Vegetarian at the BBQ fest

On four hours of sleep, life can start to look a little hazy. Or maybe it was just the smoke. There I was, at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning, camped out in a parking lot surrounded by meat-filled grills and a team of unshowered men who, it was safe to assume, were also meat-filled.

Sitting there clutching my coffee with almond milk, reeking of hickory smoke and watching the sun rise over the Porta-David (renamed in honor of one of the members of the team), I had to wonder, “What am I doing at a barbecue festival?”

On paper (and, perhaps, in person), I make about as much sense at a barbecue festival as Lady Gaga does in pants. Not much. I’ve been a vegetarian for nine years. I haven’t purchased or prepared meat in almost a decade. I assume that pork butt is exactly what it sounds like and, much to my father’s dismay, I won’t even eat seafood.

Despite my apparent shortcomings as a barbecue reporter, I was offered and eagerly accepted the job anyway, and for good reason. I may not know the difference between a T-bone and a strip steak, but if there’s one thing I understand, embrace and encourage, it’s obsession. And you encounter a lot of that at an event that requires contestants to stay awake for 24 hours hovering over a hunk of flesh. The care and attention with which barbecue competitors tend to their meat is the kind of behavior I’d reserve for caring for an infant. It’s an all-consuming hobby set aside for the fanatical — and it’s awesome.

“I’m a little obsessed with food,” contestant Vic Werany said. “Passion is easy, but obsession, this endless obsession that I have with food …” he paused, “it’s hard what I do. Barbecue is a mistress you don’t want.”

I arrived at the 2010 Time Warner Blues and BBQ Festival in Uptown Charlotte early Friday evening with a sack of vegetarian snacks and my older, meat-eating brother in tow. I needed an official meat taste tester and knew my brother was an ideal candidate, considering his diet consists of meat, cheese, bread, bourbon and Toaster Strudels. I suppose I also owed him for all those years he had to listen to me stomp up the stairs screaming, “This family has got to stop eating so many cows!”

I knew very little about what I was getting myself into, but I also knew that I did not expect the first person I encountered to have a sprawling “Vegan Life” tattoo across his chest, complete with broccoli icon. This would be the first of many unforeseen twists to what I assumed would be an otherwise predictable event.

I did know the next 24 hours involved meat. I knew a Porta-Potty would be present. I knew sleep was discouraged. And I knew (from diligent Facebook stalking …  er, investigative journalism) that the guy I’d be following around for 24 hours had a giant “CHILI MAN” tattoo across his back. These are all things I’d expect to find at a barbecue event. Vegans, nuns, religious crusaders and shirtless athletes are not, but that didn’t stop any of them from passing through.

My brother and I walked down South Tryon, past the vendor booths with corn on the cob and funnel cake and by the professional teams with tricked-out, double-decker party trailers and 5-foot-tall trophies, to a lot alongside St. Peter’s Catholic Church where the amateur teams were camped out.

We weaved through rows of pop-up tents, corn hole games, smokers and coolers — some filled with meat, most filled with beer — to meet with the team I’d be embedded with for the evening.

You may know the tattooed CHILI MAN around Uptown as Vic Werany, the Hotdog Guy who slings wieners from a cart at Fourth and Tryon. A man with many meat-related talents and often unable to decide which is his best, Vic can be heard referring to himself as the Chili Man, the Hotdog Guy or the Sauce Boss. On this particular night, he was the Sauce Boss for team Fat & Chili. His partner, Matt Hughett, appeared to prefer doing one thing only and one thing well, so he held down the fort as the pitmaster.

From my limited knowledge of barbecued meats, I gathered that their responsibilities fit their personalities. When it comes to barbecue, I know that the sauce is the first thing you see. It’s bold and in your face (or on it) and, without a wet wipe, it’s not going anywhere. Vic is this way. He describes himself as talkative, loud, gregarious and boisterous, and he’s not lying.

You have to dig a little bit deeper to get to the meat, though, and whether it was prepared properly won’t become apparent until it’s been on a grill for 12 hours and you’ve made it past the sauce. Matt is this way, a little guarded perhaps. He’s quieter and more cryptic than Vic. Though, this is not to say he’s not a perfectly warm and welcoming parking lot host (he was passing out the beer, after all); it’s just that, to overshadow Vic’s personality, it would be quite a feat and likely an overwhelming combination.

Together they form Fat & Chili, a perfectly balanced, smack-talking dynamic duo hooked on the hog (and the cow and the lamb) and ready to take home some trophies. They greeted me with open arms and closed grills. Do not, under any circumstances, open the grill. “If you’re looking, you’re not cooking,” Vic says. Barbecue lesson No. 1 … check.

Their tent was a bit of a destination within the amateur lot. Past and present competitors stopped by to say hey, to toss around friendly threats and to see what was cooking, literally.

The vibe among the amateurs, known as Backyard Grillers, is one of camaraderie first and relentless ball-busting second. They ask questions and share advice about grills, temperatures and rubs. They relive the trials and tribulations of past competitions. They share beer and portable toilets, and they all talk mad shit the entire time. With 37 rib entries and 46 butt entries, they can’t all be winners, but it certainly doesn’t stop any of them from pretending like they will be.

“This is where it all happens,” Vic says. “These are the backyard guys, the locals. We’re the draw.”

There’s a general sense of divide between the backyard grillers and the pros, a sort of “us” and “them” mentality. But this is not unlike the divide you’d find in any competition where pros make the big bucks while the amateurs are in it for the love of the game. The pros here are a part of the Memphis Barbecue Network (MBN) and are fighting for a spot at Memphis in May, competitive barbecue’s answer to the Olympics, or “the holy grail,” as Vic describes it.