Know Your Regional Barbecue

According to anthropological folklore, Eskimos -- quite sensibly -- have hundreds of words for snow. Were that tradition to hold sway in the South, where the word "barbecue" encompasses every protein cooked by indirect heat, a great deal of culinary confusion might be avoided.

Southerners some time ago won the noun-verb war, persuading outdoor cooking enthusiasts north of the Mason-Dixon that barbecue's a thing, not an activity. But just what sort of thing is it? Pecan-smoked beef is barbecue. So's a side of mutton basted with lemon juice and Worcestershire sauce. And pulled pork swimming in a mix of mustard and brown sugar is barbecue too.

Most significantly, barbecue's a salve for all the jaded foodies who moan about the nation's homogenization. Folks in Lexington, Tenn., and Ayden, N.C., might breakfast on the same Bojangles' biscuits, but finding an eastern Tar Heeler willing to choke down a tomato-based sauce -- or a Tennessean who'd deign to dine on vinegar-doused pork -- is about as likely as finding any shoulder meat left on the bone at the end of a daylong pig picking. When it comes to 'cue, regional differences reign.

Barbecue was birthed from the same impetus across the South: People needed to eat. Borrowing roasting methods from Mesoamerican Indians (maybe) or indigenous Caribs (probably), American settlers started cooking their most abundant livestock low and slow as early as the 1660s. In most Southeastern states, that meant hogs, since swine nearly outnumbered people in places like North Carolina, where William Byrd II in 1736 described the population as a "porcivorous" people. But new industries in the 19th century put other meats on local plates, as Kentucky wool traders and Texas cattlemen threw their aging animals in open pits.

Meat selection wasn't the only barbecue variable to evolve in relation to place. The availability of various seasonings and access to certain woods -- hickory trees are a heck of a lot easier to find in Missouri than South Florida -- dictated the development of regional recipes. Local tastes were also shaped by the influx of immigrant groups, like the Germans who brought their brisket know-how to Oklahoma, and especially vocal pitmasters, like C. Warner Stamey of Lexington, N.C., the mentor to whom barbecue scholars John Shelton Reed and Dale Volberg Reed trace at least a dozen high-esteemed Piedmont-style joints.

If there's anything barbecue lovers enjoy more than burrowing their fingers into a just-cooked whole hog, it's fighting over which state's barbecue is best.

For the uninitiated, here's your script for the debate: The best barbecue comes from your native state. In fact, it originates in your hometown, at a little "hole in the wall" -- the terminology is critical here -- that's only open on Fridays. No beer, no fries, no tables: Just heaven sent 'cue made right.

But even the most parochial barbecue defenders agree on one point: All barbecue, in theory, is good. Anyone who's traveled the South knows the T-shirt-ready motto "there's no such thing as bad barbecue" is flat-out wrong.

Whether sauced with ketchup, mustard or vinegar, any barbecue is still better than a grilled chicken breast, a dainty American horror for which 'cue aficionados have no words at all.

Want to increase your BBQ IQ? Here's a generalized guide to regional barbecue styles:

Memphis
Although eateries like Payne's and Cozy Corner do a better job of it, megalith chains such as Corky's have helped make Memphis barbecue the nation's default style. Think slow-cooked pork shoulder and ribs, lightly dressed with a mild, molasses-rich sauce (and best paired with sweet coleslaw).

Alabama
Alabama's most vaunted 'cue joints, such as Dreamland in Tuscaloosa, serve thickly sauced ribs in the Memphis idiom. But the state's northern region has produced a micro-specialty that's on every 'cuehead's must-eat list: White sauce, made with generous helpings of vinegar and mayonnaise.

Kentucky
Barbecue sides are another story, but many curious eaters make the trek to 'cue meccas like Owensboro in search of burgoo, a hearty meat stew. Kentucky barbecue itself is famously hickory-smoked.

Texas
While other styles have found their way to the Lone Star State, barbecue in central Texas is typically smoky sliced beef and sausage, served sauce-free.

Kansas City
Situated at the barbecue crossroads of eastern and western styles, Kansas City 'cue is a winning amalgam of Texan meats and Memphian preparations, featuring ribs, steaks and briskets drenched with spicy-tomato tomato sauce.

North Carolina, East
In the Reeds' definitive tome "Holy Smoke: The Big Book of North Carolina Barbecue" they quote an Eastern-style devotee who told a reporter "I've never eaten red barbecue. I've seen it, but that's as far as I care to go." To reiterate: There are no tomatoes in Eastern North Carolina 'cue, a vinegary concoction usually made from whole hog.

North Carolina, Piedmont
Lexington-style 'cue, while still considered thin and vinegary by most Americans who pour their barbecue sauce from a bottle, includes tomatoes. Its practitioners accuse their eastern brethren of being indiscriminate in their use of the whole hog, and prefer pork shoulder, pulled or chopped.

South Carolina
A source of endless fascination for students of barbecue, the state of South Carolina is home to four distinct 'cue traditions, with Columbia's mustard-based "Carolina Gold" sauce perhaps the best-known variation.