5 Ingredients or Fewer

One of the cool things about cooking cheater barbecue is the thought that something is going on inside that slow cooker or behind the oven door while you’re off doing something else. The same is true with making lox in the fridge. Our method is just a simple take on classic cold smoking with a little bottled smoke. The fish “cooks” in sugar and salt and cold-smokes in the fridge. Three days later, like magic, you’re in lox. Serve with toasted bagels and cream cheese or dark rye bread with chopped hard-cooked egg, capers, and red onion.

There’s nothing wrong with pot roast, but the beef chuck shoulder roast needs a break from the potatoes and carrots and soupy broth treatment. Beef chuck makes excellent barbecue, full of rich beefy flavor. Like brisket, its connective tissue requires slow barbecue-style cooking. Chuck isn’t as long and stringy as brisket, but it can pretty much do anything a brisket can do and in less time. Also, a good chuck roast on special is an easier find than a brisket with a good fat cap. It’s about choices and good substitutes, and a chuck roast is one of them.

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.

Flanken-style ribs are beef short ribs cut across the bone (not parallel to the bone like short ribs), a half inch to an inch thick. This thin cut gives you a slice of beef with little oval rib bones evenly spaced throughout. Flanken-style ribs will turn mildly chewy and tender when slow-cooked long enough to render the fat and connective tissue. Since they like a little last-minute finish on a grill or under a broiler, they’re a good choice for slow-cooking in advance. The high-heat finish brushed with Dijon mustard crusts up the meat juices. Brush the ribs with bottled smoke before slow cooking, if you like. Be sure to set the ground rules before dinner: Chewing on the rib bones is encouraged.

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.

About fifteen years ago R. B. thought his next-door neighbor, who was out grilling some chicken, called him a jerk. Back then, R. B. hadn’t heard of jerk seasoning, and his neighbor seemed like a nice, quiet fellow who pretty much kept to himself. When R. B. turned down the Bob Marley, everything got straightened out, and the chicken was delicious. A jerk dry rub requires allspice, thyme, and some heat. The Scotch bonnet pepper is the traditional choice, but that’s too many Scoville heat units for us. We keep the heat out of the rub, then sprinkle on cayenne to customize the chicken to suit everyone.

A superhot oven is what separates the professionals from the rest of us. While we dream of 900°F, we’re making the most of our enamel-coated cast-iron Dutch oven in 500°F. Chicken cooked in a hot covered pot cheats your way to moist meat and crisp dry-rubbed salty skin just like the pros. Whole chickens are easy to cut in half with poultry shears, a sharp knife, or a cleaver, or have your meat guy do it. First, get the pot raging hot. Start the chicken halves skin side down to sear in the juices. Flip halfway through cooking and leave the cover off to crisp the skin. Good pot holders and tongs are a must. Skip the sauce because the skin is killer good.

The hobo crock method was inspired by R. B.’s Boy Scout campout foil hobo-pack cuisine. Cheater hobo crock meats take advantage of this simple method for infusing foods with flavor and trapping moisture. Meats are tightly wrapped with seasonings and bottled smoke and placed in a slow cooker. The cool thing is that you won’t open the pack to find a pile of soggy skin and bones, as you might expect. The chicken maintains its structure, browns on top, and can be carved and sliced. This method will also successfully tame a beef brisket (page 113). Indoors or out, the only issue we have is over the grade of aluminum foil for wrapping the bird. R. B. requires heavy duty—one of those barbecue guy things. Min uses the thinner, everyday stuff because she knows that the juices are going to leak into the crock anyway, so who cares whether the cheaper foil springs a hole or two.

Super Pollo is a hybrid Mexican-American barbecue chicken restaurant in Nashville that combines Tennessee hickory smoke with chili-rubbed chicken, corn tortillas, and fresh salsas. Unlike the more traditional barbecue shack approach where chicken doused in sweet sauce plays second fiddle to pulled pork, ribs, and brisket, here the cumin-and-chili-rubbed chicken is the star. Handmade corn tortillas replace the usual corn cakes, and rich soupy pintos replace the standard sweet barbecue baked beans. We smoky-brine our Super Pollo first and spice it up with Cheater Chili Dry Rub. Serve with tortillas, pintos, rice, and plenty of salsa and pickled jalapeños.

If you’re feeling that cooking has gotten way too complicated, try smoking a big chubb bologna in the slow cooker. It might just be one of the best tasting, most underwrought meats around. Believe it or not, smoked chubb bologna has become a menu regular in barbecue joints. This fun, affordable, already-cooked sausage quickly picks up smoke in an outdoor smoker or in a slow cooker. Think of the possibilities. Give the brats a break and boost tailgating team spirit with a load of bologna patty melts oozing with cheese and grilled onions. Lighten the mood with cracker chubb mini bologna burgers. How about teriyaki-glazed bologna with pineapple chunks in lettuce cups?

