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.

We looked more like second-graders with our faces plastered to a classroom window than futures analysts at a Fortune 500 company. But as much as we craned our necks, and fogged up the glass, the action remained conveniently hidden behind the new Duke Energy Building. Even from 38 floors up, all we could see were speeding toy police cars and little plastic fire trucks racing behind a gleaming, perfect shield of steel and glass. The thick column of smoke continued to rise from behind the building and drift into the sky over the stadium.

“Man, I really hope no one got hurt down there,” Steven said from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, nervously biting his lip. Steven was a nice guy, and an eternal optimist. He wore bad ties and a constant expression of sympathy and understanding. He was chubby, instantly likable, and had the kind of optimism that could be contagious – like when Dr. Phil gets involved with some seriously dysfunctional family and you think for a second that everything just might work out. A year ago, when six people in our team were cut in one day, he tried to reassure everyone carrying a brown box to their car that it would all be OK. As if his optimism alone would be enough to help them make their $4,500/month mortgage payments.
It wasn’t going to be OK this time, though. At least not for someone down on Stonewall Street where all the smoke was coming from. To me, the five circling helicopters and almost a dozen emergency response vehicles were proof of that.

Nick turned toward Steven with an incredulous smirk. “Dude, Steve, are you serious?! Someone down there is burnt toast, man. Fried. Well done.

“One less car on the road for the commute home, right Gus?” Nick smiled toward me, hoping for a laugh.

I shrugged. Steven looked over at me and pushed up his glasses.

Nick was one of those guys who only needed five minutes to rub you the wrong way, and he had been transferred all over the country because he was so good at pissing off the wrong people. He’d come to Charlotte this spring from somewhere in Ohio. Cincinnati or Dayton, maybe.  He was a math genius, though, and as long as he could help banks lose less money, he’d have a job somewhere. Nick could have been Eminem’s twin brother, and he was known around the office as Slim Shady. He hated rap music, and he hated his nickname even more. Karma can be a bitch, I guess.

I saw he had the new ID badge that the company had just switched to. Damn if he really didn’t look just like Eminem, too. Just like him.
I glanced down at my own badge, and a faded, young Gus Kaminski smiled up at me.

Nick was also that guy who didn’t get the memo that you stop wearing Old Spice after high school, and my office smelled like cheap aftershave.

“Guys, I need to get going on a couple of things this morning,” I explained. “I hate to stop the show, but I have a really big fire to put out, and a meeting with Brent at 10, and I’d like my office back now, please.”

I wasn’t trying to make a joke, and only realized what I’d said when all three of them turned away from the glass and stared at me. Slim Shady smiled and laughed one of his Ohio dickhead laughs.

“Nice, Gus.”

I had moved into my very first window office just eight months earlier, and Nick had taken my old cubicle between Lori and Steven. The window office wasn’t really much of a step up. The space was comically cramped and just big enough for a desk and filing cabinet. It had less actual space than my old cube, but it did have a view of the street and apparently enough room for four people to squeeze shoulder to shoulder in front of the single window.

The water stain in one of the ceiling tiles and my bonsai tree silently looked on with us as the churning smoke began to subside. Glare from the mid-morning sun now reflected brilliantly off of the Duke Energy building and lighted up my tiny office like a movie set. This was my favorite part of the day actually – the 38 minutes every morning when sunlight overpowered the white glow of fluorescents.

“Wait Gus, hang on a sec,” Lori breathed, stepping up on her tiptoes, eyes again glued to the street below. She instantly became the tallest member of the group, and I could see Nick fighting hard to keep his eyes pointed downward.

“There’s a tow truck.”

Lori was the prettiest girl in our department. Excluding admin, she was really the only girl in our department. Gifted with legs like a Russian ballerina, and a unique ability to find discrepancies in reams of mind-numbing statistical data, she had the guarded persona that attractive women embrace when working surrounded by guys. Chestnut hair cut to a razor’s edge scraped her collar when she glided through the office, and annoyed brown eyes discouraged the bravest of suitors. Nick openly proclaimed he had “hit the jackpot” when he was placed next to Lori, and waited until precisely 10:15 a.m. on his first day to begin hitting on her.  She ignored Nick’s weekly invitations to “grab a roll down at Enso” with such zest that even Steve finally suggested that he give up and “find someone who’s more receptive, because you’re a good guy, and the right woman for you is out there somewhere.”

The smoke had stopped completely, and the tow truck carefully backed up out of sight, leaving only yellow shadows from its siren to maintain the suspense in my tiny office. The air conditioning kicked on again, displacing a few tufts of Lori’s brown bangs and sending a fresh blast of Old Spice around the room.

