Raising your I'cue: School teaches cooking, presentation, judging of competition barbecue
Jack Waiboer stands before attentive students, their pens raised over writing tablets and notebooks, and pats a couple of Boston butts. He turns them front to back, side to side, tracing his finger along seams of fat, explaining the finer points of a pork shoulder.
He points to a cylinder-shaped piece of muscle on one end. "This is what separates the men from the boys," Waiboer says, the "money meat" from the "nonmoney meat."
Yes, a good education can open doors, including one that leads to championship barbecue.
At least that was the hope of 16 men who came from as far away as Wisconsin and Michigan to attend the Carolina Pit Masters Barbecue Cooking School held earlier this month. They each paid $500 to unlock the secrets of modern barbacoa -- chicken, brisket, pork ribs and shoulders, and the ultimate challenge, whole hog.
The campus was a pine-shaded finger of campground behind the Dorchester Shrine Club that reaches into a picturesque 40-acre lake. The makeshift "classroom" extended from the lakeside concession stand and kitchen. Sheets of heavy plastic draped from the roof to the ground, enclosing the open-air space and keeping a brisk wind at bay. Picnic tables served as communal desks.
Waiboer, himself a barbecue champion, founded the school with his wife, Mary, four years ago. Like other members of the South Carolina Barbeque Association, they were interested in putting the state's barbecue on the national map. They consider South Carolina the birthplace of barbecue, dating back to the Spanish colony Santa Elena in the 1500s at present-day Port Royal in Beaufort County.
The school was a success from the beginning, he says. It now draws new students as well as a cadre of alumni who return to help out and brush up on their skills. One this year wore a T-shirt that read, "Hog Whisperer, Pappy's Smokehouse, St. Louis."
Ken Bennett of Moncks Corner got hooked on competition barbecue after winning one event in 2005 and the Carolina Q-Cup in 2006. The 65-year-old Santee Cooper retiree says he and wife are cooking on the "circuit" five or six times a year.
The circuit means events that have sanctioning bodies, such as the Kansas City Barbeque Society and Memphis Barbecue Network, the two largest in the country. State and local circuits include the South Carolina Barbeque Association and the Southern Barbecue Network.
Bennett has tasted victory and wants more.
"I just want to get better at cooking. I'm tired of getting my butt kicked at these events. I want to be able to cook with the top guys," he says.
"I haven't won since then, and I wonder what I'm doing wrong."
Among the tips he is collecting are ensuring there are no "shiners" among the ribs, bare bone showing through raw meat. Also how to "square up" chicken thighs, which involves trimming the meat and wrapping the skin, "like swaddling a baby," Waiboer says.
These are concerns when presenting one's "box," an ordinary foam container, to judges. In fact, everything hinges on presentation.
"If it looks good, you're going to go from there," Bennett says. "If the box doesn't look good, you won't."
Waiboer repeats that mantra often: "You get one, maybe two bites from a judge," he says, so first impressions matter a lot.
Swine savvy
During Friday's pork shoulder session, Waiboer covers the fundamentals as well as personal preferences gleaned from 16 years of riding the barbecue trail.
Using a giant syringe and needle, Waiboer demonstrates injecting a Boston butt with a solution of apple juice, Worcestershire sauce and Morton's Tender Quick, a curing salt.
He advises his pupils to wrap their pork shoulders in foil once the smoke, heat, fat and rubbing spices turn the meat a rich mahogany color and form that delectable crust, or "bark."
"It's strictly a wrap for the color. We use foil as a tool so we're not getting black meat," Waiboer says.
But the flavor of the rubbing spices smeared over the surface don't actually penetrate the meat, he points out. "When you chop it up, it all blends."
Internal temperature is another personal choice. Waiboer thinks pork shoulders are best coming off the fire when they reach 185 degrees. Other pitmasters may go as high as 200 degrees, but the meat may start turning to mush, Waiboer warns.
Mopping? Nah. "My theory is, all the work that I've done, I'm just washing it (the rub) off."
Wood? "I use anything that has a fruit or nut on it. I prefer pecan wood for big cuts, cherry and apple for ribs. ... Hickory is definitely recognizable, but I think it makes it taste bitter."
Skill equals thrills for Waiboer, a department manager at Wal-Mart on Dorchester Road.
"You can take junk meat and make it worthwhile. That's what it's all about to me. The definition of true barbecue is introducing low heat to meat, breaking down the connective tissue to make good barbecue."
Put to the test
It's a sunny, springlike Saturday morning. The smell of barbecue hangs in the air, fragrant evidence of the previous night's cooking marathon that went well past midnight. Involved were seven pits, 24 butts, six beef briskets, 30 pieces of chicken, six racks of ribs and one whole hog.
Most of the meat is destined for the Summerville Miracle League to use as a fundraiser during baseball games.
Today's school is about presentation and judging. Students learn how to make a box, to catch a judge's eye with artful arranging of the meat.
Then they get the rare opportunity to witness a judging, in this case pork shoulder, and ask the judges about specific likes and dislikes.
Former student and now instructor Charles Fretwell of Boiling Springs is building a box of brisket. In the center, he carefully lays out even slices of beef like dominoes. He surrounds those with neatly placed meat chunks, an attempt to fill out the box and make it look "finished."
"I used to do just slices, but having two things gives the judges something to think about," Fretwell says.
But looks can be deceiving -- for better or worse -- as judging reveals.
Seth Watari, one of the school's crew, is charged with delivering three boxes of pulled pork to the six judges. The judges sit at a long table with large scorecards before them like placemats.
"All three boxes look different. Who sold the product the best?" Watari asks as the judges' eyes scan the contents.
Sampling and discussion follow. No. 2 emerges as the best barbecue, but not without a struggle.
Al Fulmer sums up the thoughts of his fellow critics. "It looked really dry but it wasn't. It's very moist. The texture is perfect."
Says Watari, "I thought it was going to be a chewing contest."
A lot of pork
Watari got bit by the barbecue bug years ago but didn't get serious about competing until his wife, Nona, gave him an enrollment in the school as a gift in 2009.
Afterward, the couple began competing together as Somer-R Swine. They won a fourth place, followed by a first against 71 cookers, then another first, a second and some thirds.
"To get your name called on your very first event, it's a thrill," he says.
What's the secret to his rapid success?
"Jack tells everyone I'm a technician. I analyze why things happen," says Watari, whose rig displays a tin man and ruby slippers reflective of its "Wizard of Oz" theme.
"I found something I was really happy with, Southern barbecue," says Watari, whom Waiboer calls "the professor of barbecue."
Mike Sanders of Greenwood is in his second year of competing. His team includes himself, his son and a friend, and his brother-in-law.
Although he enjoys backyard grilling, Sanders says it's not the same as competition barbecue.
"I went to a couple of festivals, and something told me I might like to do this," says Sanders, a letter carrier for 34 years who retired a decade ago.
He likes the villagelike camaraderie of barbecue contests and other cooks' willingness to share their wisdom. You get to meet a lot of new people, but it's not a cheap hobby, he says.
"I tried golf for about three years and decided it was senseless to be chasing that ball around."
Teresa Taylor is the food editor. Reach her at 937-4886.
