True barbecue’s a game of smoke and dithers

Britain has finally been bitten by the barbecue bug.

Did you barbecue last weekend? Did you huddle round one of those dinky disposable numbers in the park, perhaps, or fire up the gas behemoth in the back garden for a couple of burgers? Well, if so, I’ve got news for you, sunshine: you didn’t barbecue. You grilled.

Should you be confused by the distinction, grilling involves charring food over a high heat, often leaving it burnt on the outside and raw within. Real barbecue, by contrast, as practised in the southern United States, is a long, slow business in which large cuts of meat, often whole animals, are gently smoked in pits – a process that can take hours, even days.

Old-fashioned barbecue joints still employ men to tend the fires overnight, tenderly stoking the cinders around the hogs (in much of the South, “barbecue” equals pig – hence the herds of cheery swine that beckon enticingly from restaurant signs along every highway), so that by the time lunchtime comes around they’re cooked to finger-licking perfection. And barbecue is almost always a lunch thing in its homeland; a good spot will have sold out and closed up by one in the afternoon.

The idea of roasting meat over embers was probably picked up from Native Americans – the celebratory pig slaughter and feast in autumn, common to many European cultures, became, in this new world, a barbecue. These days it serves much the same function as the annual church picnic or tailgate party, bringing whole communities together to pig out happily on pork.

Indeed, this has long been an event that transcends race and class. Within living memory, the harvest barbecue was the one time of year that black and white workers would sit down with each other, sharing meat cooked over the embers of the same fires that had cured the new season’s tobacco.

The power of good barbecue is such that, even during segregation, blacks and whites would patronise the same pits even if the law wouldn’t allow them to eat in the same dining room. If a black-owned restaurant did the best barbecue in town, then white people, “in a strange reversal of Jim Crow traditions, made stealthy excursions for take-out orders”, or so claims the Encyclopaedia of Southern Culture, which devotes an appropriately large entry to barbecue in all its glory.

That said, in 1968, the final battle to desegregate barbecue restaurants went all the way to the Supreme Court – nearly four years after the passing of the Civil Rights Act. In the South, change, like barbecue, takes its sweet time.

And though electric and gas grills may be more common than hardwood pits these days, minor regional distinctions are fiercely maintained: in the Carolinas, for example, they chop their pork, but in Tennessee they pull it. The journalist Michael Pollan quotes a friend’s description of barbecue as “basically like kashrut for goys”; there may be some very unkosher meat involved, but the precise rules governing these “acts of alimentary communion” seem similarly arbitrary to the hungry outsider.

Yet the beauty of being an outsider is that you don’t have to worry about whether pulled pork is really barbecue, or if the sauce should go on before or after serving – because, as they’d say down South, when it comes to barbecue, y’all don’t know whether to check your ass or scratch your watch.

Maybe not for long, though: Britain has finally been bitten by the barbecue bug. There’s Bar-B-Q Shack in Brighton, Pitt Cue Co and the Smokehouse (the new boy) in London, Fire & Salt in Manchester, Jones & Son serving up pulled pork at Edinburgh’s weekend markets – and no doubt many more plying their smoky trade in pubs and at festivals and on kerbsides around the country.

So if you do come across the good stuff anywhere, please seize the chance, and the napkins, with both hands. And don’t, whatever you do, ask for HP Sauce.

 

In Texas, you can get your pork roasted in the hot pit for as long as you like. Photo: Marcus Nilsson/Gallery Stock

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 26 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, How the dream died

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Defining The Defenders: the long history of the superhero team-up

Netflix's new show draws on an established traditon of bringing together disparate characters.

Today Marvel’s The Defenders dropped worldwide. It’s the culmination of Marvel Studios’ interlinked series for Netflix, and all episodes will be available simultaneously as is the streaming services’ wont.

The Defenders, and the Netflix series that have preceded it, seem modelled on how the Marvel Cinematic Universe films have worked in multiplexes. At least superficially. Characters get their own solo films/series, which become increasingly interlinked over time, before all featuring together in an onscreen ‘team up’. Here, they combine against a threat greater than any they could plausibly win against on their own, sparring and generating alliances, friendships and even enmities in the process.

This structure, of course, is Marvel’s film and TV projects aping their source material. Marvel’s comics, and superhero comics more generally, have long relished the "team up" and the "super team". The use of this approach by Marvel’s other media ventures is intuitively right, allowing the mass audience for film and television to experience one of the specific pleasures of how superhero comics work in the characters’ new medium.

The concept of the super team goes back a long way. The Justice Society of America, from Marvel’s Distinguished Competition, is usually considered the first. They debuted in All-Star Comics #3 (1940) and the team consisted of the Flash (the Jay Garrick version, Flash TV fans), Green Lantern, Hawkman, and now lesser known characters like Hour-Man, the Sandman (not the Neil Gaiman one), the Atom, The Spectre and Doctor Fate. Within a few issues Wonder Woman would join: as secretary. Because it was the 1940s.

What’s interesting about this initial super team is that half of these characters were published by All-American Comics (who actually published All-Star) and half by DC Comics themselves, making this an inter-company crossover. (The companies would later merge). It also used to be claimed as the first example of characters created separately, and with no intention of them being connected, interacting. It isn’t. There are countless examples in the pulp fictions of the late nineteenth century, but the claim stood for so long because it felt right that the original super team should be the source of such meta-fictional innovation.

