Cooking chicken satay at a July 4th cookout is, I admit, a little odd.  It's especially so if you consider that my wife and I subjected our parents and grandparents to the ordeal.  While everyone else around the country casually flipped hamburgers and hot dogs, I rounded up everyone available to help me skewer tiny pieces of highly marinated chicken onto wooden skewers.  That marinade also happened to have loads of turmeric in it, which dutifully dyed all of our hands yellow.  And that's not the half of it.

Though a tad nontraditional, I figured this meat-on-a-stick meal would make a nearly perfect mobile eating device, allowing people to walk around, snack a bite, and have free hand for beer or firecrackers.  Everything was going just fine until we placed the chicken satay on the grill.  Quickly, and without much warning, the wooden skewers began to catch fire and burn.  I attempted to blow the dozen little fires out, but they just reignited with renewed vigor.  Within a minute the skewers were gone, leaving just the chicken behind.  So...I guess I really should have soaked the skewers for the full thirty minutes...

Check out these burnt ends, along with the usual July 4th sides of baked beans and macaroni and cheese:

All this for a chicken satay, which I don't think I've ever given much thought to.  The only version of the dish I've ever eaten has been bland and tough.  Its only saving grace was the side of peanut sauce that usually accompanied it.  The creamy sauce coated the chicken, and managed to add a decent amount of the missing flavor.

But it was my wife's birthday, and she wanted something different than the usual cookout fodder.  She wanted chicken satay.  First I had to figure out how to make it, and then I had to make sure that the whole family would enjoy it, too.  

Like I often do, I checked Saveur first.  There I gazed upon a delicious looking marinade made from coriander, fennel, lemongrass, garlic, turmeric, and ginger.  I was sold when they mentioned that this satay was so good that it didn't even need a dipping sauce.  Talk about gumption.  I checked dozens of other recipes, but I kept coming back to the Saveur recipe (which they have oddly taken down since I made this recipe).  And though many things went wrong, the end result was certainly the best satay I've ever had and perhaps the best grilled chicken. 

Obviously, the flaming skewers were my fault.  They were supposed to soak for at least 30 minutes, but I pulled them out after 15 minutes because people were getting hungry.  Never again.  I was also intrigued by the use of chicken thighs instead of chicken breasts.  The latter tend to dry out on the grill without some sort of protection.  In fact, there isn't much in life I dislike more than boneless, skinless chicken breasts cooked quickly over a grill.  The thighs, on the other hand, I figured could withstand the barrage of the grill with some flavor left. 

I couldn't have been more right.  I cooked both breast and thigh meat, and the thigh meat remained remarkable juicy and tender while the breast meat was a tad drier.  The thigh meat also seemed to carry the flavors of the marinade better.  

And what a marinade that was.  It had a complex flavor thanks to the multitude of spices, and yet it wasn't the least bit spicy.  I loved the haunting aroma, and delicately layered spice.  It was exceptional grilled chicken.  But what surprised me most is that everyone else agreed.  My wife sure loved it, but so did her Grandma.   

2 tablespoons coriander seeds
2 tablespoons fennel seeds
12 tablespoons peanut oil
8 tablespoons dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons ground turmeric
1 tablespoon kosher salt
10 shallots, peeled and chopped
6 cloves garlic
4 stalks fresh lemongrass, tough outer leaves removed and roughly chopped
4" ginger, peeled and thinly sliced
2 chickens or 6 pounds of boneless, skinless chicken thighs
20-30 skewers

Dump the corinader and fennel seeds into a food processor and grind them to a powder.

Add 4 tablespoons of the oil, 4 tablespoons of water, and all of the sugar, turmeric, salt, shallots, garlic, lemongrass, ginger.  Process until smooth.  Pour the marinade into a bowl.  

Now it's time for the meat.  I'd recommend buying all boneless, skinless chicken thighs.  They cook better and are easier to chop up.  But I did it the hard way, taking two whole chickens and removing the breasts, legs, and thighs.  Then I pulled off the skin and carefully removed the meat from the bones.  The technique that worked for me was to lightly scrape the meat away from the bone using quick cutting motions.  This took me a long time.

Once the meat is skinless and off the bone, chop into 1" by 1/4" pieces.  Toss them in the bowl with the marinade, and let them hang out in the fridge for 2 hours. 

Soak skewers in water for at least 30 minutes so they don't burn like mine did.

All that's left is to skewer the chicken.  Take a piece of chicken and weave the skewer through about every half inch. 

Each skewer can fit about three to four pieces of chicken.  If you are using both breast and thigh meat, it's best to keep a skewer with only one kind of cut.  I found that the breast and thigh hunks were done cooking at different times.   Meanwhile, fire up the grill. 

Grill the skewers for about 5 to 7 minutes on each side. 

As you can tell, all my skewers were destroyed.  I had planned on flipping them only using the skewers, but I had to find a pair of tongs to help me out. 

If you plan ahead and soak the skewers, enjoy picking them up the handle.  Otherwise, remove the chicken and enjoy with a fork.  Either way is delicious.  

Chicagoans, I need your help.

For the last week I've been an outsider, taking trips down to the city while staying with my parents in the suburbs, the guy who has to find his way back north again when the night is through, spending cash on the Metra train, bumming rides back from friends. From my quiet vantage point up here I can just see a faint outline of the skyline. 

Nick's a well-worn Chicagoan at this point, and he's showed off his city well, tempting me with the city's gorgeous architecture, its butchers, its hot dogs, and more than a couple wonderful bars.

But there's a reason he's been so eager to usher me around: my stint in Europe is over, I'm getting married in August, and Elin and I have some exciting news: we're moving to the Windy City.  At long last, Nick and I will be in the same city again for the first time since Brooklyn, where we used to wreak havoc in the kitchen more than two years ago. 

But! Elin and I don't have an apartment yet, and that's where you can help. Where we should live?  Which are the best neighborhoods for eating and cooking?  Nick lived it pretty fancy in beautiful Bucktown, which reminds us a lot of Brooklyn, so that's at the top of the list. But overall our priorities are good walkable options for cooking, since we don't have a car: grocery stores, produce, butchers, and cheese people.  Sing the praises of your Chicago neighborhood!

(You might have to convince me that living next door to Stanley's Produce isn't the only option: that place is incredible.  The Park Slope Food Coop was one of my favorite things about New York, with its superb and inexpensive selection of produce--but when Nick took me to Stanley's, where I saw artichokes the size of soccer balls for 2 bucks each, I fell in love.  Even the lines were long, making me feel like I was right back in Brooklyn.)

So let's have it!

