The Best Cook in the World

by Rick Bragg

  Some of the circus people—I could not tell if they were tightrope walkers, jugglers, roustabouts, or telepaths, since they were all in their street clothes—had gotten out to walk a bit, and some of them waved at us as they strolled by. It bothered me a little that I could not divine their status, their celebrity, without their makeup, sequins, and rhinestones; it never occurred to me they might just be pedestrians.

  But then came the stars of the circus I knew were stars, walking together, and even in their street clothes they had to be someone special. They were the little people—what we called, because we did not know any better in the late summer of ’67, midgets. Even compared with the pachyderms, they were the most wonderful things I had ever seen, and if my big brother had not been there I would have jumped up and down with joy.

  They did not do a single trick or stunt, unless you count smoking a Marlboro. They wore denim and khakis, work clothes, just like the men here wore, with fedoras and peaked caps on their heads. One of them, the smallest, had on a ragged gray suit and had rolled the legs of his pants up a time or two, to keep them out of the weeds and red mud, and I heard my brother say, in the practical way in which his mind worked, that it must be hard to get a good pair of pants with legs so short, and my mother told him to hush.

  I was a little puny in those days, and we were about the same size, that little man and me. If you had painted me up and put me in a little suit, and maybe a rubber nose and some big ol’ floppy shoes, then you could not tell us apart, and I might just have me a career. The idea that I would grow out of it by Christmas, or even by Tuesday, did not penetrate my mind or puncture my enthusiasm.

  Then the little man waved at me, looked right straight at me and waved, but in my enthusiasm it seemed to me that he was waving me in, beckoning, inviting me to join the troupe. Only then, as the caravan filed into the big fallow field across the road, did I even notice it was beginning to rain.

  * * *

  • • •

  “It was in the paper,” my mother said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.

  “I wanted it to surprise you,” she said.

  I almost forgave her everything.

  I would learn that this was the Al G. Kelly & Miller Brothers Circus, and it was to open that next day just north of Germania Springs, almost in our front yard. We would not even have to beg a ride from one of our aunts to get there, just look both ways and strut across the road like we were somebody, like the circus was in our front yard all the time. She had saved up for it, she told us, so we could all go. But even better than that, I knew I could sneak away as soon as she turned her back and watch it rise from this brightly painted but road-grimed caravan into what was said to be the second-largest traveling circus on earth; it said so, right in the newspaper. This was not some rinky-dink carnival—you could read the whole story of it as the trucks rolled by—but the largest collection of animal acts on the planet, with two hundred performers and twenty-two acts of world renown, right there in the broom sage.

  There would be the great elephant Myrtle, the “Dowager Queen of the Herds,” and the Arturo family, renowned trapeze and high-wire daredevils from Austria, wherever that was, who performed without a net. There would be acrobats, bareback riders, fire eaters, lion tamers, clowns, snake charmers, a “trained Egyptian hippopotamus,” and, with any luck, a soon-to-retire human cannonball. And I would be that boy I had read about, read about in at least a dozen books, that boy peeking under the flap of the tent.

  The rain was coming harder now, turning the red dust to mire.

  My mother tugged at me.

  “Go inside. Now!” she said, but I shook my head like a two-year-old, and she left me there in the rain.

  I watched the last of the trucks roll by—how many I can no longer recall—watched, in dismay, as the first of them began to sink into the red mud beneath the grass of the field.

  The great trailers hauling the big cats wallowed up to their axles, and a man went running down the line of trucks, yelling for them to stop. The caravan stalled in the rain, and the elephant handler guided Myrtle and the rest of the rocking beasts to the stalled trucks. Mud didn’t mean nothin’ to Myrtle. Working fast, they put the elephants in harness, and used them, like wreckers, to drag the trucks one by one from the muck. That alone was the most amazing thing I had seen in my life.

