The Irresistible Pull of Pork

I have been on a pilgrimage through the US Barbecue belt – Washington DC, St. Louis, Kansas City, San Antonio, Atlanta, Houston – eating "low and slow" meat in a quest to find the best – and always yearning for someplace in Calgary to at least come close, for those long stretches when business kept me here, unable to find excuses to head south of the border. Yes, there were one or two wannabes in town that approximated the real thing, but they’ve swirled down the drain of mediocrity.

So imagine my barely contained, hopeful glee when I was zipping down Manhattan Road on an errand last fall, and just out of the corner of my eye spotted the Holy Smoke sign, with a bunch of guys at a picnic table. This is always a good sign. Fortunately, it was lunchtime, so I stopped in.

The first confirmation of my hope was the smell - the essence of smoky porkiness, in all its olfactory glory. Next, everyone at the gingham-plastic covered communal tables was eating off trays lined with butcher paper. My faith grew.

I made a resolution on my birthday that I needed to slim down again – which is the only reason I did not order one of everything on the menu. And besides, thus saith the holy grail of barbecue – “by thy pork shalt thou be judged” – so I reverently requested the full 8 ounce version of the pulled pork sandwich. And pit baked beans on the side. With a Dr. Pepper, naturally.

Peaches, behind the counter, as well as Jim Bob and a variety of other industrious staff, all clad in vestments of repair-shop coveralls with helpful nametags, were completely and devotedly interested in what I had on my tray. Before I even turned fully to face the wall of sauce choices (from Missouri, to Lip-Blistering to Jack Daniels, among 12 or 15 others), Jim Bob materialized beside me, and guided me in the way to the sublime vinegary Jim Beam-based version, which I slathered on.

The bun came with coleslaw, like it’s supposed to. The bun fell apart halfway through my meal, like it’s supposed to. The extra pork dropped all over my tray, ditto. The juice ran down my hands. I think I probably moaned a bit, because Peaches was watching me, expectantly, from the counter. I had told her my last stop for Barbecue had been Rudy’s in San Antonio. She wanted to know how this compared - you know why?  Because they told me they modeled Holy Smoke after Rudy's.  Small world!  My mouth was full, so I just put up two dripping thumbs. She made the universal sign for “Score!” – and you know what? I think she genuinely meant it – these guys rejoice in knowing that they have hit it out of the park.

I looked across, behind the assembly table where the sandwiches were being packed at blazing speed, to try and find the smoker. It’s actually parked outside, in a huge trailer. Somebody was thinking.

The pit beans were a rich, chocolatey brown, with the kind of unctuous sauce that can only result from being forcibly converted over several hours in a hot, smoky room. Perfect.

And when it was time to clean my hands before trying to navigate my BlackBerry again, I found the washroom impeccably clean. Yeah, there are license plates on the walls, and the atmosphere is devotedly redneck – but make no mistake. This is a class joint, that does it lovingly right. And the price? You’d pay the same at Wendy’s for lunch. And – if you don’t have a GPS and can’t find it on the map – they’ll apparently cater your event right at your house.

www.holysmokebbq.ca