Nut Free

Cinco de Mayo actually marks the 1862 Mexican victory over the French, not Mexican Independence Day, as some believe. Thanks to Madison Avenue, it’s a holiday more enthusiastically embraced north of the border than south. To celebrate this semicorporate affair, grilled Burgos de Mayo combine all our favorite Mexican flavors (including the tequila) on one bun. Top them off with Mayo de Mayo, our Cinco “special sauce.”

Despite his growing appreciation of cheater skills and methods, R. B. is still a little sore about the time his outdoor hickory smoked ribs (barely) lost the blind taste test against our cheater Texas Beef Ribs. Sorry, R. B., the kids preferred the smoky, supermoist, easy indoor version. The bigger surprise was finding a distinct outdoorlike crust on the slow cooker ribs. Because the ribs weren’t simmering in sauce, the crust had a chance to develop. We didn’t even need to finish them off under the broiler or on the grill. In the pork-crazy mid-South, beef back ribs are a rarity. Now that the in-house tasting staff has ever-so-slightly favored the cheater style, we’ll not hesitate to jump on a good-looking rack, regardless of the weather.

Adobo is a Filipino obsession like barbecue is in America. The key is slow cooking in a mix of Filipino sugarcane vinegar and soy sauce. We think it has a sour-salty vibe similar to American vinegar barbecue sauces. Filipino sugarcane vinegar is soft and mild, more like Asian rice vinegar than cider vinegar. We stumbled on it at the international market along with Filipino soy sauce. If it’s in Nashville, it’s probably available in most cities in the United States. Not to be confused with Mexican canned chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, this Filipino adobo is a simmering pot of chicken in a tart, salty bath of what probably looks like too much vinegar and soy sauce. You can crisp the chicken on the grill or under the broiler after cooking. Sometimes we use the slow cooker for a pile of soft pulled adobo chicken. Leave out the water and cook the chicken on high for three to four hours. You can also cook beef short ribs or pork butt in the same mix. Whatever the meat or the method, serve it with plenty of white rice.

Poaching sounds chef-toque complicated, but simmering meat in a liquid on the stovetop is pretty straightforward and keeps the kitchen cooler in hot weather. Better yet, poaching is especially good for keeping the usually dry chicken breast meat moist. We even add a smoky component to the poaching liquid for terrific smoked chicken salads and sandwiches. For chicken salad, aim for a balance of smoke, sweet, and savory. The smoke really takes to fresh and dried fruits like green apple, pineapple, mango or papaya, raisins, dried cherries, or cranberries. Parsley and green onion are always a good choice, and celery and good mayonnaise are a must.

A crock of pulled smoked chicken is the original white meat’s answer to pulled pork. And because it’s chicken, it has endless uses in sandwiches, casseroles, soups and stews, tacos, and burritos. The key is having the chicken cooked, pulled, and ready to go; then you can bid farewell to that dried-out supermarket rotisserie bird. An hour in a simple saltwater brine adds moisture and freshens up the bird. We limit brining time for smaller cuts like chicken pieces and pork chops to an hour to keep the salt flavor under control. When we brine for longer periods, we usually go lighter on the dry rub or switch to Cheater No-Salt Dry Rub (page 47). To us, the best pulled chicken is all dark meat or a light and dark meat combination. If you use breast meat only, the meat will be stringier and noticeably drier. There’s nothing you can do about it except brine first and add sauce at the end.

Just as one special cocktail sets the party mood, one special condiment streamlines the party food. Try Min’s Main Dog Slaw as a simple solution to the cluttered condiment bar or mustard tasting. The switch from hot dog to hamburger bun puts a signature twist on a dog.

Min’s uncle Mike and aunt Mary of Belen, New Mexico, spend their free time on the banks of the Rio Grande in the little resort town of Truth or Consequences. The town’s name change from Hot Springs occurred back in 1950 when Ralph Edwards, host of the popular radio show, announced that, to celebrate the show’s tenth anniversary, Truth or Consequences would broadcast from the first town to rename itself after the show. Forward-thinking civic leaders jumped at the opportunity for free publicity and to instantly differentiate their town from the hundreds of other Hot Springs across the country. The name change vote passed and Ralph Edwards became a town hero. Now, everybody just calls it T or C for short. After a day relaxing with high-speed toys on the nearby Elephant Butte Reservoir, Mike and Mary regularly welcome a brood of sunburnt kids and friends with a patio barbecue. Elaborate cooking is the last thing on anyone’s mind. This throw-it-all-in-the-slow-cooker chili pork barbecue (or try it with beef chuck roast) lets Mary have as much fun as the rest of the gang. Serve the meat with warm tortillas, guacamole, shredded lettuce, onions, and plenty of Pecos Pintos (page 147).

Okay, here we go. Either we have you hooked at “Ultimate Cheater Pulled Pork” or this book is headed straight for the library’s used book sale. We know that. You know that. So, let’s drop the chitchat and make some cheater barbecue. In short, you drop a pork butt into the slow cooker, add dry rub and bottled smoke, close the cover, go away for a while, pull or chop the meat and pile it on a bun, add sauce, get out the pickles, open a beer. BOOM! That’s barbecue, baby. Can you feel it? That’s Ultimate Cheater Pulled Pork.

