We are headlining this entry with another Louis Armstrong-ism, the title of one of his most popular tunes, mainly because it makes reference to the subject of this post, BBQ. Don’t count on Satchmo making an appearance every time.

As I age, I find my affinity grows for various things that represent my Southern childhood – food, music, certain styles of dress, etc. At the top of this list is BBQ.

I did not love or crave BBQ as a kid, but I ate plenty of the stuff because my dad did have a passion for smoked meat, particularly ribs and the occasional pulled pork on a bun. By contrast my favorite foods – beyond the basic kid eats – were Italian and Chinese cuisine, plus red beans and rice, which we already covered. When I moved to New Orleans as a college student, I fell in love with all things New Orleans, including its food, which I still consider the pinnacle of dining.

However, I can vividly remember patronizing a little barbecue stand next to a dingy bar and across the street from St. James Catholic Church in Gulfport. We would grab our food and devour it outdoors, sitting on a decrepit picnic bench nearby. These meals made my dad happy, a seemingly rare occurrence from my vantage point, and so they, in turn, made me happy, or at least less anxious about when the next storm darkening his mood would arrive. Years later, I would experience a disturbing transliteration of these memories while eating in a restaurant in Pittsburgh, Penn., with my own son and my dad when he got into a fairly heated discussion with a waiter over how ribs should be served, specifically in his view without any sauce.

As the years have gone by, my own personal taste for BBQ has come on strong. I suspect that new appreciation has as much to do with an attempt to retain those fond memories, as well as a South Foodways Alliance-inspired appreciation of everything the art of the pit master has to say about the broader cultural legacy of the South, as it does with my true appreciation of brisket, ribs, pulled pork or sausage. Of late, a co-worker with Alabama roots and I have been making a systematic study of the BBQ places in and around the Portland area, including Matt’s BBQ pictured here (which reminds me a bit of that spot my dad and I frequented). The results are still out on where the best PDX BBQ can be found, but I will keep you posted.

The deliciousness of BBQ notwithstanding, I find myself curious, in a self-reflexive way, about what’s going on with the quest for good BBQ, particularly good BBQ that authentically represents particular cultural regions of the South, regardless of whether that’s Texas, the Carolinas or Memphis.

Thanks to Proust, the connection between food and memory is axiomatic. BBQ, I suspect, represents more for me than a Southern affectation (I can certainly be guilty of those at times) or simply an effort to reinforce fond memories, although that’s certainly one aspect of what’s going on here. BBQ, like golf or music, represents a way to bridge the divide of decades between the present and my various, complex and sometimes painful memories of the past.

So, for now, I will just keep following that sweet smell of smoke, sending up signals from a different time and place.