went there last night, and at 8:30 in the evening, it was a 15 minute line. They've since expanded to a second location in the JoCo suburbs, and while the setting isn't as unique, the food is every bit as good.
And for those who wonder, there is indeed an Oklahoma Joe. A group of buddies and I had the privilege of meeting him at the American Royal a couple of years back. I seem to recall that he once was (but is no longer) part of the KC restaurant business.
No matter -- smoked meat this good is bigger than any one man. If you're in the neighborhood, do yourself a favor and stop by. Tell 'em Scampwalker and Anthony sent you.