Chris Lilly - Big Bob Gibson’s BBQ Book: Recipes and Secrets from a Legendary Barbecue Joint

I began my new day, new job, new life blinded as a dense cloud of smoke engulfed my vision. This was not exactly what I had pictured when I stepped up to the podium to receive my college diploma, or when I was shopping for a new suit prior to my first interview. I really didnt know what to expect when I was hired at a restaurant with the history and tradition of Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q. My only instruction: Dress casual. So there I stood in my khakis and polo shirt, waiting for a flood of tears to soothe my stinging eyes.

As my vision cleared, I felt as if I had traveled back in time fifty years and stepped into a black-and-white photograph in which light and shadows outlined gigantic brick ovens. The three enormous cookers were capped with a series of solid steel lids, each hinged and connected to the ceiling by a cable and pulley. The floor, walls, and ceiling were black and gray from years of smoke saturation. Fluorescent lights hidden behind stained yellow lenses did little to brighten the room. It was the shafts of sunshine flickering through the wall fan that lit the smokehouse and announced to everyone who entered that this was hallowed ground.

I staggered, disoriented and still half-blind, in the process brushing up against a silent figure who until then had remained unnoticed. It was evident he belonged there perched on an ancient hickory stump, its bark long ago worn away to leave a stool of smoked tanned hardwood indistinguishable from the old mans arms. His dull gray hair blended with the walls as perfectly as did his stained and tattered overalls. Only his smile stood out in the murky gray setting, and he gave me less a greeting and more a chuckle of bemusement as he waited to see what I would do next.

To break the awkward silence I announced, Sir, Im the new guy here to learn how to barbecue.

I soon realized he knew who I was and was aware that he was to teach me his trade. While his smile remained accepting, his eyes surveyed me frankly, trying to ascertain what he had to work with. Even without a word of conversation I felt he was able to assess my desire and potential unerringly, for I was in his world.

He rose, and the intimidation I had felt earlier grew exponentially as he towered over me. He was a big man, both tall and broad, but he stood with the youthful fluidness of someone half his age. He placed his hand on my shoulder reassuringly and said, Take my seat, pay close attention, and open your mind. At the end of the day youll tell me what youve learned. With that he left the pitroom, his baffling words lingering as I stood staring at the open door, waiting for more instruction or a hint that this was a joke played on all those new to cooking barbecue. Eventually I decided simply to play along, and I took the seat my mentor had proffered.

The stump was unexpectedly comfortable. Years of wear had hollowed a depression at the crest of the seat, making the block of wood feel like an executives chair. As I pulled a notepad from my pocket to begin recording the days lessons, I became aware of a beautiful aroma that made my stomach shift and my mouth water. Every drop of moisture in the air was tinged with the hypnotic aroma of Grandmas kitchen and a campfire grill rolled into one. The effect of this unexpected and pleasurable sensation was instant calm, and my anxieties melted away.