It's been a delicious week.  I've been doling out my homemade bratwurst to close friends and making batches of 90 Minute, No-Soak beans just because I can.  I know some people had some questions about both of these posts, and this week has given me a few more insights to both processes which hopefully will answer some of them.  Also, Michael Ruhlman wanted to see my amateurish spreadsheet I created to find a bratwurst recipe.  It's not the prettiest thing, but it is after the jump.

I was so astonished by the success of the 90 minute, no-soak beans that I threw up a post quickly after the first pot came out of the oven.  My enthusiasm was genuine, but I probably should have done another batch to make sure all the kinks were worked out.  For instance, I didn't know whether other varieties of beans would work, or whether I had just lucked out and that this wouldn't work for other people.    

Since I made my first batch with pinto beans I've made two more pots, one with red beans and the other with black beans, and both have turned out extremely well.  This last batch of black beans was especially successful.  

Instead of just covering the beans with water, I decided to follow a recipe in Rick Bayless's Authentic Mexican for black beans with epazote.  I've just recently discovered the wonders of using that herb.  In the past I was reluctant to track it down, because I didn't know what it looked like or what it would do to my food.

Well, this is it.  This one sprig imbued the pot with a faintly licorice and fennel aroma, which I absolutely adored.  It's a great trick to cheaply adding flavor to beans.  Along with the one sprig of epazote, I added half a chopped onion, one tablespoon of lard, 1/2 tablespoon of salt, and one pound of beans to a large pot.  Enough water was added to cover by an inch and a half.  The oven was preheated to 250 degrees.  Meanwhile, the pot was brought to a boil on top of the stove.  When bubbling, the pot was covered with a tight fitting lid, and tossed in the oven.  They were cooked for 75 minutes, or until the beans were tender.

These beans were fragrant from the epazote, but also strangely meaty because of the lard.  They are great on their own.  But their real purpose in life is as refried beans.  Here's a good recipe to get you to refried bean heaven. 

As for the brats, I was dissatisfied with poaching them in beer and onions.  They split open and took on a slightly bitter taste.  I decided to follow the advice that a commenter had given me and grilled them over indirect heat.  This solved all of my problems.  I just mounded the charcoal on one side of my small grill and spread the sausages across on the other side.  I cooked them for about 15 to 20 minutes, flipping occasionally, until they looked cooked.  Then I browned them directly over the coals for a minute or two a side.  They retained far more of their moisture and soaked up a lot more of the charcoal aroma.  It's a great trick. 

After the break is the infamous bratwurst ingredient spreadsheet detailing the absurd lengths I went through to settle on a recipe.  As you'll tell, I didn't completely follow the advice.  Both veal and white pepper showed up often, but I decided not to use them.  What it was great at showing were what kind of spices my bratwurst should have.  So, without further ado...

1. P.M.
2. Darrin
3. Spicy Sausage Bratwurst 1
4. Spicy Sausage Bratwurst 2
5. Spicy Sausage Bratwurst 3
6. Spicy Sausage Bratwurst 4
7. Spicy Sausage Bratwurst 5
8. Johnsonville Clone
9. Sonoma Bratwurst
10. Charcuterie
11. Sowbelly
12. Macheesmo 

 If you have any other questions about beans or bratwurst, please let me know.

Barcelona was a wonderful city to be in, but leaving it was just as fun. Installed in a tiny stick-shift Citroen, we headed north from the city for Costa Brava, opting for the cheaper no-toll road that snakes along the coast and could take twice as long. Driving in Europe was harrowing the first time I did it, but I've since learned to embrace the speeding, reckless flow--I figure it's safe to go with it than stand in its way. Bright blue skies and palm trees swept by us as we headed north towards France and the mountains.

We wanted the Mediterranean, cold and rocky; we wanted to visit Cadaqués where Salvador Dali spent much of his life; and we wanted to eat really good seafood.

We also happened to be headed for the territory of El Bulli, one of the most expensive restaurants in the world. But our plans didn't include a stop there, though we did consider the idea of finding it and taking a photograph of the driveway, which apparently people do. No, our approach was different: we would instead eat where El Bulli's chef Ferran Adrià himself eats, at a tiny storefront in a town called Roses. There, a man named Rafa, who has named the restaurant "Rafa's" in a nod to simplicity that his food also embodies, unceremoniously cooks some of the best seafood in the world.

Rafa is essentially a fishmonger who also cooks your dinner. When we ate there, the concept of a salad or side dish was never mentioned during our exchange with his wife, who waits on the tables and takes care of pretty much everything but the scathing hot plancha where the seafood is cooked. We simply discussed what was on ice in the fish case--at one point she brought over a shimmering whole fish cradled in the bend of her arm for us to inspect--and then Rafa would scoop out big pawfuls of clams or gambas or a giant turbot and slap it on the scale.

The weight would determine the price, which was scrawled on a slip of paper, a series of which lined the counter for each table. Then dinner would find its way to the blazing hot iron plancha.

We had just begun to eat our almejas, baby clams that were sweet and tender, remarkably full and round in their flavor, when a guy came into the restaurant and started talking to Rafa. For some reason he looked really familiar. Hadn't we seen him at Inopia just a few days before?

A few moments later, another woman walked in who we recognized--but from where? Then Rafa and his wife began exclaiming "hola!" and a ruckus appeared at the doorway. That's when we looked up to see a whole group of people walking in--including a man wearing a t-shirt that read "In Ferran We Trust." Half the diners in the restaurant were staring or standing up to join in the greeting.

Moments later our dense heads finally got the picture: the man in the t-shirt was Ferran Adrià himself.

I almost choked on a clam.

We kept our cool until Ferran and co. shuffled out of the restaurant: they were just stopping in to say hello on their way to a joint across the street called  Las Golondrinas. There they held court at a table and whiled the night away, while we somewhat incredulously returned to our imminent dinner.

After our almejas came the course I was most anticipating, chiperones, little baby squid.

They were possibly the best thing we ate our whole trip. The intensity of the plancha allows Rafa to get an amazing crispness on the outside, especially the little legs which crisp all the through, while the inside is practically liquid it's so tender. Some of them were actually liquid, with their ink still inside. Everything was perfectly seasoned and the whole plate had been soused in olive oil. The resulting olive-oil-squid-juice sauce was heavenly, and we sopped it all up with bread.

Next came Gambas, big sweet shrimp. They were cooked on the plancha on a layer of salt, but because the shell was still on hardly any salt got to the flesh itself. One of the things any eater must experience is twisting a fresh shrimp's head off and sucking out the sauce; some go so far as to call it the best part (I'm more partial to the pillowy sweet flesh).