Long ago R. B. learned that grilling hot dogs and sausages isn’t as low-stress or as simple as it sounds. He’s still recovering from childhood campfire hot dogs that turned out more like bike inner tubes. R. B.’s current recovery program requires him to just let it all go. He tries not to be an annoying guest at casual barbecues or hover nervously near the grill when a distracted host leaves his post. Dogs on a grill need to be watched or they’ll quickly run away from you. When done right they get a light char and a bite that pops. Since game day is supposed to be about the game and the guests, get the dogs done before the national anthem. The key to dogs lasting well into the postgame commentary is the slow cooker. Before the game, grill, broil, or pan-char your sausages—brats, knacks, red hots, kielbasa, smoked turkey and chicken sausages, even those basil–sun-dried tomato–mango brands. Keep them warm in spiked hot dog “water.” Use the recipe as a guideline. A large slow cooker can easily keep 5 or 6 pounds of dogs in a hot steamy bath. Just use enough liquid to keep the dogs partially but comfortably submerged, adding more water if needed. Once heated through, the links will be ready as long as the cooker is plugged in. And if the slow cooker is tied up with your famous chili or nacho dip, put a heavy-bottomed covered pot over low heat on the stove. Otherwise, grab an extension cord, set the slow cooker on the coffee table, and you won’t even have to leave your seat.

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.

In addition to seasoning the Roasted Eggplant White Bean Spread (page 25), roasted garlic with a little smoke adds great flavor to hummus, mashed potatoes, and butter or olive oil spread on bread or over a steak. Blend roasted garlic with some mayonnaise for burgers and sandwiches.

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.

Demeter, the goddess of grain, hallowed by i siculi—the warrior tribe that inhabited the island before the Greeks—was all of resplendence, even to the high crown formed from her flaxen braids. It was she who illuminated the magic of sowing seeds beneath the earth and then protecting them, feeding them, and growing them up into ripeness. The tribe’s harvests grew ever more abundantly, the goddess conjuring the sun and the rain and the breezes on their behalf, they honoring her with great bonfires under the full moon’s light and ritual offerings of bread and wine. The island was Elysium, uninterrupted. And then, heaving himself up through a rent in the earth’s crust, Pluto stole Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, as plunder for his abyss. Demeter screeched and mourned and cast Sicilia into darkness. There was nothing to nourish her tribe save the tears Demeter cried down from the heavens. So clamorously did the goddess petition him that Pluto succumbed, vowing riddance to the child as much as to her shrewish mother. He would liberate Persephone. Only then, though, did Pluto take note that Persephone had cut in two a pomegranate, and that she sat slaking her child’s thirst on its juices and its glistening, rosy seeds—a blunder. He howled up at her mother that Persephone had devoured the sacred seeds of fertility, and for this sin he must halve his promise. Just as she had broken the fruit, Persephone would be liberated for only six months of every year. And, as penance, she must, each year and everlastingly, stay six months in the shades of Hades. And so it was that Demeter heralded the sun and the rain and raised up the wheat, thick and golden, from May through October, when Persephone was at her side, leaving the island barren and under an impotent sun from November until April—her half-mourning an allegory of the seasons, of life and of death. In the early springtime, one can see still the great roaring fires lit by Sicilian wheat farmers and whole villages in dance and song, invoking the gods’ promise to keep safe their newly sown fields. Only now, old, sweet Demeter, pagan that she was, has been supplanted by St. Joseph, her powers having been ferried over into his realm. Not so long after a woman in Palermo had told us this story of Demeter, we were staying awhile in Enna, an interior agricultural city. One evening, the man who served our supper of rough-cut semolina pasta with a mutton sauce and thick chops of pork, oven-roasted with wild onions, dispatched to our table his mother—a fine country cook—with the sad news that she’d had not a moment to put together some rustic little tart or other that day. There would be no sweet. Unless, of course, she murmured, we’d like a pomegranate with un cucchiaino di zabaglione—a small spoonful of custard. We agreed. What she brought forth to us on an old plate of cranberry-colored glass were two pomegranates that seemed to be broken rather than cut in two, their crimson juices spilling out from the jagged shells with tiny coffee spoons plunged into the hearts of seeds. Two diminutive porcelain pitchers of some winy custard were laid beside the plate. We were urged to pour the custard over, into the pomegranates. Sweet but not quite sweet against the tart, peppery seeds, the sauce was the color of ambered muscadine, its scent that of crushed violets. It was a plate quietly, achingly beautiful to see and to eat. Later, when we asked her son if we might give our thanks to his mother for the fine supper and, especially, for the pomegranates, he told us that she’d gone upstairs to bed. Thinking to write our thanks in a little note, I asked him, “What is her name?” “Mia madre si chiama Demetra,” said the man. “My mother is called Demeter.” Startled, dazed even, for a moment, the story of Demeter came racing to mind. Thinking the note unnecessary, all we said w...