  Then, in a different kind of disbelief, I watched as their handlers loaded the elephants onto the trucks on the firm blacktop, and watched the trucks, all of them, turn around and head back in the direction whence they came.

  I didn’t run after them, but I wanted to.

  I stood in that rain and cussed the red mud with every blasphemy I had ever heard, and I had listened close. I threw rocks at nothin’, and I probably cried. Then I went and sat on the porch, left behind. I would have made a good midget, I believed, for at least a little while. I could have wowed ’em in Albia, Iowa, or Snohomish, Washington, and brought the tent down in Bolivar, Tennessee. I just knew I could.

  I sat there a long time, and decided it did not have to end like this.

  They would not get far overnight.

  Tomorrow, then, when the rain slacked, I’d go find them.

  Eight-year-old boys think like that, especially ones like me, who had been dropped on their heads soon after birth. I concede it might have held little promise in the long run, since I grew up to be six foot two, and about 245 pounds, give or take a sausage biscuit. But back then, I was just the right size for the big top, for the second-greatest show on earth, and even if I did outgrow it, I bet there was almost always an opening for a lion tamer, or a human cannonball. I bet they went through those people pretty regular.

  I was a runner already by then. I ran away five or six times when I was a boy, but never got much beyond the mailbox, much outside the orbit of the circle drive; still, I got farther than my big brother, Sam, who ran away just once and only hid under the front porch—a pitiful stab at running away, if you ask me. I blame books for my wanderlust, blame them for opening my mind to a world of oceangoing ships and silver wings and open highways, for taking me, camel-back, along the Silk Road, and through the smoke of Gettysburg, and up the creaking stairs of 221B Baker Street. They say you don’t miss what you never had, but I believe the people who say such as that never wondered if they would live their whole lives hemmed in by pulpwood roads and rusting dump trucks and, beyond that, row after row of white.

  Tomorrow I would slip clean away.

  “You want to come in and wash your hands,” my mother said, startling me. “It’s time to eat.”

  I do not believe she could read my mind, but sometimes back then it seemed like she could. I started thinking about cows, to confuse her. I used to think that if I would think about cows, just cows, then all she could see, with her mind snooping, was cows.

  “I am sorry about the circus,” she said.

  Cows.

  Cows.

  Cows.

  * * *

  • • •

  I guess, somewhere a long way from here, there are smart children.

  There are children whose minds are not hardwired to their bellies.

  My mother held me to this red dirt, to this little place, with a stick of rag bologna.

  She did not have a smoker, so she made one from the rusted old barbecue grill, and tossed some chips of hickory from the woodpile onto the hot coals. When a lovely smoke roiled through the rusty holes, she laid on the low heat a thick, solid chunk of rag bologna, made from a combination of pork and beef.

  I smelled it before I even left the yard, as I headed off down the road to try my hand at show business. I had a plan, more or less. The caravan of trucks had headed south on Highway 21, just a mile or so from our house and parallel with our country road, so south it was. I would have left the night before, but it was raining, and it was dark, and I was eight, and Momma had supper done.

  By midmorning I was packed. I had a pocketknife, a half-dozen pean
ut-butter crackers, and a dollar.

  My grandma had given the dollar to me that morning.

  “Where you headed?” she asked, as I packed.

  “Runnin’ off,” I said.

  She came back a few minutes later with her change purse and unfolded a dollar.

  To this day, I do not know if she was bribing me to stay, or just saying bon voyage.

  And I was gone.

  I made it almost all the way to the culvert at Germania Springs, a good hundred yards from the front porch, when the bologna began to sing to me. I decided, a few steps farther on, that perhaps I could run away later.

  In the backyard, the rag bologna had begun to sweat and drip into the fire. My mother took a big fork and cut slices from it about three-quarters of an inch thick, and laid them back on the fire. She basted both sides with a good tomato-based barbecue sauce, the same one we used for almost everything, and left them on the fire till the sauce had formed a thick crust and the bologna had begun to char just a little bit.