We requested a flat fish to end our meal, with hopes of reliving our experience at Elkano a couple years ago in the Basque region of Spain, which we still remember so vividly. I wish I could remember what kind of fish we got--I believe it was a turbot but I'm not certain (fish experts, weigh in!). It was crispy and golden like everything else. Rafa seasoned each fish on the outside before putting it on the plancha, and it was garnished with absolutely nothing--not even lemon.

Rafa's was probably the most expertly-cooked dinner we ate in Spain, but we also had some other highlights. In Cadaques, a windswept sea town accessibly only by a harrowing mountain road which seems to scare away the tour buses, we wandered into a restaurant we'd read about in the New York Times, which was at the end of a tiny alley in the winding streets of Cadaques called La Sirena. There we ate an affordable meal of whole fish a la plancha and a delicious bottle of house white wine.

After Cadaques we drove down to stay near a town called Begur at a little hostel/restaurant down by a cove in the Mediterranean, a beach called Aiguafreda. Hostal Sa Rascassa, named after a local fish, is run by a harried but ebullient guy named Oscar, who speaks Spanish, Catalan, French, Italian, and perfect English. You can stay in simple rooms above the restaurant just a minute from the beach.

We had a great dinner there as well, grilled sardines, squid-ink pasta, a bowl of mussels and olive oil, and lots of wine. The beach itself was absolutely stunning, and we were content to hardly leave it, feasting on picnic food and succumbing to the sort of distilled, pure beauty of the place. The beaches are rocky and sandless, the water is freezing. But there was something renewing about leaping into the salty mediterranean.

There's a discussion over on eGullet that went on some time ago about two very different kinds of excellent restaurants that one encounters--particularly true in this part of Spain--called "Dining 'in extremis.'" On the one hand, you have the El Bulli kind of cooking "pinnacles of technique or sobriety," the kind of heady food that's intellectual, inspiring, and strange. But on the other, you have restaurants that thrive on "perfect ingredients, cooked with a minimum of adornment," ingredients "usually coming from the immediate region of the restaurant."

Both El Bulli and Rafa's function on a kind of unswerving devotion: one to technique and invention, the other to superb ingredients and simplicity.  Both are equally superb types of restaurants, and both are, perhaps, the highest and purest kind of food.

Of course, a restaurant doesn't have to be an El Bulli or a Rafa's to be good; I'm always suspicious of dialectics.  But I think in some ways people identify with one over the other. For me, a bespectacled, portly guy named Rafa in front of a plancha, who gives all the credit to the fish when you compliment him on his cooking--there's something wonderful about that. That's the kind of restaurant experience I really savor.

Rafa's, Sant Sebastià 56, Roses, Spain (00 34 972 254 003)

My little adventure with bratwurst reached its pinnacle after a tortuous three hour process of grinding, mixing, stuffing, poaching, and charcoal grilling.  What I faced, fortunately, looked a lot like the bratwurst of my wildest fantasies.  It was perfectly plump, gushing with juice, and absolutely haunted by charcoal smoke.  I stuffed that sausage into a huge roll and piled it high with sauerkraut and grainy mustard.  The meat was layered with spices like nutmeg and ginger, and had a major snap from the hog casings.  My homemade bratwurst had worked.  

Which isn't to say that the road to here had been easy.  Last post I didn't have a clue where to start.  My problem was that I didn't know there were so many styles of bratwurst out there.  Finding any kind of "perfect recipe" was nearly impossible.  But I did narrow my search, after realizing that the style that I was salivating over was Wisconsin-Style Bratwurst.  The German style is richer and, from what I can tell, emulsified.  The Wisconsin-Style is chunkier, and features no eggs or cream.  

But I still didn't have a recipe.  For help I questioned Mr. Hot Doug himself, and finally asked all of you for help.  I received it in droves.  In fact, I was intimidated by how much information I got.  While trying to sort through the half dozen or so bratwurst recipes the number of suggested ingredients called for started to balloon to over 40.  So I did what any normal person would do and created an Excel spreadsheet with the dozen recipes and every single ingredient.  I sorted through the info, eliminating all ingredients that were only mentioned once, and finally came up with a kind of mathematical equation for what should go into a bratwurst.  It was made with pork, pork fat, and a plethora of spices including nutmeg, ginger, coriander, and marjoram.     

What I was left with looked an awful lot like the recipe that commenter P.M. left for me.  Upon rereading the comment P.M. claimed he was a commercial sausage marker, and has "set up many people with formulas and procedures for making it commercially."  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  The only problem?  Since he is a commercial sausage maker, the recipe was for a 100 pound batch!  I was making a 5 pound one.  So, first order of business was converting his mammoth recipe into ounces, which I did with a calculator and some handy Google converter program.  That left some ingredients with insane measurments like 0.0025 ounces.  So I decided to attempt to convert the ounces by weight into tablespoons and teaspoons by volume.  Luckily, Michael Ruhlman listed many of his measurement in his Charcuterie book in both weight and volume.  

Finally, I had recipe.  But then I had to face the hassle of actually stuffing.

I had flash backs of the horror that occured last time I tried to make sausages.  The hot dog mixture turned into a mess.  I initally blamed my stuffer, which I had purchased for about 10 bucks.  But now I realize I just let the meat get too warm.  Keeping the meat cold would have stopped it from turning into meat paste and sticking to everything.  So I made sure everything was as cold as possible.  Though a nice sausage stuffer is still in my future plans, this worked well.  It was certainly better than last time.  

With so much time and energy dedicated to just producing the bratwurst, I kind of skimped on the research for how to cook the thing.  I knew some people had strong opinions.  I decided to just do a standard poaching in a beer and onion mixture that I found on Bratwurst Pages, and a quick sear them over a hot grill.  Unfortunately, the sausage spilled out of its casings during the poaching process.  Perhaps I didn't do a good job of tying the casings.  But still, I'm not sure if the beer poaching method is the best way.  One commenter claimed he always cooked over indirect heat. That sounds like a good plan.   

But this is just nitpicking.  Overall, the process has been extraordinary. 

Of course, this isn't the definitive Wisconsin-style.  There are strong differences between brat producers and even between cities.  As I was researching I kept hearing about the town of Sheboygan, and how it was the brat capital of the country.  That's when Blake finally e-mailed.  As we all know, Blake has been out of commission lately, as he travels around Europe for one last trip before he returns to the States.  But he sent me this e-mail once he got some internet access.  

The Royer family has a lot to say about all this -- my dad grew up outside of Sheboygan and every summer at the Royer family reunion we consume huge amounts of Wisconsin brats.  It's been one of my goals to explore the subject, so you beat me to it.  But I've just emailed my uncle to recommend some local Wisconsin brands.  My grandparents are going to bring some down, too. 