Our friend Mary Ellen Chavez of Belen, New Mexico, owns the wildly popular Burritos Alinstante, a small chain with a cultish following in the Albuquerque area. When he met her, R. B. (a swamp Yankee from Rhode Island) asked what kind of Mexican food she served. “We don’t serve Mexican food, R. B., it’s New Mexican,” she gently corrected. “New Mexico is the only place for red and green chiles like ours.” Serving her mother’s famous burritos with New Mexico red and green chiles has earned the small chain Best of Show among more than 230 vendors at the New Mexico State Fair. Number one on the menu is Carne Adovada, pork that’s first browned or grilled, then slow-cooked in New Mexico red chile sauce. We’ve swapped Mary Ellen’s restaurant steam pan for a slow cooker. Fortunately, dried New Mexico red chiles are available pretty much everywhere now. To make the sauce, rehydrate the dried chiles in hot water and blend them with garlic and a little water. After a warm night in the slow cooker, you’ve got breakfast burritos Alinstante. Mary Ellen has yet to tire of them, but she limits herself to one a day.

Have we cheesed you out? Take a cheese break and try this straight vegetable-bean puree with nutty sweet garlic and smoked paprika. It may not be the lead-off dish to a night of Crock Dogs, but it fashionably introduces dressier barbecue dinners. We especially like it with Tandoori BBQ Chicken Thighs (page 96), Cider-Soy Pork Tenderloin (page 79), House Lamb Shanks (page 128), and Ultimate Cheater Oven-Smoked Salmon (page 132).

In spite of his Irish tendencies to worry and brood, R. B. pretends to think of himself as an upbeat guy who genuinely wants to like things. Even so, he’s given up on grilled shrimp-stuffed jalapeño peppers. It’s hard to cook a raw shrimp tucked inside a pepper unless the pepper is roasted to bitter death. Cheesy alligator snouts—broiled and blistered jalapeños with melted cheese—never disappoint. Broil or toaster-oven these treats and all they need as garnish is plenty of cold beer. Serve the broiled snouts as a conversation-starting appetizer, whole and hot from the oven, or sliced and set in little tortilla scoops. Serve them as a side to a Mexican feast paired with Cheater Carne Adovada Alinstante (page 56). Jalapeños are usually tolerably hot, although it’s impossible to know until you take a bite. Satisfy all your guests with a combination of hot green jalapeños and the mild mini red and yellow sweet bell peppers.

For more than fifty years, Min’s two family branches, the Merrells and the Almys, have been eating at the Cortez Cafe in Carlsbad, New Mexico. The food is straightforward Tex-Mex and always finishes with a round of sopapillas and honey. Back in the ’70s, the family thought nothing odd about beginning meals with bowls of fiery green salsa scooped up with saltine crackers. The Cortez has since switched to tortilla chips and you may prefer them as well, but the Merrell-Almy clan retains its hot spot for salsa and crackers. Pining away in Nashville for that distinct Cortez flavor, Min thinks she’s figured it out—it’s mostly fresh jalapeños. Min’s cousin Eric, knighted Sir Cortez by the clan, now brings his version of Min’s Cortez Salsa recipe to every family dinner—with sleeves of only the freshest saltines, of course.

Not a terribly sweet sort of breakfast jam, not really a true marmalade, this is the rough condiment Alfonso’s grandmother made when she had a few extra lemons and some even more precious sugar at hand. She served it with her home-smoked swordfish as well as the salt-cured reading. Too, he remembers her smearing it on justbaked bread for him to eat with a slice of fresh ricotta when times were flush.

Sitting a few kilometers from the snarls of the city’s traffic, Mondello is Palermo’s beachfront. Less chic than it is drowsy, the tiny port’s center is paved with little trattorie that offer still-writhing sea fish from which one can choose a fine lunch. And at noon, just as bathers and strollers longing for some icy little aperitivo start off for the bars and caffès, a husky, microphoned voice seeming to come from the fat, dark leaves of the old plane trees intrudes on the operetta. With the precision of a corps de ballet, the cast of characters pivots in the direction of a small white truck, chugging slowly, then edging to a stop in their midst. Lo sfincionaro has arrived. In another place, he might be called the pizza man, though his is hardly some prosaic pie. His voice invites: “Just come to see them. They are warm and fragrant. I don’t ask that you buy one. I only invite you to admire them.” We watched as there came a fast gathering of his devoted. Mothers and babies, men in rumply Palm Beach suits, Australian fishermen on holiday, an Englishwoman with a great yellow hat and a silver-headed cane. Children clutching five-lire notes collected, each of them waiting for lo sfincionaro to enfold a great, warm heft of his beautiful onion-scented bread into a sheet of soft gray paper. A traditional confection of Palermo, it is called lo sfincione. It is a crunchy, rich, bread-crusted tart—and close kin to southern France’s pissaladière—that cradles sautéed onions, dried black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, anchovies, pancetta, and pecorino. Fashioning smaller sfincioni and piling them up, newly born, in an old basket and passing them about with jugs of cold white wine can make for a lovely summer supper.

Raised up seven hundred years before Christ on the Mar Ionio, the resplendence of Sybaris eclipsed Athens. Tenanted by unredeemed voluptuaries who roasted songbirds, wove cloth from gold, slept upon rose petals, and indulged every hunger, even their appetite for peace, these Sybarites vanished, as if by some peevish smite from the gods. All that remains is a farming village of sweet, sleepy folk who roast lamb with lemons. Still, I think theirs is a dish upon which an old Sybarite could smile.