  She laid them on a platter and began to build what may still be the best sandwich I have ever had. She opened up a soft hamburger bun, buttered both sides, and put them on the grill just long enough to warm them and let the butter melt and slightly, slightly brown, but not toast.

  She put the slice of bologna on the bun, added just a teaspoon of the good sauce, then a dollop of good homemade slaw, and, finally, the second buttered bun.

  She served it with some potato chips and a glass of sweet tea with a healthy wedge of lemon.

  Then, when I was done, she made me another one.

  That is the beauty and wonder of being eight. I was still ready to travel.

  “Got to be movin’ on,” I told her, like I was forty.

  “Momma done tol’ me,” she said.

  Damn! Ratted out by the codger.

  “Where you goin’, exactly?” my mother asked.

  “Gon’ join the circus,” I said, but my heart really wasn’t in it anymore.

  “Well,” she said, “let’s all go.”

  It turned out the circus had only moved about five miles down the road, to set up at a higher, drier place in the Eastwood neighborhood. My aunt Juanita drove us there in a Chevrolet Biscayne, which was not nearly as romantic as I had hoped the journey would be.

  I watched a bear ride a tricycle, which to me seemed like a silly thing for a bear to do, and one he would not do if he was running free in the Smokies, and watched a man stick his head into a lion’s mouth, and watched the monkeys fling some poo. That seemed to be the extent of their act. Hell, I could sell them my little brother. He could do that.

  I watched a beautiful girl in spangles walk a high wire, and three dozen clowns crawl into and out of a car the size of a Nash Rambler, and the elephants, Lord, the elephants, doing all kind of tricks—sitting on command like a good dog—and that didn’t seem right to me, either. It just seemed like they should be eatin’ a tree someplace hot. I waited and waited for the human cannonball, but I reckon he had the day off.

  The midgets stole the show, as I recall, but for the life of me I cannot recall a thing they did. I waved and they waved back, but if they had planned to recruit me it must have slipped their minds. I guess show business is a busy life, and you don’t have time to waste on the wishy-washy. But on the way out, my mother bought me a monkey puppet on a string that you could make dance by jiggling two little sticks, so I forgot about them after a while.

  Barbecued Rag Bologna Sandwich Dressed with Shredded Purple Cabbage Slaw

  WHAT YOU WILL NEED

  1 to 2 pounds hickory chips

  for the slaw

  ½ head small purple cabbage

  1 teaspoon black pepper

  ¼ teaspoon garlic salt

  1 teaspoon dill pickle juice

  ¾ cup mayonnaise

  for the bologna

  1 stick rag bologna, about 2 pounds

  1½ cups tomato-based barbecue sauce

  6 hamburger buns

  HOW TO COOK IT

  This takes some time.

  First prepare the slaw.

  This is a slightly different version of the traditional mayonnaise-dressed slaw that we eat as a side. Shred the red cabbage—do not chop it. You will not add carrots or any other vegetables to this, either.

  Stir the black pepper, garlic salt, and dill pickle juice into the mayonnaise, let sit a few minutes, then stir the dressing into the cabbage. You can add or subtract mayonnaise for this, to taste. Just remember: gunky, soupy slaw is bad slaw, especially for this. You want it to be crisp.

  Set it aside.

  Now see to the fire.

  As blasphemous as this will sound to those who believe that a grill is a holy thing that should only be tended by fourth-generation pitmasters, this process ain’t that hard. It is, after all, bologna.

  First, take about 1 to 2 pounds of hickory chips—or apple, or maple, or anything pretty much except old cross ties or plywood or formica—and cover them with water until they are soaked through; let them sit in the water for an hour.

  You don’t even really need a fancy smoker. Just build a nice hot fire with about 1 to 1½ small bags of charcoal in any standard covered grill, and when the coals have faded to a dull red, toss on about ½ pound of the soaked hickory, or a good handful or so. Try not to smother your fire. You just want a good smoke, and a nice medium fire. Keep a squirt bottle of water handy for flare-ups. Let it cook down to dull red coals, then add more chips.