So I think of this more as a crazed step forward to understanding the bratwurst.  There is more to learn and definitely more to eat.

Homemade Wisconsin-Style Bratwurst

• 4 pounds pork shoulder, cut into 1-inch cubes and stored in the freezer for 30 minutes
• 1 pound Pork back fat, chopped and stored in the freezer for 30 minutes
• 3 tablespoons kosher salt
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 1 1/2 teaspoons grated nutmeg
• 1/2 teaspoon coriander
• 1/4 teaspoon celery seed
• 2 teaspoons ground black pepper
• 1/8 teaspoon ground marjoram
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ginger

The rest:

• 1 onion
• 1 cheap American beer
• sausage buns (bigger than hot dog buns)
• good mustard
• sauerkraut

Soak the casings, especially if they are packed in salt, for at least 30 minutes, changing the water occasionally.  Rinse the insides out under the faucet. 

Set a bowl on top of another bowl filled with ice water.  Collect the ground meat in here. 

Grind the cooled meat and fat through the large die of the meat grinder.   Once done, return the meat and fat to the freezer for 30 minutes or so. 

Mix together the salt, sugar, nutmeg, coriander, celery seed, black pepper, and marjoram.

Mix the meat and spices together. 

Stuff the sausages.  If you need more instructions, check out my post on stuffing hot dogs.  Section them off into about 5 inch sections by twisting them. 

Chop one onion and toss in a large pot.  Add one can of American beer that you don't mind wasting.  Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. 

Add a few of the sausages (I saved well over half for later), and gently poach for 20 minutes.  Do not let boil!  

Meanwhile, get the grill going.  I used a charcoal grill, and it takes about 20 minutes for the coals to ignite and ash over.  I used my trusty chimney starter!  Mound the charcoal onto one side. 

Cook the bratwurst over the hot side until nicely browned on all sides.

Stuff into buns, top with warmed sauerkraut and mustard.  Eat

While Nick has been saving the world with quick no-soak-beans and investigating the roots of Wisconsin bratwurst (part of my family is from Wisconsin and I hope to weigh in with strong opinions on the subject sooner than later), I've been on the run, away from a kitchen, squeezing every trip out of Europe I can afford.  Which isn't much at the moment.  But a lack of cash didn't deter us from enjoying some of the best food Barcelona has to offer.  This week Elin and I return to the States, and we have only murky plans to return to Europe, so we felt like this was our last chance--even if it would be on the cheap.

We arrived in Barcelona on a sunny day, and were immediately swept up.  The energy of its streets, its stylish confection of modern and classical architecture, the big-heartedness of its people--and of course, the food. 

Remembering our trip to Catalonia, the word generosity comes to mind again and again. George Orwell wrote all the way back in 1938 in Homage to Catalonia of the "essential decency" of Catalan people, "their straightforwardness and generosity," as well as something else, a "generosity in a deeper sense, a real largeness of spirit, which I have met with again and again in the most unpromising circumstances."  No doubt his romantic observations remain fundamentally true to this day. 

What I loved about Barcelona was its mix of old and new, the Parisian-like architecture I associate with European cities animated with modern gestures, dreamy visionary buildings that add up to a slap-dash, energetic melange of style.  There is a now-ness to everything that's invigorating.

To try and save a little cash, our approach to eating in Barcelona was to avoid full-on meals and spend our time grazing in tapas bars, aiming to try as much as possible.  Because while generosity describes Barcelona's people and lifestyle, it also happens to describe the size of the prices.  Our dinner was often a baguette, wedge of cheese, cured ham from the grocery store, and a bottle of 4 euro wine--which is nothing at all to complain about, especially the fact that a 4 euro bottle of local wine can be remarkably good.  After a filling breakfast and dozens of little plates of food throughout the day, the simplicity of that kind of meal was perfect.

The following were our highlights from our time in Barcelona.

Boqueria Market

The Boqueria is located along Las Ramblas, five sections of a single street, without a doubt the most famous in Barcelona.  Its berth leads from the epicenter Plaza de Catalunya all the way to the water.  To its east is the Barri Gotic, the original medieval portion of the city, and to the west is the hip El Raval section.  Las Ramblas has a long history of street performers, aviaries, flowers, street food, and throngs of tourists.  But even locals intermingle with them under a long tree-shaded promenade flanked on either side by one-way streets and cars manned by impatient, ruthless drivers.  There are loads of tourist traps but also gems.  Everyone says to begin a visit to Barcelona there, even as they also slip in qualifications that it's touristy.  The fact is, Las Ramblas are dramatic and necessary, and reveal some of Barcelona's frenetic energy.

The Boqueria Market is in the heart of Las Ramblas.  We bought a half a kilo of strawberries for 70 cents, then perused the countless counters of vegetables, fruits, nuts, cured hams, fresh meat (including a tiny stand trafficking in nothing but offal), and cheese.  But our eventual destination was Bar Pinotxo for breakfast.  We walked up just as two seats were vacated at the bar, so we sat down.  We were told to try the beans, so we did, which were tiny white runner beans, impossibly tender, served with seared baby squid and a sauce made from olive oil and the squid's own ink. 

The flavors were marvelous, as were the texture of the beans, which were in a state of tenderness and creaminess that's no easy feat.  The squid were soft and gently chewy against the creaminess of the beans, and their ink gave the bowl a complex sweet-salty flavor, a rich sauce straight out of nature itself.  The olive oil brought a fruity roundness.  It was wonderful.

Patatas Bravas
Patatas bravas, which you can order in pretty much every restaurant, are sort of thick fries soused in a mayonnaise-style sauce and a spicy-sweet sauce on top of that.  Sometimes they come thin like French fries, sometimes larger wedges, always covered in sauce.  We ordered them without fail, as a cheap and delicious way to make sure we never left a tapas bar hungry.  The absolute best ones we had were at a place called Cuines Santa Catarina, attached to the Santa Catarina market (they cull much of their ingredients from it as well).

Describing their patatas bravas has me swerving into hyperbole--possibly the creamiest potatoes I've ever tasted, an airy, thin layer of crispiness on the outside, rich garlickly aioli, everything cut through with the high notes of a sweet chili sauce.  I dream about them.

Pan con Tomate
In other parts of Spain this is sometimes known as Pan a la Catalana. The idea is genius: crusty bread, usually toasted, rubbed with garlic, smeared with the flesh side of a halved tomato, drizzled with olive oil, and sprinkled with flaky salt. We ordered it everywhere we went.  The best we had was at a stupendous tapas bar called Inopia (more on that later), where it was grilled.

