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"When we revived the barbecue, we took over the cooking instead of hiring someone," Bubba said. "But we learned how to do it from watching Abe Johnson."
On the wall in the kitchen at Millheim Hall, there's a collection of fading snapshots taken at the barbecues of the 1960s and 1970s. It was the same pit, but the pieces of meat in the photos were a lot bigger. They were skewered with the giant metal rods and rotated over the coals as they cooked.
"The sheep and the shoats (small pigs) were killed and butchered here and cooked whole," Mark Bolten said. "The cattle were cut into four quarters and each one was turned on a pair of metal rods."
The German singing society called the Millheim Harmonie Verein was established in 1872. It was one of many secular societies, or "vereins," established by the German immigrants who began arriving in this area in the 1830s. The Germans founded Millheim, Cat Springs, Industry and New Ulm and began growing cotton and tobacco, following the example of their neighbors in Stephen F. Austin's Mexican land grant nearby.
The settlers of Austin's colony were mainly Southerners, and many brought their slaves along. By 1825, the 300 families who settled there owned 443 slaves. By 1834, one third of the population was African-American. German settlers in Northwestern Austin County didn't believe in slavery, but they no doubt learned how to barbecue from their Southern neighbors and their slaves.
The morning I visited, I joined the group that was cooking the beans and barbecue sauce in cast-iron wash pots over propane burners. When I asked about the barbecue sauce recipe, I was quickly corrected. "We don't call it 'barbecue sauce,' we call it 'gravy,'" said James Grawunder, the head of the barbecue crew, who kept the recipe in his head.
Watching the process, I would guess that a 20-pound sack of onions was chopped and cooked in something like 20 pounds of butter, to which five pounds of ancho peppers and a lot of tomato sauce were added. The men took turns stirring the pots with wooden boat oars. Propane was another newfangled innovation that was grudgingly accepted by Bolten and the traditionalists. "We used to build wood fires under the pots," said Grawunder. "But your pants got so hot standing next to the fire that nobody wanted to do the stirring." Grawunder wasn't sure how long the barbecue had been going on, but he had been part of the crew since 1958. "My father did it before me, and he died in 1955," he said. Bolten and Grawunder told me to talk to Allan "Cap" Hilboldt, the oldest active member of the society and its unofficial historian.
I found Cap Hilboldt at the long wooden table with the crew that was carving the barbecue. Some of the meat was hand-sliced, and some was cut on a Hobart electric slicer. The veteran barbecue man sharpened an old butcher's knife on a whetstone he carried in his pocket before he started slicing mutton. In the booklet published for the Millheim society's centennial celebration, I noticed that the schedule of events included "dinner consisting of Veal and Mutton Barbecue with all the trimmings." I asked Cap why pork, mutton and "veal" were the Texas barbecue meats back then.
Up until the 1950s, when refrigeration became common, whole sheep and small pigs were brought to the barbecue pit and slaughtered on the spot, Cap said. It was difficult to kill and butcher an 800-pound steer, so beef barbecue was rare — calves were easier to handle. The barbecue committee would drive around to neighboring farms looking at calves before buying a few and sending them to the butcher shop. "The calves were around 300 pounds live weight; they dressed out to somewhere around 175 pounds," Cap recalled. The meat market delivered the veal quarters, which weighed a little over 40 pounds each.
Beef shoulder clods, which weigh around 25 pounds apiece, have replaced the veal quarters. Whole sheep are still butchered, though they are cut into parts these days. Mutton hindquarters and mutton prime rib sections are among the largest cuts on the pit. Mutton ribs are the last items to be added. The whole shoats have been replaced by pork shoulders, which are also known as Boston butts.
The original Millheim hall was built in 1874. It was demolished and the lumber was used to build the new hall, which was erected in 1938. In its current form, Cap said, the Millheim Father's Day barbecue had been going on for more than 70 years.
My wife and our two toddlers met me at the Millheim dance hall shortly after eleven, when the serving line opened. There were three huge hotel pans full of sliced meat. "Beef" was printed on the paper tablecloth beside the first pan, beside it was "Pork" and next to that, "Mutton." The beef shoulder was pretty good, if you found a pinkish slice. The pork butt was a little dry for my tastes, but I'm picky since I've been eating a lot of whole hog lately. But the mutton was spectacular. Having watched the meat being carved, I knew to skip the hindquarters and look for the juicy slices from the lamb's prime rib. The buttery barbecue sauce was terrific, as were the pinto beans. Beer and soda were sold from two concession stands.
Nice article Robb. Nice to that you're using B&B's Lump Charcoal. They have other types of lump charcoal also at http://bbcharcoal.com/products/lump-charcoal/. Have you tried those?
We used to have an open pit made from an old iron bed headboard and frame. Corrugated tin was used to close off the sides. Hog wire provided the cooking surface. It was always the center of activity at family reunions in Sweet Home, TX. Loved the article. Plan to rig up an open pit on our next visit to the country.
So, it sounds like 'real BBQ' is closer to the stuff I did on my Weber grill in Chicago, than those smoked meats I find all over the place down here. Is that right?
I grew up in Tomball when, in the summer, almost every local church and fire department had a Sunday bar-b-que....and my dad filled in the remaining Sundays with his brisket cooked 14 hours....and as many "split chickens" as he could cook to fill in the spaces. The best bar-b-que we bought was made in the pit behind the only store in "old Washington" (Washington on the Brazos). Every bar-b-que joint I try is judged on those standards. My new pet peave are places that served decent brisket, but no packages of white bread--any Texas knows a pile of brisket is enjoyed a piece at the time on a piece of white bread with pickles and onions, and hopefully a vinegar-based sauce. Oh, for the good old days.....
I'm rather young but grew up in a small town/community of about 2500 people, but this article brings alot of great memories. My father started teaching me how to tend a fire when I was 8- in his words "if a man can't tend a fire, well he ain't shit". A few years later I'd move to helping my Uncle Art tend to the big brick pits at the VFW for fundraisers and communal gatherings. The most important thing about these gathers isn't rather what it's for, but who is ultimately doing the cooking. Word eventually get's out that someone like Gut, Tuna, etc. will be doing the cooking, you'll get the entire town to come out. It's just tradition. About 2 years ago I had a cousin who is a well respected community member have a stroke, so a fundraiser was thrown. Much like what you witnessed, we used 3 brick pits about 20 ft long with the long steel grates and a long slit in the back for coals to get thrown in as needed. All the while, a 6 foot hole had been dugout behind the cooking shed and a small cabrito was laid in the ground and cooked the old way. We cooked 56 briskets that night, 100 links of sausage, 40 pounds of beans and reminisced. All in all takes about 14 hours to cook everything, beats the shit out of your body, but is worth every minute. Kudos to a damn good article here sir.
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