‘Tis The Seasoning Chili And Barbecue Contestants At The Idaho State Championships Are Dead Serious About Their Secret Herbs And Spices
Chili may be science, but barbecue is art.
Chiliheads and grillmasters battled it out Sunday in Wallace, at the Idaho State Championship Chili and BBQ Cook-offs. Contenders came from as far away as Florida and Texas. Winners got $500 and the chance to cook in the national chili cook-off in Nevada this fall. With the Interstate 90 overpass protecting them from the sun, 19 chili chefs stirred and sniffed and sprinkled secret spices.
“I’m terribly, terribly serious about my chili,” said California native Marilee Barrett. She said she combines 22 powders to create her chili mix, which she stirs in, by the gram, after weighing it on a digital scale.
A few booths down, Toilet Bowl Chili chef Claude Franks checked the time. Forty-five minutes before judging, he would add a fist-sized pile of chili powder and cumin to the pot.
“You want that little boost,” he said. He re-grinds the powder so it’s not gritty.
There are no beans in championship chili, and most cooks carefully dice the meat, rather than grinding it. Contrary to popular opinion, the chefs said, championship chili won’t necessarily make your eyes water.
“There should be an afterbite,” said Gail Phillips, of Bend, Ore. “It should burn just a little on the way down.”
“If it’s too hot, the judges will throw it out,” said Winchester Ammunition Co. salesman Dennis Bortko, in town on business. Hearing of the cook-off, the Illinois man bought pots and ingredients, and showed up to compete.
While the chili chefs fine-tuned their stoves, checked their watches and measured spices, the 11 barbecue competitors peered into smoky grills and crossed their fingers.
Harold Gable gingerly opened a smoker, shaped like a giant metal Tylenol capsule. Inside was the beef brisket that the Portland man tended all night.
“It’s been in there 17 hours,” he said. “It’s kind of like alchemy, taking a base metal and turning it into gold.”
“There are all these variables, like the meat, the fire and the outside temperature,” said another Portlander, Ed Barch. “It’s all those variables, and you’re trying to bring it together.”
Plus, he said, you have to account for local tastes. Texans like more Worcestershire flavor, Easterners like a vinegar tang, and Northwesterners, he said, like a sweeter sauce.
Floridian John Burke’s shorts were stained with grease and sauce as he pulled beef off a grill. He was still tired from an all-night drive up from catering a large wedding in McCall. Burke’s barbecuing has won more than 40 prizes nationwide and he’s sought after as a chef.
“Hopefully that’s the winning brisket,” he said, unwrapping aluminum foil. “We’ll see.”
Burke bears a resemblance to Oregon Sen. Bob Packwood, if Packwood was wearing a flowered top hat, bright yellow shirt and sandals. A retired Portland executive, Burke’s been a competitive barbecuer for three years.
“It’s a challenge working with fire and heat,” he said. “It’s one thing to turn a knob to low, medium, and high. It’s another to put your hand on the box.”
In a quiet room a block away, a sixperson jury sat in judgement of roast pork.
The six were sequestered above the Jameson Saloon, with two contest workers guarding the back staircase.
The trays were brought in, with cuts of pork lying on a bed of greens. “If you need more ice water or napkins, just holler,” said the man serving as judges’ waiter.
With the intensity of law students taking the bar exam, the judges peered, frowning, at the entries.
They nibbled the pork. They chewed. They pondered. They took notes. No one spoke. No “MMMMmmmmmm”s. No lip smacking. They would spend most of Sunday in this room, eating barbecued lamb, pork and beef. An accountant had been hired to keep track of the voting.
“Pass to your right,” the waiter said.
The trophies were as serious as the competition: All gold and marble, topped with the statue of a woman.
“That,” said event organizer Gala Muench, “is the symbol of victory.”
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