My birthday falls during Fourth of July weekend — always has, always will — which has both its culinary ups ...
and more ups. It means that, at least on the Fourth, I’ll spend the day inhaling hot dogs and hamburgers, cornbread and corn on the cob, and baked beans swimming with burnt ends. And to set my birthday apart from the Fourth, I’ve made it a day to celebrate myself with BBQ — lots and lots of BBQ.
Meats redolent of smoke and sauce, tender and melting, so good that I lose all control. It’s my birthday, after all. I can always diet with .
.. another hot dog.
We live in an age when comfort foods are not just desired, they’re essential. Oreo cookies comfort me. So does dark chocolate gelato — the darker the better.
And then, there’s BBQ, the ultimate non-vegan experience. Chewing on a nice meaty pork or beef rib, or some brisket, slow-cooked and filled with the flavor of burnt wood — that’s the way to celebrate. For the sake of standardization, let’s call it “BBQ.
” I know it’s also “bar-b-q” and “barbecue” and even, in more rarefied lands, “barbeque.” But that “que” seems pretentious. By changing “que” into “cue” and then into “BBQ,” there’s an element of Americanization at work, turning the word from its French roots to street lingo, smacking of dingy bar stools, beer from a bottle, and whiskey out of a fruit jar.
BBQ is real people’s food. It may parade in classy duds, but underneath is a taste of smoky rooms .