A version we had at a delightful four-generation family-run restaurant called Can Roca on the Barceloneta peninsula, a beachy outcropping of the city, was also good, and served with one of the best aioli sauces I've ever tasted.  The paella we ate there was also good, but the bread is what we remember, as well as the charming, ship-like restaurant interior.

A deconstructed version at a place called Tapas 24 was also memorable--rather than rubbing the bread itself, they brought a plate slicked with olive oil and scatted with grated tomato for us to dip ourselves.

Pan con Tomate can be eaten as-is, or it can just be the beginning, the bread for a few layers of cured ham or medallions of cured chorizo sausage.

Anchovies
Along the coast of Spain between Barcelona and France, known as the Costa Brava, they catch and cure anchovies that are increasingly growing in fame.  Though Italian salt-cured anchovies are probably the most prized by chefs (you'll often read recipes that specifically call for them, probably to encourage quality), the lesser-known Spanish Costa Brava anchovies may be as good or better. In many tapas bars we visited, the anchovies are served by themselves on a plate to be savored like a fine cheese or cured meat. 

And it works: the depth of flavor in these little guys is incredible.  Above is one we enjoyed at Inopia, Anchoas del Cantabrico.

Quimet i Quimet

Eating at Quimet i Quimet was our introduction to Spanish canned food, known as conserves, mostly fish and shellfish, a curiosity hard to grasp, and slightly comical: in Spain, people prize canned fish from mussels to clams like great pinnacles of gastronomy.  Apparently they are aged in the cans and sometimes go for astronomical prices. 

At Quimet i Quimet, they build tapas around them, like our plate of mariscos (shellfish) doused in a vinegary sauce, or a plate of cured fish.  The flavors tended to be very strong and sharp, a whole different experience from eating the seafood cooked from fresh.   Even the cheese plate they made up was full of sharp, piquant tastes that woke up our palates.  The flavors aren't for everyone's taste, but it was a geniunely interesting experience.

This next picture reminds me of another thing which we ordered everywhere, that first learned about in our trip to Madrid: the caña. It refers to a small glass of beer, sometimes as cheap as 1 euro, which does wonders with keeping costs down.

The place itself was a marvelously handsome room, lined with dark wood and wine bottles on three walls (the third, behind the bar, with the infamous cans).  Our barman was genteel and kind, arranging and constructing plates rather than breaking a sweat by doing much cooking.  Old stout men, their shabby tweed lingering of cigarette smoke, talked shop with the owner.  It had the feel of an old bar from another time, the quiet regular coming to savor a time past.

Inopia

If you caught that silly PBS TV show with Mario Batali, Mark Bittman, Gwyneth Paltrow and Claudia Bassols, you might remember the episode where they pick up Michael Stipe, leader singer of R.E.M., and spend a debaucherous evening at a tapas bar called Inopia, which is run by Albert Adrià, Ferran Adrià's brother.  As boring as the show often was, forcing viewers to spend absurd amounts of time watching Mario and company eat and murmer and generally say little of interest (Anthony Bourdain was particularly harsh in skewering this show), for some reason this particular moan-and-mumble session at Inopia seemed genuine.  They really were bowled over by the food.  We thought of Inopia, which turns out traditional tapas with that extra creative push to make them something special, as our cheaper way of partaking in the food of the Adrià family.

Well, we weren't disappointed.  We spent a lot more money than we planned but had a blast--a woman sitting next to us was an American from San Francisco currently living in Bangkok, and since we hit it off we all shared what we ordered and so doubled the amount of food we could try.

We began with the Pan con Tomate, and alongside the bread we sampled two kinds of anchovies from along the Costa Brava, plus a bowl of olives.  Next, a truly strange dish of eggplant that tasted nothing like eggplant (above).  It was deep fried but somehow the interior was creamy and sweet; a caramel syrup was drizzled over all the pieces.  It was the kind of cooking you could never deconstruct without watching the chef's make it themselves.

We also had two heavenly croquettes filled with iberico jamon, easily the best croquettes I've ever eaten. 

Then there was heavenly white asparagus, as big as the ones we had in France, drizzled with a perfect aioli. 

Later there was the classic "bikini" sandwich, which is always filled with ham and cheese, in this case iberico.

Later still there was gambas, lightly breaded tempura-style and deep fried.

We finished with a tiny bowl of the smallest wild strawberries I've ever seen, covered in a port-style fortified wine.

Cuines Santa Catarina

Perhaps our favorite find of the trip, mostly because we hadn't read about it or planned to find it, was Cuines Santa Catarina, makers of the transcendant Patatas Bravas mentioned above.  We liked it for its casual vibe and unpretentious approach--and reasonable prices. A place like Inopia you visit only rarely; I could imagine myself coming here after work for a quick bite to eat all the time. 

We rolled in at 5pm on a weekday where pretty much nobody was there--lunch hour was over, and tapas hour hadn't yet begun.  We struck up a conversation with the barkeep (which ended with a free sampling of top-notch 3-year old iberico ham, which goes for something like 20 euros) and ended up returning later in our trip we enjoyed it so much.  Everything we ordered was expertly cooked and hit all the right spots.

I've already mentioned the potatoes, but there was also fabulous anchovies, griddled artichokes with sweet and vinegary caramelized onions, good pan con tomate, a little bowl of warm chorizo sausages, and a fabulous tarte tatin dessert.

The Architecture

Barcelona is also, in many ways, synonymous with Antoni Gaudí, its most famous architect. His Art Noveau style buildings are like the surrealist equivalent in architecture: they take familiar forms and filter them through a half-mad imagination.  The result is like reality in the way a dream is like reality: almost-but-not-quite, unsettling, deeply unconscious.

I have been thinking about bratwurst for days.  What started as an idea for a simple cookout on my little Webber Grill has now completely consumed me because I simply can't find the right recipe.  The question eventually led me to walk into Hot Dougs on a recent Wednesday and ask Mr. Doug himself what was in the sausage. 

But first, do you know?  What is it, exactly, that makes a bratwurst a bratwurst?  I know this sounds like an obvious question, but really...think about it.   I've been eating them since I was a little kid and they've always been huge off-white sausage stuffed into a bun and slathered with mustard.  I know what to expect when I eat one.  And they certainly don't look like a hot dog.  But I don't honestly know what it is that makes them unique.  Is it the combination of spices, certain kind of meat, or the cooking method? 

I thought the answer would be simple when I began this search.  I started in the natural place, with Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie.  His bratwurst recipe is a mixture of pork and veal with the "traditional sweet-spice bratwurst flavors of nutmeg and ginger".  But as I read on I realized that there was something awfully different about the resulting sausage.

