Pity the Old Dominion.
In the world of food, Virginia is, and remains, that middle child of
culinary accomplishments, that long-suffering Jan Brady of gastronomic provinces
that necessarily (if haplessly) occupies that contiguous and fixed line of
demarcation between itself and the far, far more celebrated gastronomic
triumphs of North Carolina. Because
North Carolina boasts two of the most lauded of American culinary
achievements—its eastern-style, whole-hog, vinegary barbecue goodness, and its
(almost) equally great Lexington (aka Piedmont) shoulder-only,
catsup-in-the-mix style found in its central and western counties—Virginia,
poor, poor, Virginia, is remanded to the loneliest of familial exiles of
watching its closest, Southern sibling garner the kind of acclaim that have
made its own attempts at barbecue greatness seem knock-kneed, ham-fisted, and
altogether foolish for the trying. So
great is the disparity between these two respective reputations—Carolina and
Virginia—that Virginia might easily be forgiven if it suddenly and collectively
abandoned the business of barbecue altogether and endeavored to refashion its
own culinary identity through the appropriation of some entirely alien food
form like, say, fish tacos or deep fried Mars bars; anything to remove, even conquer,
the ever-persistent Marsha, Marsha,
Marsha aspect of its relationship with the supremely superior-in-every-way
barbecue of North Carolina.
And yet, in its never-ending, and seemingly Promethean quest
for parity in barbecue achievement with North Carolina, some of Virginia’s
finest culinarians doggedly persist. Some
who fight the good fight. Some like the
good folks of Saucy’s Walk-Up BBQ in Petersburg, Virginia.
For Saucy’s and me, this was purely a chance encounter. For on a very recent return from North
Carolina barbecue country (a trip of mine which featured beautifully triumphant
visits to the highly celebrated—and deservedly so—Parker’s Barbecue and Bob
Ellis’ Barbecue, both of Wilson, North Carolina) I stopped for gas in
Petersburg, thirty miles south of Richmond, and there, amid the gas fumes of
the Shell station, and badly flickering florescent lighting, just happened to
catch the slightest whiff of wood smoke and melting pork fat on the wind, that
olfactory signature of my own culinary nirvana.
So around Petersburg I drove, windows down, face out the window,
pursuing the smell of dripping pig through its Southern streets like a madman,
wet with fop sweat, jonesing for his culinary fix.
Located in what the parlance of our times calls a
“transitional” and “mixed use” neighborhood of actual working industrial
warehouses and now-former industrial warehouses-turned-yuppie-filing-cabinets, Saucy’s
is itself a post-industrial architectural marvel of
erstwhile-shipping-container-turned-restaurant, and it was lit, the night of my
visit, like some beacon of culinary hope against a darkness purely post-apocalyptic
in its depth, and almost Jarmusch-like in its lunar, last-man-left-on-the-moon sense
of desolation. Barbecue being the most
collaborative and convivial of American cuisines, it was strange to arrive in
Saucy’s gravel lot, plunged into darkness, and so very and palpably alone. But on exiting my pickup (because that’s how
we roll these days, yo), I discovered a smoker, two of them, in fact, loaded with
pork shoulder and brisket, and nearby, piled against the back wall of the
restaurant, stacks of hickory and oak.
Better still was the greeting I received from the lone Saucy’s
employee: spritely, verging on the
ebullient, like some last survivor of the End of Days, blissfully unaware the
world around her has forever turned to ash.
I nodded hello and smiled back.
Saucy’s succeeds by offering only what it does well: pulled pork, brisket, chicken, ribs. These are your only options for protein. Sides are equally (re: wisely) utilitarian in
scope: potato salad, cole slaw, and a
sweet, three bean salad. Because the
barbecue purist knows better than to require anything more than the possible
addition of greens. My own order was unimaginative
in the extreme. But that was the
point: it would, I knew, reveal Saucy’s ability—be
it nascent or inept—to rival the efforts of their culinary brethren in that
ever-so-close, and yet oh-so-far-away Carolinian south.
I ordered what is inarguably gold standard of the
mid-Atlantic barbecue world: a pulled
pork sandwich, topped with slaw. It
arrived straight-backed and immaculate as a preacher on Sunday, and as the
pure, Aristotelian form of what every barbecue sandwich, everywhere, should
aspire to be. But what the sandwich
delivered, flavor-wise, was purely Virginian in all aspects. It borrowed little from Carolina, east or
west, nor from Texas, nor from Kansas City or Memphis in any of its
approach. The pork was singularly Old
Dominion through and through: a slightly tangy tomato sauce, perfectly
complimented by the considerable smoke of the meat, which, in turn, was
expertly offset by the pleasing acidity of the cole slaw. A magnificent little sandwich. For Virginia.
For Carolina. For anywhere. Truly good barbecue. But here, in this post-apocalyptic industrial
darkness of the Petersburgian night, a sandwich of this savor seemed almost miraculous. The pork was good, deeply and deliciously
good, and I left Saucy’s, and its city of Petersburg, truly convinced that
Virginia does have a dog in this barbecue fight.
To think this contest over barbecue supremacy just might be
far from decided is a novel idea to any barbecue enthusiast who has believed
the results have long been determined.
But maybe not. Maybe Virginia has
something to say, something of importance, after all. And if the cuisine coming from Saucy’s is any
indication, Virginia cooks just might be at the vanguard of this push from the
north. Forewarned is forearmed, as they
say. And Carolina, you’ve been
served.
Your link: http://saucyswalkupbbq.blogspot.com
Your link: http://saucyswalkupbbq.blogspot.com