Six hundred years before Christ, the Greeks raised up a grand colony on the verges of the Mar Tirreno, dedicating it to Poseidon. Now known as Paestum, the whole cadence of life, as it was then and there, sits in high relief, a phenomenal diorama, traceable, floating, gleaming. The great temples, barely wounded and without a haunting, invite one inside to stay among the rests of old dreams, to race among the open pathways between them. A cordial parish, a fair Camelot, it seems, while one sits awhile on the thick tufts of grass inside the Temple of Neptune, having slipped under the easy gate to watch the sunrise, to collect armfuls of the tall, thin spears of asparagus that grow wild, treasures to take back to Alfonso to cook for lunch. He, having spent the morning gathering clams, combined the collected booty with fusilli di Felitto—beautiful pasta, hand-rolled then wound, one string at a time, around the traditional, corkscrew-shaped wires, used and prized like jewels, by the women of the nearby village of Felitto. Dishes that marry wild vegetables with sea or shellfish are typical of the Cilentini, they thinking it a thing natural to prepare their suppers with stuffs foraged from woods that fall down to the sea.

Perhaps the essence of Campania is this, of the countryside, of the pastoral innocence of the good, pure foods one eats there. Search, beg, grow, procure these few ingredients, first eating them with your eyes, dashing all record of plastic mozzarella and dusty-fleshed fruit masquerading as a tomato. This is not a recipe as much as it is quiet illustration of one fine way to eat in Italian.

Beautiful breakfast biscuits with hot anisette-sparkled milk, caffè, or cioccolata calda.

Agnello Piccino, Piccino, Picciò (Delicate, more Delicate, The most Delicate Lamb of all). Just outside the village of Campo di Giove—Field of Jove—southeast of Sulmona, there lives and works a butcher who is also a chef of sorts, roasting and braising, as he does, some of his wares in a great, old stone bread oven that sits behind his pristinely stuccoed shop. His clients come sometimes to buy their lunch or their supper still warm and fragrant, readied for the table. Though it was achingly cold on that February morning when first we came upon the butcher at work in his outdoor kitchen, we joined the long, decorously kept line that wound its way from his ovens down the country road. We offered our good-days to the mostly women in whose midst we now stood, women typically Abruzzese, with serene, high-boned faces. They carried their pots and casseroles in sacks or against a hip and, when they felt our interest, they talked to us a bit about the dishes for which the old butcher was celebrated. Mutton braised overnight with tomatoes and onions and red wine; pork braised with bay leaf and garlic and peperoncino in Trebbiano d’Abruzzo; tripe and pancetta with tomatoes and yet more peperoncino; kid roasted with centerbe (an artisanly distilled liqueur made with mountain herbs). Long and reverent was their litany, but when one of them spoke of his agnello da latte—of suckling lamb that he braised only with butter in a sealed copper pot—there came a swift agreement that it was his piatto prelibato—his dish of greatest refinement and delicacy. As the gods would have it that day, the butcher had not prepared agnello da latte but intinglio di agnello allo zafferano (page 47), which, when it came our turn, he packaged for us in a little plastic tub and on which we later lunched in the car with the motor running. It was luscious. We returned in the afternoon, forsaking the day’s program, to beg its formula and to know when the mythical angello da latte might be forthcoming. Il macellaio, the butcher, shook his head on both counts. The suckling lamb in the sealed casserole he prepared only when he found lambs of just the right plumpness and age whose mothers fed only on certain grasses. He turned to the next question. “Una ricetta è una questione di cuore, signora mia; è molto personale,” he said. “A recipe is a thing of the heart, my lady; it is most personal.” I simply looked at him, neither beseechingly nor with delusion, and proceeded to tell him how I thought it had been accomplished. I spoke for a long time, I suppose, he never interrupting even as clients accumulated around his cold white cases. I sealed my discourse by asking why he’d used imported saffron rather than the milder one harvested locally up near Navelli. By now, he was laughing, mostly at my accent, I thought, which is distinctly Northern and often unpleasant to southern ears. At a point much later, after we knew each other longer, he confessed it was only my determinazione—determination—that had made him laugh. The butcher, at least with words, never told me if my understanding of his beautiful lamb stew was correct, but each time I make the dish, I know that the pungent, melting result is a fine tribute to him. And so, when Campo di Giove sits even remotely on our route, we visit, happy to see our friend and hoping to find agnello da latte. We are always a day too late, a week too early. Someday our timing will be divine. Curiously enough, though, the butcher, without my asking for it, one day told me its formula.