  Now see to the meat.

  This is not something that will still be good in a week, so only smoke about as much as you plan to serve, and a few slices leftover for perhaps the best midnight snack you will ever have.

  Rag bologna is not sliced. You want to smoke it in one big chunk, then slice it, and put it on the grill with sauce to finish. You’ll probably want slices of about ½ inch per sandwich, so 2 pounds of bologna should be plenty for four to six people, plus snacks. Some people believe only beef bologna is quality bologna, but those of us down here who grew up on a mix of beef and pork may prefer the combination, though it is increasingly hard to find without chicken leavings messing it up.

  Your best bet is to go to the deli and ask for a quality bologna, unsliced. If you buy a big tube of bologna from the supermarket, it may have a bright-red casing around it. This is not food. Things will go better if you remove it.

  Once your fire is ready, it’s time to cook.

  Do not rub the bologna, season it, or do anything.

  It’s bologna. The spices are on the inside.

  I’ve been asked why you don’t just slice the bologna and cook it slowly on the grill. The problem is, it dries out. Think of every sad piece of fried bologna you ever stared down as a child. That, but burned, is what you’ll likely get if you keep it on the grill long enough to get some smoke.

  “It cooks the juice right out,” my mother believes.

  Every outdoor griller has a technique, and can argue for hours over smoking boxes and such. I think, if you build a banked fire, as if you were going to smoke chicken or a small roast, it will be fine.

  Place the bologna on its side, away from the direct heat, and check it every few minutes to keep it from burning. After about 20 minutes, turn it, and then turn it every 20 minutes until all four sides have received some smoke. I know what you are thinking: How does a round cylinder have a side? You know damn good and well what we mean.

  It is not the end of the world if it blisters or chars a bit. Just try not to immolate the thing on the direct heat of a hot fire. And continue to watch the flare-ups. There is a lot of fat in bologna.

  Smoke it, if you can keep a lid on the inferno, for about 1 to 1½ hours, adding the wet wood chips gradually, so as to keep the smoke coming and not kill the fire.

  The heat and smoke, even in such a short time, should have put a nice color on the rag bologna.

  It may take less time, it may take more; the truth is, this is not filet mignon. You just want it to soak up
some flavor.

  Now, being careful not to let the whole damn thing roll off into the grass—this has happened many times—remove the bologna from the fire, and slice it into wheels about ½ inch thick. Place them on the grill, and baste with your favorite tomato-based barbecue sauce. Any good rib or pulled-pork sauce will do.

  Grill it till you get a little more crunch and color, and a nice glaze of sauce.

  If it looks dark brown and leathery, you have gone too far.

  There really is no “done” where bologna is concerned, only overdone. If it has a nice little char on it, and the sauce has bonded with the meat, it’s ready. The secret, my mother believes, is in the char, just that tiniest bit. “That’s where your flavor is.”

  To build the sandwich:

  The bun is a matter of preference, as long as you prefer it the way my mother wants you to. Texture is everything with this. It needs to be soft and fresh; a crumbly bun will ruin the sandwich. Whole wheat will ruin it. Sesame seeds will ruin it.

  Trust us. You want simple for this. That said, we got some potato buns once, by accident, and it was like angels started to sing. Try some good, soft potato buns.

  Do not put any extra sauce on the bottom of the bun. This is your foundation, and you want the cooked sauce and char to be in contact with the bun. You want to taste it in the bun.

  On top of the bologna, you can, if you must, add just a teaspoon or so of heated barbecue sauce. This, too, is a matter of preference; I add none. The glazed sauce on the meat is delicious, and is easily drowned, masked. I know this sounds high-hat for bologna.

  On top of the bologna, add a generous dollop, a heaping tablespoon at least, of the shredded-cabbage slaw.