The best judging gig around

Surprising things happen, one of which was being asked to judge a mid-summer barbecue contest. The experience was not what I’d expected, nor was an encounter with the food police that took place a few days later.  

Passing judgment seemed easy. I have, after all, owned dozens of smokers, slow-smoked everything from bacon to mackerel. We’ve smoked pork shoulders with corn cobs and salmon with peach pits. I felt qualified and the job sounded fun. As the day approached, however, doubts set in.      

The uneasiness began when I learned something about participants. One is a professional. He earns his livelihood in food preparation. Barbecue is his specialty.

Another has a sideline catering barbecue at receptions and similar events. He’s been known to smoke and serve more than 200 pounds at a time. Another owns and manages a restaurant.

Some entrants were the back-yard variety, but well-experienced and keenly competitive. Most of them enter contests regularly. They came from as far away as Omaha.  Their equipment represents a sizeable investment. All would pay a healthy entry fee, with cash prizes for the winners.  

They would be issued meat?a brisket, a rack of ribs, a pork butt, and a chicken at 8 p.m., Friday. They’d labor until judging at 3 pm Saturday. They had time, work, and money invested. They deserved a fair assessment. I decided to become a certified barbecue judge.  

Meeting the requirements is not difficult. The Kansas City Barbecue Society (KCBS) has certified hundreds of judges at classes held throughout the country.

Unfortunately none were taking place during the time frame available. I settled for a home-study version, read the books and took the test.

I learned a few things; one being that tasting and rating is serious business. KCBS rules dictate that judges do not talk about the food. Neither are they to convey, through sound or gesture, their opinion. They do not grimace. They do not roll their eyes. They do not beam with joy as a morsel of delectable rib is plucked from the bone.

They are not to compare one sample with another. Each is to be evaluated individually on appearance and a number (from 1 to 8) assigned. The sample is then graded for aroma, texture, moistness, taste, and so on. When the score card for that particular offering is complete the judges move to the next.     

Presentations were made in a manner that did not permit us to know which team was responsible. There were no exchanges with contestants, no questions, no opportunity to offer a verbal opinion. Look, feel, smell, taste, and enter numbers. It was fair, I suppose, but not entirely satisfactory. Tasting is less than a science.

Judges varied on their scores. A different set of judges may have awarded a different winner. While the experience was interesting, I’m not sure I’d do it again.         

A nice change in atmosphere was found a few days later at an appreciation dinner hosted by a local business. The setting was most pleasant, as was the company. The speaker was excellent. Sirloin, prepared by an area cattlemen’s group, was nicely done. Mine, however, lacked a bit of salt and pepper. I returned to the serving line. “No,” the lady in charge told me.

“You do not need it.” Thinking she’d misunderstood, I asked again.

Again the answer was no. From a health standpoint she’s probably right. At my age, though, only so many steaks remain. “Perhaps,” I persisted, “just a dash?” The woman was unyielding as a tombstone. My steak, she repeated firmly, was fine just the way it was. And with that I was dismissed. Move over, Mayor Bloomberg.  

Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.