The ultimate fresh bratwurst, this is one of the richest sausages here, given it's generous use of cream and eggs.

Say what?  I wanted the sausage that is stuffed into a casings, poached in beer, and then grilled until crispy on the outside.  The more I looked into it, the more I realized he was probably describing the original German version of the sausage, which I'm absolutely sure is delicious.  But it's not what I wanted. 

I realized that what I wanted was a Wisconsin bratwurst, the kind that is stuffed in a big bun, and topped with sauerkraut and grainy mustard.  You eat these fresh off a grill with a beer in your hand.  Unfortunately, though there is loads of praise for the Wisconsin specialty, there isn't much talk about what goes into them.  In fact, most recipes out there are for how to cook pre-made sausages, not how to make them from scratch.  That's when my search really began. 

I asked my local butcher, and he said his were just ground pork with a few seasonings like nutmeg, mace, and ginger.  They looked good, but were they authentic?  I looked around onlin.  To my surprise, Johnsonville Brats popped often in discussion about authentic Wisconsin Style brats.  They weren't considered the best, but they were considered perfectly solid.  I tried poking around their site to see if they could tell me what was going on.  But all I found were statements like this:  

The original "thrill for the grill" that started an American fun food revolution. Perfect for any occasion and a favorite at picnics and barbecues everywhere.

Come on!  After searching a little longer, I ran into a brand called Sheboygan which had been mentioned as one of the better brat companies.  Their website is filled with anonymous first-name-only testimonials of satisfied customers.  Anonymous, that is, except for a certain Doug from Hot Dougs. 

Two weeks after we offered your amazing bratwurst in my restaurant our sales increased by 20%!  Thank you!

So I figured I could accomplish two things at Hot Dougs.  I could sample the Sheboygan bratwurst, which is considered a top notch Wisconson brat, and I could also pester Doug with the fairly ridiculous question, "What makes a bratwurst a bratwurst?"

He was certainly a little taken aback, and gave a fairly rambling answer that sausages tasted different because they used different cuts and seasonings.  But I pressed on, hoping that my interest would show that I wasn't just trying to be a pain. Finally, figuring that I wasn't just trying to be a jerk he said, "oh, well these are pork and the key is that they are just slightly smoked."  Smoked?

Sure enough, as I bit into to these brats I noticed a definite smokey aroma.  This was an incredible brat.  It's texture was fine, and not chunky, and I picked some definite nutmeg.  It was everything I wanted in a brat.  And yet, I had never heard of smoking brats before.  I thought they were a fresh sausage.

On the Sheboygan website I finally tracked down a recipe of sorts, "Pork, water, salt, mustard, spices, corn syrup solids, (citric acid, BHA, BHT added to protect flavor)."  But it doesn't list quanities or which spices it uses.  

Perhaps I'm overthinking this.  Maybe there isn't an authentic Wisconsin brat recipe.  But I'm still searching.  Does anyone know where I should go from here? 

It seems that in the past few years there have been a few monumental revelations of the "everything you thought you knew about cooking was wrong" variety.
- Steven A. Shaw aka "Fat Guy", Executive Director, eGullet Society

When the timer sounded, I was caught off guard.  I reached for a kitchen towel, carefully folded it around the hot handles of my dutch oven, and transfered the hulking pot to the top of the stove.  I threw the towel over my shoulder, and contemplated how this batch of dried beans could possibly be done.  They had only been cooking for a total of 90 minutes, and yet the Executive Director of the eGullet Society claimed that they would be ready.  I trust this guy.  He gave the world the Butter Steak.  I reached for the lid, forgetting the towel, and scalded my right hand on the hot top.  I cursed very loudly.  After refocusing my thoughts, I reached for the towel, wrapped it completely around my wounded hand, and finally opened the lid. 

The beans were cooked.  Every single one was tender and ready to go.  It had taken 15 minutes on top of the oven to bring to a boil, and then 75 minutes inside a 250 degree oven.  I had not soaked the beans before hand.  I didn't even bother to rinse them or sort through to see if any rocks had been hidden inside.  How could this be?  This question drove me mad, because I have been cooking beans nearly every week for the past year, and now I realize I've been doing it all wrong.  

My bean-making mantra has always been "give them time."  I usually just cover the beans with some water, set the burner on low, and try to forget about them.  Hours pass.  Lunch and dinner often roll by.  They took way too long, but if I cranked the heat the beans would simply turn to mush, or seize up and become as hard as little pebbles.  Soaking the beans overnight seemed to solve some of the problems, but then I had to plan this thing out a day in advance, instead of just deciding to chuck some beans in to a pot.  It's a nice thought, but one I never seem to make.  Occasionally I'd do a quick soak, where I'd bring the pot to a boil, and then turn if off to soak for an hour or so.  But that never really seemed to make much of a difference.  

I suffered through this ordeal because dried beans, no matter how difficult to make, were infinitely better than canned beans.  Though the canned variety can be incredibly convenient and usually taste just fine, they don't have the impressive depth of flavor and a meaty aroma that slowly simmered beans can attain.  It just doesn't happen.  Dried beans make tastier soups and better platforms for refried beans.

Which all made this revelation related in eGullet even more surprising.  Not only was it faster than normal, it actually produced better beans.  How often does that happen in life?

I've only done this once, so I have plenty more experimenting to do.  These beans were cooked without any flavorings at all beyond a pinch of salt.  I wonder what some aromatics and a piece of pork or two would do this batch.  Could they get even better?  And how would black beans fare with this method?

That's probably too many questions.  In the meantime, I made a huge batch of refried beans.  I still have some leftovers.  Here are a few other uses for dried beans. 

• Refried Beans
• Barbecue Baked Beans
• Enchiladas with Beans
• Huevos Rancheros
• Refried Bean Tacos with Chorizo

90 Minute, No Soak Beans

• 1 pound beans (I used pinto here, but you could use red or black) 
• 1/2 tablespoon salt

Preheat the oven to 250. 

Dump the beans into a large dutch oven or pot with tight fitting lid.  Pick out any broken pieces. Add the salt.  Top with enough water to cover the beans by an inch and a half.  Bring pot to a boil. 

Then cover the pot, and set in the oven.  Cook for 75 minutes. 

About 45 minutes in, check on the beans.  If they look too dry add some boiling water to the pot.  Mine did not need any. 

After 75 minutes they should be done. 

