Food & Drink

We’re almost to the end of May, which means National Barbecue Month will soon be drawing to a close. I hope you’ve been celebrating appropriately. You did know that May is National Barbecue Month, right? And that May 16 was National Barbecue Day? I, for one, can never forget, for each year my email is flooded with pitches from PR reps convinced I have completely run out of things to write about. “With it being National Barbecue Month,” one begins, “I wanted to check in and see if you have any roundups planned of must-try barbecue spots in Little Rock.”  Another generously offers, “In honor of National Barbecue Month, we’re sharing this coveted BBQ Shrimp & Grits recipe from Nashville’s [restaurant name redacted].

We have only fragments of The Satyricon by Titus Petronius (AD 27–66). The centerpiece of the narrative that survives is the so-called “Cena Trimalchionis,” the banquet of Trimalchio in which a dazzling array of exotic foods and rare wines are paraded before a handful of gratefully stupefied guests. While the host of this feast was the aforementioned Trimalchio, the narrator was a young buck called Encolpius. He is appropriately amazed by the delicacies and potations that appear one after the next before him. The Satyricon is a work of satire (Menippean satire for those keeping track). The antics recounted are recited partly tongue in cheek. Everything is turned up to eleven. The point is parody.

Memorial Day is approaching, the traditional kickoff for the American barbecue season – or for grilling season, depending on where you are in the country. In some regions – say, New Jersey and northward – if someone asks you to come over for “a barbecue” during the holiday weekend, you’re likely to find a charcoal or gas grill loaded up with hot dogs, hamburgers, or, if the host is really putting on the dog, thick ribeye steaks. Western-inspired parties took off in the 1930s – though digging a hole in the lawn was kind of a pain For most folks in the South, calling such fare “barbecue” is painful. Here we call those events “cookouts,” and we would say the hosts are “grilling,” not “barbecuing.

Malbec, observed Hugh Johnson, is a “conundrum.” Sometimes it is light in color as well as body. That’s what it tends to be like in the Loire, where the grape is called côt (apparently its original name). It used to be grown in Bordeaux, where it was used primarily as a sort of filler, rounding out the cabs and merlots. In Cahors, its major French venue today, it is sometimes called côt noir or Auxerrois. There malbec tends to be bold, spicy and dark. “Dark,” in fact, is one of the wine writer’s favorite adjectives for this allotrope of malbec. This was the “black wine” that Thomas Jefferson would sometimes add to his claret to deepen its color. But malbec is a fussy grape. The French climate is a challenge.

On February 28, I jumped on a fishing charter with some friends and headed out into the Strait of Hormuz. There was barely any wind. The sea shimmered in the heat of the Gulf sunshine. On the very first drop of our lines, something hit my metal jig and went off like a rocket. After a couple more brief runs, a very stout, double-figure grouper rose through the water column, which I guided safely into the waiting net. It was a personal-best hamour (The Arab word for grouper), weighing between 10 and 12 pounds. I went on to catch a few interesting tropical fish, including a snapper, but I didn’t recognize most of them. It was on our journey back to the Abu Dhabi port that things changed.

Easter is fast approaching, so of course I’m thinking about ham. This iconic centerpiece of the Easter dinner table isn’t usually associated with the barbecue pit – at least not anymore – but it’s time that changed. Ham and barbecue have had a long and somewhat rocky relationship. Both have smoky roots in the early American colonies – especially Virginia – but they originated separately. Europeans had a long tradition of salting and air-curing hams, but that method proved insufficient for preserving pork in the hot, humid climate of the New World. The Virginia colonists started rubbing their hams with brown sugar and salt and hanging them for weeks in smokehouses instead of out in the open air.

Most wine columns resemble recipes from Larousse Gastronomique or Mastering the Art of French Cooking in this way: they have happy endings. This column, alas, proceeds with a melancholy burden. The world of wine, it pains me to report, is in the doldrums. Is it because of a new infestation of phylloxera, the blight that devastated French vineyards in the 19th century, or some other pest? Is it some novel tyranny of teetotalers, outlawing the production and consumption of wine? No. It is something closer to original sin or what Immanuel Kant on a dreary afternoon called “the crooked timber of humanity” out of which nothing straight can be fashioned. In short, it is the news that the wine industry itself is dying. Why?

When I first became enamored with barbecue in the 1990s, I ate a lot of chopped pork at Carolina barbecue joints, and sometimes chicken and ribs. One thing I almost never encountered was beef, especially slow-smoked brisket. That barbecue cut remained mostly a Texas thing until well into the 21st century. A few pioneers did try to introduce it to the Carolinas over the years, with limited success. Tommy Brightwell, for instance, put brisket on the menu when he opened Pappy’s BBQ in Madison, North Carolina, in 2004. A review in the Greensboro News & Record began, “So, you think barbecue has to come in pork form only?

Comb through Jeffrey Epstein’s emails and you find frequent correspondence with his private chef Francis Derby about “beef jerky.” Online sleuths have speculated that it is a code word for something more sinister. We know Epstein was a sexual predator, but what if he literally preyed on human flesh? After all, Derby cooked at a restaurant called the Cannibal. Make of that what you will. I can’t quite bring myself to believe Epstein was devouring the teenagers he trafficked, but he did seem to have the eating habits of one. He was picky, entitled and equally fond of fad diets and junk food. He substituted Sweet’N Low for sugar in his morning coffee, while eating takeout pasta from Caravaggio and burgers from J.G. Melon for dinner.

Jeffrey Epstein was a sick man. That’s hardly news. But a new dimension has been added to our understanding of him by the latest batch of files released by the Department of Justice. Physically, not just mentally and morally, Jeffrey Epstein was very, very unwell. For the better part of a decade, despite having billions of dollars and access to some of the world’s greatest practitioners of medicine, Epstein’s health only got worse. We can now follow his physical decline in depth – via emails and text messages, magazine clippings, scientific reports and website articles he saved – which is exactly what a number of internet sleuths have been doing.

It was a dark night in November that the criminals stole softly upon the sleeping snails. They snipped away the fencing, pried open the door with a crowbar and knocked out the security lights. Then, they advanced upon their victims, who were lying, defenseless, in cold storage. No use for the snails to flee; heliciculturists breed them for flavor, not speed. The hapless gastropods could only pull in their horns, make themselves as small as possible inside their shells, and wait. The crooks worked with merciless efficiency. Some 450 kilos of snails soon found themselves shivering in the getaway vehicle as it sped off down a route départementale in northeastern France (where else?