It's not as American as apple pie, but barbecue is firmly entrenched in this country's culinary heritage.
Q Crutchfield
Adorable Mitchell serves up rib-tickling barbecue at Smacks.
Details
BBQ ribs...$7.50
BBQ beef brisket...$6.50
BBQ chicken...$6.50
Catfish...$7.50
Fried chicken...$5.50
Louisiana crunch cake...$1.25
Peach dumpling...$2.75
Sweet-potato pie...$1.75
303-632-0224
Hours: 11 a.m.-8 p.m. Tuesday-Thursday; 11 a.m.-9 p.m. Friday-Saturday
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Although some food historians suggest that "barbecue" was derived from the French barbe à queue, which means "beard to tail," the majority of reference works agree that it really came from the Haitian babracot, which the Spanish adopted and turned into barbacoa. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, by the time the word became barbecue, it referred to "a rude wooden framework, used in America for sleeping on, and for supporting above a fire, meat that is to be smoked or dried." The OED does not elaborate on who might have been sleeping on a spit way back when, but I can only imagine it was the person who had to ready the original barbecue, which was much more complicated than firing up a grill: A pit had to be dug, wood burned until it turned into charcoal, and the meats watched over constantly.
Clearly, though, the process of slow-smoking foods outside the cave evolved long before there were countries around to claim the invention. Although its popularity probably rose and fell as people discovered easier ways to cook meat -- like in an oven in a nice, cozy kitchen, away from rain and ten-degree temperatures -- barbecue never completely fell from favor, since most ethnic cuisines feature some version of it.
But none takes it as seriously as we do in the United States, where we're more divided over sauce styles and smoking methods than we are over who should run the country. Native Americans were smoking fish and fowl from the start, and Spanish explorers brought pigs up through Florida. By the time Captain John Smith got here in the seventeenth century, the porkers had made their way to New England, where there weren't any environmentalists around to save the walnut trees from stoking the fires for pulled pork. So it's possible that some form of barbecue might have been offered at that first Thanksgiving meal.
Today, what constitutes barbecue varies with geography. In Florida, barbecue can be a pig roast; in New Mexico it might be a juice-dripping, mesquite-smoked brisket; and in New Orleans, it could even be a spicy-sauced chicken. Most often, though -- and certainly in Denver -- the word "barbecue" is synonymous with the word "ribs." And whenever a new rib joint opens up in the area, barbecue fans are quick to check it out.
Despite its remote location in an Aurora strip mall, the three-month-old Smacks Cafe already has a loyal clientele. A former sandwich stop, Smacks features an aqua-colored counter and four too-small tables, and customers cram their way in to debate the merits of the town's other rib spots as they smack lips over 'cue at Smacks. Co-owner Adorable Mitchell -- yes, that's her name, and if you want to make something of it, she's likely to turn downright unadorable -- takes the crowds in stride, though, because she knows that her brothers, who are also her partners, are on the job.
Cornelius and Scooter Freeney, Mitchell's siblings, share cooking duties with their uncle, Harold Stinnett. Meanwhile, Mitchell handles the front of the house with the help of her mother and stepfather, Delores and Emmitt Evans; and proving that this truly is a family affair, the Freeneys' father, Howard, and Mitchell's daughter, Shayla Johnson, also help out. (Mitchell's husband, Henry, is also a partner in the venture.) The Freeney kids all grew up in Denver, and although Mitchell worked in telecommunications for years, she always knew she wanted to own her own restaurant. "My brothers did, too," she says. "We just didn't know what it was going to be."
But Scooter had been doing some catering work, and his catfish, barbecued ribs and brisket always received compliments. So when the time seemed right for the Freeneys to open their own place, Scooter's recipes made barbecue a natural choice. "Scooter's been kind of the mastermind behind the business," Mitchell explains. "He's a certified chef through the American Culinary Federation, and he's been in the business for fifteen years."
The Freeneys made their own smoker out of a barrel that now sits in the parking lot behind the eatery. The 400-pound unit uses charcoal for heat and mesquite for smoke, and when you ask Scooter what kind of barbecue emerges from that drum, he'll say, "It's a New York-California-Midwest mix, with spices from Kansas City, the wood-burning style from New York, and the mildness of the sauce hailing from Chicago."
But that description doesn't really capture the pork ribs at Smacks. An order brought four thick-cut bones that had plenty of chewy meat on the ends and bits of tender fat here and there, all boasting a good, strong mesquite flavor that held up to the sauce. That sauce was thin enough to slather on the ribs without being too watery -- a vinegary concoction with just enough sweetness to balance the tartness, as well as a faint, faint hint of heat that kept it from being too Kansas City style.
Smacks also smokes chicken and beef brisket, slapping the same sauce on those meats. The BBQ chicken appeared as three kitchen-cut pieces off the whole bird, with a crisp skin that held the smoke flavor in its crevices. On one visit, the beef brisket was almost jerky-like in its toughness and chewiness; on another, it was fall-apart tender and a perfect match for that sauce. (Because of the brisket's inconsistency, Mitchell says, Smacks has already changed meat purveyors.)
