Hilton Head Monthly Magazine

Having determined that all the talk about the company space shuttle was in fact a practical joke, the best perk of this job is probably being occasionally asked to eat a bunch of meat for free, which is what happened last month at the Kiwanis Club’s annual Rib Burnoff, a name that I still contend sounds like a 1940s detective, but whatever.

I’ve been lucky enough to serve as a shockingly unqualified quotefingers "guest judge” for the past few years — one year I ran a 5K in Savannah a few hours later, which still ranks among the three or four Worst Decisions Of My Adult Life — despite my not being a chef, nor a cook, nor someone who can be counted on to see the directions on the rice package all the way to completion. That said, the fests are always a great deal of fun, as well as about the best breakfast ever.

But this year was different. This year, I couldn’t help but notice things were slightly more intense than usual. This year, in deference to the cooks — the men and women working barbecue magic in the field at Honey Horn for up to 12 hours before showtime — the fest was overseen by representatives of the South Carolina Barbeque Association, a group of experts, amateurs and enthusiasts that includes nearly 500 members statewide. Part of the SCBA’s job is to establish judging ground rules at events like the Rib Burnoff, which made this year’s effort much more formal.

Photos / Rob Kaufman

Now, “formal” here is relative — we did, after all, each eat off of a piece of green poster board — but
there was no mistaking that this was serious business. There was a short presentation before the contest, in which SCBA guys helpfully walked us through what we were to look out for. Scoring was all done anonymously, using individual marks for appearance, taste and tenderness. Samples were passed
around twice, first for appearance and aroma, and second for tasting.

There was no talking at the table, no running the risk of influencing your neighbor’s vote by saying something like, “Whoo!” or “This tastes like a shoe dipped in Liquid Smoke and wrapped in several old belts!”And — get this — while judging, you couldn’t drink beer. YEAH. THAT WAS NEWS.

The funny thing is, the official vibe totally makes you think about barbecue in an entirely different
fashion. It’s like a spot-retraining of your brain; instead of feasting like a gluttonous maniac, you go slow, pulling apart your samples, inspecting them, thinking about them.

And you find yourself thinking not “Where’s the beer?” but “Is this tender? Does the sauce complement the flavor? Is it over-or-undercooked?” It’s pressure, but not bad pressure, more the kind that makes you realize that some people have been parked in the grass at Honey Horn for half a day working on their art and you should probably put some effort into it.

Oh, and at the Burnoff I ran into my doctor, who has been worried for years about my cholesterol.
Super awkward.