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Photography: (clockwise from left) Anna Knott; Courtesy of Rod O’Connor
Downing beers while their meat sizzles, teams chatter about illicit brining, closet-vegetarian judges, and other rumors. “Cheating happens more often than you would think,” Charlie tells me. “But it’s not worth it for me to win like that. Competing here is supposed to be about community, camaraderie, brotherhood.”
It’s Quito who paved the way for Charlie’s entry into this smoky subculture. He taught his son to barbecue on a grill outside their home in Greenville, South Carolina; he also convinced Charlie to ditch a fine-dining career (which included stints at Avenues and Tru) to launch Lillie’s Q in Chicago in 2010. “I pulled him over to the dark side,” laughs Quito, who opened the original Lillie’s Q in Destin, Florida, in 2008. (That side got a little too dark in March this year, when the water heater in the basement of the Bucktown Lillie’s Q caught fire and charred the kitchen and dining room. The shuttered restaurant reopened in June.)
Throughout the weekend, the other members of the Lillie’s Q squad—GM Brian Musinski and a rotating cast of close friends, including Andrew Carroll of Andersonville and Jon Shimp from Palatine—tease Charlie about his strict attention to fire safety. And they razz Quito mercilessly about eating doughnuts against the wishes of his cardiologist. But beneath the smack talk, it’s obvious everyone is bringing something extra to this year’s competition; it’s equally clear that cooking together is a long-cherished and congenial pursuit for this determined father and son.
Back at the prep area, the afternoon sun emerges. Country tunes from Merle Haggard and Charlie Daniels fill the air, which feels as thick as a double-cut pork chop. The shoulders have already received a quick brine with a salt and molasses concoction, and now they’re ready to be injected.
“Doping is legal in this competition,” jokes Tommy Graham, a no-nonsense guy with a buzzcut who, along with his unflappable wife, Mendy (a blond ob-gyn whose surgical skills serve her well), are regulars at the Lillie’s Q in Destin. They joined the crew three years ago. Brandishing a large pump, Tommy methodically fills the pork with a solution of apple juice and brown sugar, causing the soft flesh to firm up like the body of a toned athlete. Next comes a slathering of yellow mustard, which opens the pores of the meat, and a rub that contains paprika, brown sugar, garlic salt, and various secret ingredients.
“We’ve got 10 minutes,” Charlie yells.
It’s 3:30, and the pork needs to get into the unlit smoker, where a slow-building “cold smoke” will infuse peach-wood flavor deep inside the meat. Time is ticking away, so I grab a shaker and help coat the shoulders with spices until they’re a bright ruby-orange. I pick up one of the slabs, cradling it with the same care I’d use to transport my infant daughter, and hand it to Charlie. He’ll stay up until 5 a.m. monitoring the temperature, applying a vinegar-based “mop” every few hours to keep the meat moist, and removing the shoulders when they hit 197 degrees in the 225-degree smoker. A final apple jelly glaze and they’re done. “It’s a small window,” says Charlie of the cooking time. “If you pull them off too late, you’re going to struggle to make them taste good.”
The next morning is judgment day. The crew selects the juiciest bubblegum-pink chunks of meat for the blind-tasting box. Charlie uses scissors to snip the caramelized outer layer, known as bark, which he arranges neatly atop the meat. “We call that the candy,” he says, handing me a piece. The taste is as advertised: sugary sweet with a pleasant chewiness. Then he tears off an interior hunk. It melts in my mouth—and every other piece of pork I’ve ever tasted is instantly forgotten.
The three judges visit over the course of 45 minutes, each welcomed with a red carpet over the mud-spattered turf. After showing off the smoker, Quito sits down across the table to close the deal. In a ballsy move, he slowly pulls the bone from the center of the slab to, as he explains, “show you how tender this meat is, how it holds its shape and does not fall apart.”
Quito points to the beautiful red smoke ring. Finally, he pulls shreds from six different places within the shoulder, demonstrating how each piece delivers the same flavor profile and moisture content. The rest of the team stands at attention while the judges eat with their hands from fine white china. “The flavor of the meat is so good you don’t need any sauce,” Quito says, but offers a bowl of Lillie’s Q’s Smoky Sauce just in case.
A few hours later, a golf cart pulls up next door, and the Big Bob Gibson booth erupts. They’ve been named one of the three finalists. During the awards ceremony that evening, their pork shoulder will earn second place, and they’ll also win best vinegar sauce. A Memphis team called Sweet Swine o’ Mine will take top shoulder and grand champion.
In the morning, the Lillie’s Q team is crushed to find out that it placed 13th. I ask Charlie if he plans to tweak his recipe or approach.
“I won’t change a thing,” he says with defiance. “These competitions are something I do with my dad for fun. If we win, great; if we don’t, we’ll come back better and stronger and take it next year.”
Spoken like a guy who’s been burned but rose from the ashes to rebuild in three months flat.
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