People were out and about this weekend in ways I’ve not seen in years, and there was the rarest of things happening that I thought was a thing of the past. People were smiling. And laughing. And talking with each other expansively and without fear. It’s like some kind of dark cloud has been lifted, even in areas of the country that show up as blue on the voting map.
I took the opportunity and headed to my favorite butcher shop to buy some strip steaks for a dinner party. They had to be cut and there was a long line. The butcher said he had not been this busy in a very long time. I didn’t mind waiting because there was some great conversation to be had.
That was highly unusual. I cannot remember the last time I had an animated conversation with a group of men I had never met. It was also multi-ethnic and multi-racial, which would not matter in the slightest except that it symbolized for me what happened on Tuesday this week, with the vast wave of racially and ethnically diverse coalitions in support of Trump. The media had this point all wrong: It was never about race; it was always about class.
The bros in the butcher shop were all working class, no question. What was the subject? Smoking meats. As is my usual way, I took the opportunity to learn. They were happy to teach.
I long ago tried my hand at smoking meat, but I ended up smoking myself and the smoker too, simply because I had no idea what I was doing and did not bother to look it up.
I attempted to crash the conversation initially by asking what wood they used. Wrong question. It seems like everyone these days uses smoking pellets that come in a variety of different flavors, including some that come from oak bourbon barrels. They explained that there is no longer a need to continually feed wood into the smoker. The pellets do the work and are on a timed release that can last a day or more with the right setup.
There was some talk about brands of smokers. They knew them all. They had hilarious stories of trying this one and that and the merits of each. That was of course lost on me, but I have to say: It was a very impressive thing to hear all these guys standing around talking about cooking things outdoors.
My mind raced back to theories in evolutionary biology that posit that men are most themselves when handling large pieces of meat and starting and tending to fires. I came to suspect this years ago through implausible means. I found that I was deeply uncomfortable in rooms with bright white lights. They gave me mental pain. I found that changing them out for lights the color of fire made all the difference. My choice was the Edison bulb, but there are LED bulbs that do the job just as well.
My only theory as to why came down to some inner biological need to sit around fire. Maybe we are all just cavemen with fancier clothes? Probably there is truth in that. Everything else is a constructed artifice. The grave risk of what we call civilization is that it works to drive that instinct out of us and plunges us into a setting we have not evolved to handle well. The culture too had deprecated caveman instincts for a very long time, calling it “toxic” and dangerous. The election, however, among many meanings, gave power and affirmation to the manly personae in a way that has been suppressed for many decades.
Indeed, looking back at the esoteric Trump strategy, it was to tap into the vastly disenfranchised male voter under the age of 40. I cannot ever remember an article that pointed this fact out. But the Trump people knew it was there all along and that Trump was the one to fire up that voting base to get them registered and make their way to the polls. This is why he spent so much time on “manosphere” podcasts. It worked beautifully.
Back to the butcher shop. These dudes were celebrating without ever saying so. There was no talk about politics at all, and yet politics was the underlying theme of everything about which we spoke. They were all ready to fire up the smokers starting that day. It was mid-morning, so they had to get going right away in order to have it ready by the evening.
So they were looking for fresh pork butts, beef ribs, and smaller cuts. I asked why they wouldn’t buy that 15-pound brisket sitting right there under the glass. They all said no, because that would require some 15 hours of smoking and there was no time for that. Curious, however, I asked specifically how this would work.
Pretty simple really. The only spice is salt and pepper, equal parts of both. The smoker should run low at 240 degrees or so. The meat is mostly smoked uncovered, but when the time comes to remove it, it is wrapped very tightly in butcher paper and left to relax out of the smoker for two hours. When it is unwrapped, it comes out red, moist, and ridiculously tender. They pulled out their phones and showed me videos of the result.
The subject turned to turkeys for Thanksgiving. They were all planning for the big day. One man said he uses Jamaican jerk spice and even injects the turkey with hot sauce. Others stick with just the basics. Regardless, they all swore that this is the method for making the best turkey one can imagine. Another said that he does the same with ducks.
So on it went for a very long time before my own meat arrived. Feeling like the odd man out because I was the only person without a smoker, it felt nice that they were all impressed by my seven New York strip steaks cut one inch thick. One man asked how I would cook it and I said I would put it in the oven and finish in an iron skillet. They all agreed that this was a terrible idea. They said I should do them all in iron, three minutes on each side, and then let them sit for 10 minutes after, while perhaps covering them in a butter/garlic sauce.
I did exactly what they said. The results: perfection. What if I had not been coached by these masters? I would have messed it up.
Steaks in hand, I said goodbye to the gang and left. Everyone was nice and smiling.
I'll tell you what, it’s been many years since I’ve hung around with a bunch of dudes I did not know who were talking about cooking! How marvelous! The kitchen is not their natural home. They like the outdoors, and they like real fire. There we go: That is our deepest instincts talking.
This is not the same as what was called being “grill pilled” some five years ago. This term emerged out of discouragement after the Bernie Sanders flop. The idea was to forget about politics and just return to simple tasks in life that take one’s mind off public affairs.
Being “smoke pilled” is different: It signals the blessed relief that our overlords finally got the message that the public is done with them and their ways. Our job is now to get on to being the best version of human beings that we can be.
The meeting at the butcher shop felt like some kind of collegiality, camaraderie, and even solidarity. Again, no one talked politics, but the presence of an emancipated spirit was palpable. We should all hope that it lasts. I have some sense that it will.