My first bite of jerk chicken, fresh from two hours of mingling with smoke, was everything I wanted it to be.  The rub of allspice berries and black peppercorns mixed with fresh ginger and thyme and created this incredible aroma --one that I couldn't help but adore.  I was completely happy and content until quickly, and without much warning, the spice hit.  A double dose of habanero cut through all of that complexity, ringing my lips with intense heat that unleashed the first of many small tears to drip down my face.  I took a drink of wine, which only seemed to ignite the pain even more.  I reached for a glass milk to squelch what I could, but it only delayed the onslaught.  Against what should have been better judgment, I dug back in for another bite. 

I had been interested in jerk chicken ever since watching Anthony Bourdain on No Reservations eat some out on the nighttime streets of Jamaica.  These roadside stands cooked them in enormous old oil-drums that had been retrofitted into smokers.  The chickens were rubbed with a jerk spice mixture of allspice berries and scotch bonnets (a relative of the habanero), among many other things, that turned the flesh a deep, dark brown, just one shade away from black.  But when Boudain bite in, the flesh shone white and juicy.  I wanted some.

For help I used this New York Times article that explored the jerk chicken available around Brooklyn.  It was then that I found out what was in the spice rub.  The predominant ingredient was allspice, something I don't really use that much.  But it seemed to be absolutely crucial to the dish.  In fact, on the island of Jamaica they use the wood from the allspice tree to cook the meat.  Something, unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to use.  Oh well.  I used some nice and mild apple wood.   The rub also included black peppercorns, thyme, ginger, garlic, scallion, and brown sugar.  I could smell it already.

I also found this recipe from eGullet, and I loved how they traded the dried and ground spices for fresh ones.  They toasted whole allspice berries with black peppercorns and then ground them fresh.  What it honestly reminded me of was the care and patience that goes into a good barbecue rub. 

But its insane heat sets it apart.  Mixed in with all of these spices were two habaneros.  The spice of these is unlike that of, say, a whole bunch of blunt jalapenos.  Those are nothing.  One of these little orange guys can completely change the feeling of a dish, and two, well, is just crazy.  I thought about adding that third one, but I might not have lived through the experience had I gone through with it.  Surely, this is not a dish for those who don't really like spice, or who think jalapenos to be a tad risqué.  I shirk such thoughts.  Give me more.

The second thing I noticed was that again, like barbecue, jerk is not something that you can just pour onto chicken breasts and slap on a hot grill.  It takes a long marinade, and then a slow and low trip on the grill. 

Unfortunately, I didn't have those big oil-drums for the process.  In fact, I didn't even have my sister's nice grill for help.  Nope, all I had was a little Weber grill that is great for cooking hot dogs, but not that ideal for trying to cook things indirectly on the grill for a long time.  The idea of maintaining a proper cooking temperature between 250 and 300 on a grill the size of a large dinner plate seemed like a disaster.  

I have done it before.  About three years ago I cooked a pork shoulder on a little grill for well over 8 hours.  But it was sort of a disaster because I didn't have the proper equipment.  Mainly I was missing a chimney starter.  That meant that every time I wanted to change the charcoal I'd have to remove the meat, empty out the ashes, and then douse some new charcoal with a huge splash of lighter fluid.  The whole process took over 30 minutes.  Instead of acting like a wild man with the lighter fluid (here's proof), I decided to invest in a chimney smoker. 

It makes the process of cooking on a charcoal grill a whole lot easier.  This $9 chimney starter does everything for me.  Wad a bunch of newspaper and stick in the bottom, and then mound the charcoal in the top.  Light the newspaper, and some 20 minutes later, without any effort, you have lit coals.  Nice. 

Really, the hardest part is maintaining the temperature for 2 hours.  After about an hour I started a new batch of charcoal in the chimney starter.  This is where having a chimney starter really helps.  To increase the temperature all I had to do was add a few pieces.  If it was too hot I just removed a couple.  $9 has never saved me so much hassle.  

Otherwise it's pure smoking bliss.

And the result?  This was easily some of the juiciest chicken I've ever had.  It was bathed in the aromatic rub, and spiked with habanero.  To be honest, I probably used too much of the latter.  It was spicy, which I liked, but was probably just a little too spicy.  Next time I'd probably cop out and use just one habanero.  A squeeze of lime helped, and it honestly tasted better the next day straight out of the fridge.

Jerk Chicken

• 1/4 cup whole allspice berries
• 2 tablespoons black peppercorns
• 2 bay leaves
• 1 small onion, peeled and chopped
• 1 bunch of scallions, chopped
• 6 cloves garlic 
• 1-2 habanero chilies, stemmed and seeded (1 for normal people, 2 for crazy folks)
• 1/4 cup fresh thyme 
• 2 tablespoons fresh ginger, grated
• 2 teaspoons salt 
• 2 tablespoons cider vinegar
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce
• 2 tablespoons brown sugar 
• 1/4 cup vegetable oil 
• 1 chicken
• 2-3 limes
• ketchup 

Toss the allspice berries and black peppercorns into a skillet over medium-high heat.  Toast for a minute or so, until fragrant.  Transfer to a food processor or blender along with the bay leaves.  Process until they become a powder. 

Add the onion, scallions, garlic, habaneros, thyme, ginger, salt, cider vinegar, soy sauce, brown sugar, and vegetable oil.  Process until it is a smooth paste.  Divide the sauce into two portions. 

Cut the chicken into 4 pieces, removing the backbone and wings (save those for a stock if you're into that sort of a thing).  

Place the breasts and legs into a large bowl.  Coat both sides and under the skin with the marinade.  Cover with plastic wrap and then stash in the fridge and let marinate for 12-24 hours.  

When you're ready, prep the grill.  This is all very unscientific.  Just light a whole bunch of charcaol in a chimney starter. 

When white and ashed over, dump half of the charcoal into the grill and move it all over to one side.  Cover, wait a few mintues, and then check the temperature.  You want the temperature to hover between 250 and 300 degrees.  If it's too hot, just remove some charcoal.  Too low?  Just add some more of the lit charcoal. 

Add a handful of wood chips that have been soaking for 20 minutes in water.  Then add the chicken.  They will take around 2 hours, so around the 1 hour mark light another batch of charcoal to have ready.  Mine took exactly 2 hours.  

Move the pieces around occasionally to ensure even cooking.  Check the temperature of the chicken with a thermometer after about 45 minutes, and then every 15 minutes after that.  You want something between 160 and 170.  

Meanwhile, take the other half of the marinade and mix in about 3 tablespoons of ketchup.  The ketchup should help balance the aggressive spice.  Add more if it is not right.   

Serve the chicken with the barbecue sauce and some limes.  A glass of milk would be handy, too.   

