461 CHRONICLESncourse, and so have fladanders andnhillbillies, rednecks and gentry. Politicsnand religion have usually been at least asngood for an argument here as anywherenelse. But if you want a topic with realndivisive potential, something really fissionable,nlet’s talk barbecue.nIn this respect (in others, too, ofncourse) barbecue is unlike grits. Gritsnglue the South together, if you’ll excusenthe image. Black and white, uplandsnand lowlands, everybody likes grits, andnthe only disagreement is over whethernthe word is singular or plural. A fewnyears ago, a fellow named Stan Woodwardnmade a marvelous movie callednIt’s Grits, an hour or so of heartwarmingngrits lore, with testimonials fromnillustrious Southerners like StromnThurmond and Craig Claibourne andnfrom common folk including the entirencrowd at a Gamecocks football gamen(“Give me a G!”). But the last time Insaw Stan he was starting to film anmovie on barbecue, and he hasn’t beennheard from since. I’m afraid he’s ancasualty. Reporting Southern barbecuenis like reporting Lebanon: risky business.nSmoked meat is a subject folks cannget excited about, you know what Inmean? Barbecue drives a wedge betweennTexas (beef) and the Garolinasn(pork), and completely isolates thosenparts of Kentucky around Owensboron(mutton). Even porcivores can’t agree:nbarbecue divides western North Carolinan(tomato) from eastern North Carolinan(no tomato), not to mention fromnSouth Carolina (mustard). You mightnsay barbecue pits Southerners againstnone another. (Sorry.)nNow, personally, I don’t regret thesenhard feelings. If they keep the South’snproud local barbecue tradition alive —nwell, long may they wave. When an”Texas-style” barbecue joint opened innmy Carolina hometown, I was delightednto see it go out of business within anyear. Not that I don’t like brisket. I lovenit, in Texas. But eating that stuff wasnlike drinking Dr. Pepper in Munich —njust not right, you understand? Southernnbarbecue is the closest thing wenhave in the US to Europe’s wines orncheeses: drive a hundred miles and thenbarbecue changes. Let’s keep it thatnway.nAnyone who cares about barbecuenneeds to see a new book by GregnJohnson and Vince Staten, called RealnBarbecue ($8.95 in Harper & Rownpaperback). This is one importantnbook, a cultural landmark. Rememberna movie called The Endless Summer?nThis book does with barbecue whatnthat did with surfing.nJohnson and Staten are reporters innLouisville, and they are fanatics. Theynare, in other words, just the men tontravel 40,000 miles and eat roughlyn200 pounds of barbecue (629,200 calories)nin order to compile a sort ofnWhole Barbecue Catalog: 260 pages,nwith annotated listings of barbecuenjoints, sources for flash-frozen airfreightnbarbecue, recipes for side dishes,nand plans for monster cookers guaranteednto capture your neighbors’ attention.nBoxed here and there arensome tasty barbecue quotations (althoughnnot the raunchy testimonialnfrom the North Carolina-born novelistnTom Robbins that the prurient can findnon page 57 of Another Roadside Attraction).nThe book also includes nicenlittle essays on such topics as the namesnof barbecue joints (“Bubba’s” is indeedna favorite) and why Cincinnati doesn’tnhave good barbecue.nInevitably, the book has a Southernnslant, since nearly all of the greatnpit-folk come from the South, andnmost are still in it. But Greg and Vincenhave worked real hard to include thenrest of the country. Maybe too hard:ntheir affirmative action has turned upnwhat they claim is semi-decent barbecuenin Vermont and a mail-order saucenfrom Castro Street, San Francisco, thatnI think I’ll pass up. When I know whatnthese guys are talking about, though,nthey do have pretty close to perfectnpitch (I’d thought the fact thatnO’Brien’s in Bethesda was actuallyngood was my very own secret discovery),nso I want to try some of the placesnI don’t know. As a matter of fact, I wasnreading the book while visiting Chicagonlast August, and tried to promote annexpedition to Lem’s or Leon’s fornsome Southside ribs, but my HydenPark quiche-eating hosts thought I wasnout of my mind. Next time.nI do confess to mixed feelings aboutnthe book’s list of great joints, becausenit’s almost a law that fame isn’t good fornsuch places. As Greg and Vince pointnout, for example, after Calvin Trillinnwrote about Arthur Bryant’s in KansasnCity, it started selling its sauce innbottles with price codes on them. Butnnnsince the cat is out of the bag, or thenpig out of the poke, let’s quibble (that’snpart of the fun).nI could show off by complaining thatnthe book doesn’t mention the WildnHorse BBQ, in Salisaw, Oklahoma.n(Drinks from a machine, no healthncertificate in evidence, a side order ofnjalapefios, and hot sauce on the beefnribs that did in my effete Eastern tastenbuds before I could tell much aboutnthe meat, but my Fort Smith friendsnswear by it.) You’ll probably get tonAtlanta before Salisaw, though, so I’llnplug the Auburn Rib Shack, also unaccountablynomitted. I don’t know ifnGreg and Vince missed the Shack, ornjust hit it on a bad day, but it’s onnAuburn Avenue near the EbenezernBaptist Church and SCLC headquarters,nwhich ought to count for something.nHarold’s, near the prison, getsnthe book’s highest rating (“As good asnwe’ve ever had”); I ate there oncenback-to-back with the Auburn RibnShack, and I’d rate the outcome andraw.nIf you get over our way, we couldncheck out Allen and Sons, which thenboys rate “Real good.” But lately theirnhushpuppies have gone to hell. (I don’tnthink the lard is hot enough. It happenednabout the same time they putnthe hanging plants in.) Now, when mynwife and I have the time, we drive 30nmiles to O.T.’s, outside Apex, whichnisn’t in the book. O.T.’s barbecue isnstandard-issue Piedmont pig — that is,nmerely transcendentally wonderful.nWhat keeps us going back are thenaccessories: great baking-powdernhushpuppies and Brunswick stew thatnrivals the best burgoo I’ve ever had. (Asna Tennesseean, frankly, I find that TarnHeel Brunswick stew is too often just anpeppery mush.) O.T. is a Baptistnpreacher, and serves no beer, alas, butnfor a buck he’ll give you an enormousnplate of “skin”—pork rind. You cannfeel your arteries clog as you crunchnyour way through it. Both ResearchnTriangle yuppies and constructionnworkers find O.T.’s worth the drive fornlunch. Once I watched the News 5nhelicopter plop down in the lot, and flynoff with several plates to go.nI could go on, putting Scruggs’snunrated Knoxville ribs up againstnBrother Jack’s (“Real good”), for example.nBut you get the idea. If all ofnthis means nothing to you, I’m sorryn