The Defenders were created much later in comics history and first appeared in 1971’s Marvel Feature #1. The team, though, had its origins in the "Titans Three" an informal grouping of heroes who appeared in a three part story serialised across Doctor Strange #183 (November 1969), Sub-Mariner #22 (February 1970), and The Incredible Hulk #126 (April 1970).

All three of those comics were written by Roy Thomas. Caught on the hop by the sudden cancellation of Doctor Strange (#183 was the final issue), he wrapped up ongoing plotlines from the cancelled comic in other series he scripted, bringing the now title-less Strange into those other series in the process. A couple more appearances of the group together followed, before the team was formally named in the aforementioned Marvel Feature #1.

Dr Strange. The Sub-Mariner. The Incredible Hulk. It’s quite likely that anyone reading this who is only familiar with the publicity for Netflix’s The Defenders would be surprised by that roster of headline characters. (And that’s assuming they’re even familiar with Namor the Sub-Mariner, a character of 1939 vintage who has not yet reached the MCU.) This is a radically different group to Daredevil, Jessica Jones (a character not even created until the 21st century), Luke Cage and Iron Fist, the stars of the current TV series. None of the telly team are characters a Marvel zombie would associate with The Defenders, although Iron Fist has been a very occasional member of the team’s roster, as has Luke Cage. (In which context, it’s unfortunate that Iron Fist has been the least liked of Netflix’s series, with a mere 17 per cent approval on Rotten Tomatoes.)

The complete absence of all three of the original Defenders from its television incarnation could be seen as an odd decision. Neither Benedict Cumberbatch’s Steven Strange nor Mark Ruffalo’s Bruce Banner are expected to turn up, even for cameos. Marvel Studios has policed a strict division between its Netflix series and its cinematic outings, despite announcing them as being set in the same "continuity". The fourth "classic" Defender is even less likely to turn up. The Silver Surfer (who joined the team in 1972, less than a year after it was formed) is, due to some bad deal making in the 90s, off limits to the MCU. His film rights sit with Fox, who utilised him in the rightly all but forgotten Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer (2007). 

One of the reasonably consistent features of previous incarnations of The Defenders is that the characters have generally faced mystical threats. They first teamed up to fight monsters from HP Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, and generally their antagonists have operated on that kind of scale. With Stephen Strange in the gang, that makes sense. You don’t need the sorcerer supreme to take out organised crime. But organised crime is largely what you’d expect Daredevil, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones and Iron Fist to take on, especially based on the Netflix versions of the characters. All four are "street-level" heroes, operating in New York, interacting with characters like murderous vigilante The Punisher and Kingpin of Crime Wilson Fisk. Perhaps splitting the difference, their team up series will see them take on The Hand. This is a ninja organisation, with mystical origins, that is nevertheless involved in organised crime and can be presented, as it has been so far for Netflix, within the context of crime stories.

Marvel’s Chief Creative Officer Joe Quesada has defended The Defenders being The Defenders by pointing out that the original team are largely unknown outside comics fandom, and their name means nothing to the public at large. (Although they have, of course, heard of all three of its constituent members.) Of course, for some this might sensible provoke the question "Why use it then?" What is this series called The Defenders at all?

The (original) Defenders were seen as a "non-team", a phrase occasionally used in the pages of their appearances. There was something deconstructive about this kind of team up. It was the pairing of characters who were unsuited to working, even to appearing, together and who would really rather not. (They had, after all, been brought together in the first place simply because Roy Thomas happened to write their separate titles.) The stories told with the group in some ways challenged and confronted the cliches of the decades old form that had begun back in All-Star Comics #3.

The line-up, and tone, of Netflix’s Defenders more resembles that of another, deliberately slightly interrogative non-team, that of the short-lived Marvel Knights book of 2000-2001. This did share The Defenders somewhat abstract definition of "team", featuring characters who didn’t like each other and didn’t want to work together, albeit without any mystical element to how they were brought together. Marvel Knights was also, in theory, the flagship of the line of the same name, at the time edited by... Joe Quesada. Hmm.

In recent years, Marvel have frequently cheerfully remodelled their comics - the original medium for almost all their characters - in order to incorporate changes and innovations pioneered as part of their film and television projects. Remixing their characters and the way they are grouped together in response to the success of their screen empire. The Guardians of the Galaxy, for example, have become more prominent in the comics, while characters whose film rights lie with film companies other than Marvel’s own, such as the aforementioned Fantastic Four, have been pushed to the margins. Accordingly, this August sees the launch of a new The Defenders title, featuring the lineup of characters from the television series.

Some loyal comics readers see this a case of the tail wagging the dog. Others might like to take notice of the metaphor used by comics writer Grant Morrison in his 2011 book SuperGods: Our World In The Age Of The Superhero. There, Morrison argued that comic books, while the medium in which these characters were created, was essentially the discarded booster section of the rocket in which they had been fired into the public consciousness, reaching vastly greater audiences in the process. 

“That’s not The Defenders,” commented a friend of mine on seeing a publicity photograph for the series a few weeks ago. It is now, mate. It is now.