Memphis has insanely good ribs, some so mouthwatering and juicy that they make most of the barbecue I've ever eaten fall of their bones in shame.  The rub is better, the smoke more lingering, and the sauce more lip-smacklingly suited to the cause.  What cause?  Sublime barbecue.  I wanted to see how good it could be.  Which isn't to say that everything went perfectly or that every bite left me in awe.  Over the Memorial weekend I made the long drive from Chicago to visit four of the most vaunted barbecue haunts in Memphis and I left with certain opinions --I certainly liked some more than others-- but not many declarations besides the one above. 

Why ribs?  Around the time I moved to Chicago last year I sampled some ribs that opened my eyes to this culinary artform.  These were meaty, laden with smoke, and so much more inspiring than the barbecue I had eaten before, which tended to be greasy, droopy, sweet, and cloying.  It made me wonder: If these places in Chicago were this good then what would the barbecue taste like down in Memphis?  Could it possibly get even better?

For the past few months my goal was to locate the best barbecue joints in Memphis.  But finding any sort of consensus turned out to be a nightmare.  After consulting numerous blogs, asking people on Twitter, and obsessing about it to no end, I finally halted the process.  I picked up Mike Mill's Peace, Love, & Barbecue, and decided to visit the four "shrines of barbecue" that he listed in Memphis.  They may not be the best in the city at that particular moment, but they were the originals, the ones that have constantly pulled crowds for years.

That list included Cozy Corner, Rendezvous, Interstate Barbecue, and Corky's.  That's a lot of barbecue to eat in what amounted to 40 hours in a city.  But it's the kind of mission I can get into.  Sure, I drove by Graceland and drank a Big Ass Beer on Beale Street, but I had a more important mission.  This was my barbecue culinary education and I was going to take it seriously.

We rolled into Memphis in the late afternoon last Friday and before anything else, hit up Cozy Corner.  It's the perfect example of the humble barbecue shack. It sits on a regular street, just north of downtown, has one small smoker, and probably hasn't been renovated in years.  Inside was a group of people waiting for orders and they looked a little agitated.  The ribs weren't ready.  We'd have to wait until the smoking was done. 

They came some 15 minutes later, fresh out of the smoker and covered in hot barbecue sauce.  I wasn't quite ready for the first bite.  The ribs were juicy and laced with smoke in a way I've never experienced before.  The sauce was slightly spicy, but not obtrusive.  Everything came back to the rib, which was meaty in a way I've never had a rib be before. 

It all added up to the best rib I'd ever eaten, and one of the most delicious things I've ever encountered.  That this is on the side of the road in some city is beyond me.  As we drove off, I could feel the smoke in my nostrils, and I'm not sure if it ever left.  For better or worse, all the barbecue I ate after that first bite was tinged with knowledge of Cozy Corner.  It honestly never got better.

Rendezvous came closest.  Of the four places I visited, it is perhaps the most famous of the bunch.  The most obvious reason is that it is right downtown, a block north of the famous Peabody Hotel (it's all about ducks, people), and an easy walk from Beale Street, it's the defacto vistors dinner in the city.  The concierge at my hotel got all sassy when I asked her about the place, "Never heard of it," she smirked.  Before saying "You'll need a reservation, but they don't take them."

With that advice we went early, only about two hours after Cozy Corner.  Rendezvous is located down an alley, and I could see the smoke conveniently billowing out the exhaust pipe right by entrance.  If I needed another reason to visit, they'd blown another one right in my face.

The second reason Rendezvous is so famous is that they apparently originated the dry barbecue rib, which has become synonymous with the city even if every rack of ribs isn't dry. Click here if you need a little regional barbecue education. 

Instead of bathing the ribs in barbecue sauce while still in the smoker, they get an extra sprinkling of a dry rub of spices.  They can be eaten as is, or with a little barbecue sauce added at the table. 

The dry rub helps create what's called in barbecue speak as "bark" that coats the rib much like bark on a tree.  It gets crispy and crusty and is utterly delicious.  The meat on these was drier than Cozy Corner's, and didn't have haunting smoke aroma.  They were cooked more quickly over charcoal.  But I couldn't get over the dry rub, which had an incredible array of spices which I enhanced with a small douse of hot barbecue sauce.  They were so different than Cozy Corner's that it's kind of wrong to try and compare them.  It's not like one was way better than the other. All I knew, was that I had eaten at two places and both had destroyed my opinions of barbecue.  It is honestly better down here.

I visited Interstate Barbecue for lunch the next day, and it was here that I encountered my first disappointment.

The ribs were small, gray, and fell right off the bone when I bit in (a barbecue no-no).  The sauce was thin, heavy on tomato, bland, and lacquered with grease.  The meat had essentially no smoke flavor.  It was especially hard to take because everything else we ordered was utterly delicious.  My sides of beans and coleslaw were top notch.

Even the barbecue spaghetti (which Interstate is famous for) that my wife ordered somehow miraculously worked.  I know.  It looks like a mess of mushy noodles and way too much sauce.  Italy would not approve.  But it was spicy and littered with little hunks of cripsy pork shoulder.  I loved it.  Hell, Interestate even had the best sweet tea of the weekend. 

Perhaps I ordered the wrong thing.  Maybe their pork sandwiches are better or I just got a bad rack of ribs.  It's hard to know.  There is always a problem with judging a place after one visit.  I'm still glad I visited. Even though I was won over by nearly every other aspect of the meal, I couldn't help but feel a little let down. 

I ended up with Corky's because I could get ribs at 10:30 A.M. on a Sunday morning. In the drive thru, no less.  This would be my forth barbecue place in about 40 hours. 

Though Corky's is one of Mike Mill's barbeuce shrines of Memphis, it's also easily the most maligned on message boards. Part of the issue stems from Corky's massive mailing business. Becuase Memphis is the hub of Fed-Ex, they got into the business of cooking the ribs, packing them up, and then mailing them out to all over the country. Though the prices are ludicously high, it's a business that has flourished. And many people online have declared that the quality has dipped as a result. I wondered whether I should just go back to Cozy Corner, but figured I should give it a chance. 

And thank goodness I did.  I got the dry ribs, and was greeted to this.  A speckled half rack of dry ribs that were haunted with Hickory smoke and a layer of dry rub.  To be honest, they weren't perfect. They were a tad to close to "fall off the bone", but the flavor was there.  I devoured these in the back seat as my wife and father-in-law sat up front.  I'm not sure it is possible to feel happier than to have a container of this barbecue sitting on your lap as you jet out of Memphis.  The rub coated my fingers, and the sauce dripped on my shirt.  I licked my fingers like they were the second course.  I wanted more.