Smoke, Sizzle & Sauce!

by Marti Attoun

The scent of apple-wood smoke and spicy barbecued brisket mingle in the tent kitchen of Gary Bernhardt and Kyle Farley. No need to grab a platter yet, though, because the pork pampering and beef babying have six hours to go.

Patience is a key ingredient for competitive barbecue teams such as the Big Dawgs of BBQ from Blue Springs, Mo., (pop. 48,080) who spend their weekends pitting their beef brisket, pork shoulder, ribs, and chicken against those of other barbecue teams. They compete for cash, ribbons, bragging rights, state championships, and invitations to even bigger barbecue contests. Even their children—Mary Bernhardt, 14, and Austin Farley, 7—dubbed the Li’l Dawgs, participate in the kids’ cooking contest.

In this growing sport, 3,000 barbecue teams drag their smokers to 500 sanctioned cookoffs that heat up the nation from April to October. Contestants say they feel like family. Cookoffs are seasoned with a spirit of camaraderie and a heap of humor among teams with names such as Pig Newton, Beverly Grillbillies, Y’et Yet BBQ, and A Little Pit of Heaven.

“It’s the only sport I’ve seen where at the awards ceremony they’re clapping for each other,” says Carolyn Wells, who directs the Kansas City Barbeque Society, the world’s largest barbecue organization with 5,000 members.

Mike Moss, 54, of Ashland City, Tenn. (pop. 3,641), says he’ll never forget the kindness of fellow ’cuers after a traffic accident last August en route to the Amazin’ Blazin’ BBQ Contest in Lebanon, Tenn. (pop. 20,235). He wasn’t injured, but his smoker and supplies were totaled. He attended the contest anyway to be near friends.

“One of the competitors said he had a grill for me and we drove 45 minutes to pick it up,” says Moss, a member of Smoke on the Cumberland. “By the time I got back, they had gathered everything—a tent, tables, chairs, knives, pots, brushes. My wife was in tears.”

Most teams spend at least $500 per contest on entry fees, choice meat, and travel. If lucky, the payoff can be up to $8,000 in cash and prizes for grand champion at a national competition.

The guaranteed payoff is being with friends, says Lee Steadman, 60, of Lenexa, Kan., (pop. 40,238) who cooks with his engineering buddies, Hi-Tech Cookers. They reminisce about the Blue Springs contest two years ago when it rained 6 inches and someone suggested a brisket float.

The two-day competitions are a retreat from fast food. In barbecuing, meat is cooked slowly over indirect heat with charcoal and wood at low temperatures of about 200 to 225 degrees. (In grilling, meat is seared at high heat.) Competitive barbecuing involves rubs, marinades, mops, sauces, and cherry, hickory or mesquite wood for smoke flavoring—and plenty of patience.

During the Missouri state barbecue championship last September, Bernhardt and Farley begin brisket-sitting at midnight, but preparations began 12 hours earlier. After judges inspect the meat, the Dawgs tenderize it, rub it with secret spices, and marinate it for 12 hours. Competitors synchronize their clocks at the beginning of the meet.

“We’ll catnap for 30 to 45 minutes and check the temperature all night long,” says Farley, 39. They sack out in their van a few yards away from their tongs.

The pair teamed up three years ago after Bernhardt, 41, retired from the Army and moved to Blue Springs. He barbecued in Hawaii where he was stationed. When he heard about the state contest in September 2001, he went door to door rustling up a team.

Two houses down, he found his rib-mate.

“Our first contest, we had two little grills and came in second to last—61st place,” recalls Farley, an athletic trainer. “We learned a lot and other teams were willing to share—probably not everything, but enough.”

The Big Dawgs learned plenty. They snagged the 2002 state grand championship, which earned them an invitation to the American Royal Barbecue in Kansas City, Mo., the World Series of barbecue in which 80 teams compete in the invitational and 400 in the open competition. Competing with the best, the Big Dawgs won seventh place in pork and fourth in baked beans.

They took the next logical step. They bought a $13,000 grill. “It’s a little addictive,” Bernhardt says with a grin.

Baron of Barbecue

Paul Kirk of Roeland Park, Kan. (pop. 6,817), the Baron of Barbecue, lives that passion. A former roadhouse chef, Kirk entered the American Royal contest in 1981 at the urging of his boss. His chicken won first place. “It’s like bass fishing,” says Kirk, 62. “You catch one and think, ‘Oh, that’s a big one. Maybe I’ll mount it.’ Then you think you can catch a bigger one.”

The world champ has won 500 contests and travels worldwide training chefs and barbecue enthusiasts in his School of Pitmasters. He’s finishing a fourth recipe book.

Competitive barbecuing is international, but its roots are American.

“All cultures have grilling, but barbecuing is America’s cuisine,” Wells says. “It’s the only cooking technique that developed here and is exported to other places.”

Traditionally, the chin-dribblin’ sauces have regional flavors, such as mustard-based (Carolinas and South) and tomato-based (Texas and West), but these differences are disappearing.

“People move so much. Any place you go there’s a Texas barbecue place,” Kirk says. He’s even tutored chefs at Virgil’s Real BBQ in New York City, where Carolina-style pulled pork sandwiches and Memphis-style dry pork ribs are served.

It’s all slow cooking, but the cookers vary from store-bought $100 Weber grills, to $50,000 mobile kitchens, to a customized 1958 Cessna airplane-turned-smoker.

“They were going to sell it for scrap, for beer cans,” says Marty Edwards, of Lee’s Summit, Mo., (pop. 70,700) a Swine Flew teammate. The plane sports a meat missile “to blow away the competition.”

Judging time

Nothing is hurry-up about barbecuing—until judging time. The kids’ chicken contest is judged first and for the L’il Dawgs, it’s pure fun. Austin hops on a stool to brush sauce on his chicken while his dad holds the cooker lid open. Mary, who’s won a bouquet of ribbons and $50 savings bonds in past contests, is mum about the ingredients in her prize-winning chicken marinade. “It’s a secret,” she says.

Bernhardt and Farley watch the clock as the 1:30 p.m. brisket deadline beckons. A five-minute window on either side is allowed. Farley neatly slices the barbecue-slathered meat with an electric knife and Bernhardt transfers the slices to a bed of lettuce in a 9-by-9-inch Styrofoam container. Contestants want the meat as hot as possible for judging.

At 1:29 p.m., Bernhardt latches the box and makes sure that no lettuce is peeking out. Cradling the entry, he walks briskly across the parking lot to the judging area. Seventy-five other contestants hustle the same direction with boxes swaddled in towels and insulated carriers.

The contest staff numbers the boxes for the blind judging. Six judges sample each entry and award points for appearance, tenderness and texture, and taste. “You hope you get six judges that like the way you cook,” Bernhardt says.

Back in their tent after all entries are turned in, the Big Dawgs relax and kick back with a Bernhardt’s barbecue sundae—moist pulled pork, coleslaw and baked beans layered in a clear plastic cup.

At 4 p.m., the crowd gathers to hear the results. Cheers ring out as teams rush forward to claim envelopes of cash and ribbons in the top 10 slots. The Big Dawgs win a first-place “spirit” award and a second-place “hometown award” given to local contestants. For two days, they’ve babied that brisket and the payoff today is fifth place.

“It’s neat to cook and compete and see how you stand against other people,” Bernhardt says. “Watching the expressions on people’s faces when they’re eating and enjoying it . . . that’s satisfaction for me.”

Marti Attoun is a frequent contributor to American Profile.

first appeared: 5/9/2004