OUR first week in Los Angeles, a neighbor invited us over for barbecue. For a couple of 'cue junkies fresh from Texas by way of North Carolina, this was a sure sign we had landed in the right place. We didn't care whether barbecue in L.A. meant dry-rubbed beef brisket (this Southwestern gal's favorite), pulled pork with vinegar sauce (my Southern husband's true love) or a mix of beef and pork with sweet tomato sauce (those Midwestern folks care more about the sauce than the type of meat). When it came to barbecue, we loved it all.
The excitement for our first taste in L.A. was building. We arrived at our neighbor's house, noses ready to sniff out uncharted territory. Would it be beef brisket or pork butt? Sauced or dry? Mopped, marinated, or rubbed?
It was none of the above. Barbecue means something else entirely on the West Coast. Here, it means something grilled -- burgers, steaks, fish -- anything cooked outdoors.
In our world, barbecue is smoked for hours over low, slow heat. It's all about the crust, charred just this side of black, with that telltale pink smoke ring just beneath the surface. Inside awaits a juicy, chin-dribbling mess of meat that invariably winds up smeared on your face, in your fingernails, and if it's really good, all over your clothes. When napkins become futile, you've found the real deal.
With nothing but grilled burgers in sight and serious withdrawals, we had to do something. So we decided to cook up a mess of barbecue ourselves.
One problem: We'd never made barbecue, or smoked anything for that matter. So we read a few books. And we talked to friends back home (none of whom had ever smoked meat, but they still had plenty of advice). It didn't sound so hard.
We assembled our smoking arsenal: a kettle grill, charcoal, several bags of wood chunks and baby back ribs. Crammed between the grill and the clutter on our small apartment balcony, we built a charcoal fire and loaded it with soaked wood chunks (for a longer, consistent smoke). Once we got the wood smoking, we threw on the baby backs, closed the lid and waited.
A couple hours later, the ribs were done -- very well done. Imagine a marshmallow thrown onto a campfire, engulfed in flame until it turns into blackened, inedible ash.
But this was a quest, so we pressed on. We learned to regulate the grill's heat by changing the quantity of wood. Just the right amount promised constant smoke at a low enough temperature for several hours of slow cooking. By summer's end, we'd mastered baby backs, graduating to pork butt and beef brisket.
But something was missing. Our barbecue was tender, juicy even, but not toe-curling good. We needed a longer, slower smoke, but we'd hit a wall.
Deep down, we knew a smoker was the answer. But they tend to be big, meant for backyards, not balconies. And they can run more than $1,000. We didn't want that kind of commitment.
Then we found the Silver Smoker. It was a real beauty -- a single-barrel model with a roomy side firebox big enough to hold small logs. The offset smokestack pulled smoke through the metal cooking chamber for even, slow cooking. Best of all, it wasn't much bigger than a 10-speed bike, so it fit on our balcony. But would a smoker really make that much difference in our barbecue?
At only $160, we could afford to give it a test run.
My husband assembled the smoker in one hour flat, incredible speed for a man who once threw away a brand-new grill, claiming a screw was missing. Take note: Barbecue is a powerful motivator.
Once assembled, we needed fuel, and lots of it. The hickory and mesquite chunks we'd been using on the grill worked just fine, but the smoker was a wood guzzler. Feeding a smoker expensive wood chunks seemed counter to the whole idea of smoking cheap cuts of meat. Surely we could find firewood in L.A. suitable for smoking.
Hickory, the Southern favorite, and mesquite, a Texas cattleman's preference, are difficult to find in Southern California. For a while we carted wood home from cross-country family visits, but for some reason airport security didn't always take kindly to our boxes of firewood.
We hunted around L.A., but hickory and mesquite logs, when you can find them, are mostly sold with the bark. Bark is fine on a grill, but after hours of smoking it gives meat a bitter flavor. The thought of chopping bark from logs sounded a little too Grizzly Adams, so we kept looking.
Then we met Fred Vanacore, owner of Hollywood Firewood. We'd heard he supplies wood for Campanile's grills, so we had to check out his outfit.
Pull up in front of his place on a quiet North Hollywood side street, and you're greeted by a chain link fence and a mailbox, no sign or driveway even. But you can't miss the stacks and stacks of wood piled 12 feet high and half a block long. Give a holler and a salesperson will appear from the shack out back. You can buy as little as a wheelbarrow full of wood here. In the wood world, that's nothing. For us, it would barely fit on our balcony.