I glanced around the city and noticed that the event down on Stonewall Street wasn’t our spectacle alone. Thousands of onlookers in a colossal theater of office towers stared down at the scene silently with us. Faces, hands, coffee mugs, suits and ties of all shapes and colors peered down solemnly on a brilliantly sunny August morning. Some of them could probably actually see what was going on.

“Can Stella can see it from her office?” Nick asked, gesturing across the street toward Two Wachovia. It wasn’t a secret that my fiancée worked in that building, but I had never had a conversation directly with Nick about it. Even after five years, I still couldn’t get used to office gossip. It annoyed me that he knew, but I had bigger problems to deal with, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t matter in 30 minutes anyway.

Lori and Steven’s eyes darted to each other’s and back to the street.

“Stella can’t see it either,” I said flatly.  “The Duke building is in her way, too.”

“Hey guys, did I miss the show?”

So when I began telling people that I was trading London for the other Queen City across the pond, I got my fair share of strange looks. And those looks got even stranger when people found out I was coming here without a job.

My journey to Charlotte started in 2007 when I began a campaign to convince my boyfriend Alex, who is now my fiancé, to move to America. I had moved to London in 2006 to get my master’s degree. Shortly after arriving I knew I was going to love it there, but it would never be home. I wanted to raise a family one day and give my kids a childhood like mine – filled with evenings being pulled in a little red wagon, picking apples at the orchard and catching minnows at the local park… I just didn’t see that life in London.

Why Charlotte?
I knew that making the jump from fast-paced London to my hometown of Indianapolis would be a stretch for Alex, who’s London born and bred. Although Indianapolis has a lot to offer, neither one of us was willing to deal with the cold winters. Alex has enough trouble driving on our side of the road, even without snow.
I initially thought we should move to Nashville because of its weather. But it wasn’t just the lure of long summers spent by the pool that excited us. Then we thought Charlotte might be the better choice for a number of reasons – the cost of living is low, seven Fortune 500 companies are headquartered here, and our friends and family told us that Charlotte is a great place to raise kids.

A high school friend, Andrea Wright, moved here in 2009 and within 90 days she had a job, a place of her own and had enrolled her daughter in a great school. I knew that it was possible to make a living in Charlotte, but would it be right for Alex and me?
Our virgin visit

As we gathered our luggage from the plane’s overhead compartment, during our first trip to Charlotte in 2009, I had to refrain from jumping up and down with excitement. Would it be rude to push all these people out of the way so we could move faster? Alex was excited, too, yet he didn’t know what to expect from a southern American city.
As we waited at the luggage carousel for our three red suitcases, I realized that I had four days to convince Alex, and myself, that Charlotte was where we should make our next move.

Turkey burger bliss
On that first night, our friends Davis and Sheree took us to The Counter, a burger place in SouthPark. For Alex and I it seemed miraculous that we were able to park so close to the restaurant, and to top it off they offered us a table outdoors next to a fountain! Alex was slightly shocked that what I had told him was true: Charlotteans can eat outdoors without being rained on, and with no need for a warm jacket.

It was a perfect, warm evening even if the humidity did nearly knock us down as we left the air conditioning for our patio table. But after “summers” in London, where the temperature never hit 80 degrees, Charlotte felt like paradise.

We opened the menu and found a restaurant unlike any we had come across before. We could actually specify what kind of meat we wanted for our burger. I chose turkey since it’s impossible to find a turkey burger in London; for once I didn’t have to make my own at home. We could then choose the size we wanted – Alex naturally chose the largest, just to see how big American food really is. We then added toppings like sun-dried tomatoes, guacamole and ginger soy sauce. Already, this was shaping up to be the land of opportunity in Alex’s mind – and we’d only ordered dinner.

Hanging out uptown
Since we were staying uptown, we walked from our hotel to the EpiCentre, taking it all in. As we strolled along we noticed how clean the streets were and how nicely manicured the plants and bushes were. But we only passed a few people on each block. It was a weekend, but this city center seemed almost desolate. I could see it on Alex’s face and I knew immediately he was thinking: “She’s got me moving to this boring ol’ place where nothing is going to happen and I’m gonna hate it.”

How did I assure him that uptown was a happening place to be when it was my first time here, too? Was uptown lively on normal days? I had to think fast so I reminded him that London’s financial district, The City, is a ghost town on the weekends and Charlotte’s exactly the same. He turned to me with his head cocked to the side, one eyebrow raised, and said, “We’ll see.” Secretly, I had no idea, but I hoped I was right.

Thankfully, when we arrived at the EpiCentre we walked past bars packed with people laughing or dancing to loud music. Uptown Charlotte was looking up – and even better, Alex still believed that I knew what I was talking about.

We made our way to the movie theater. London certainly has its share of nice cinemas, but as we walked into the EpiCentre Theater our feet sank into the plush carpet and we were surrounded by crushed red velvet. Alex looked at me and whispered, “Oh baby, I think we’re going to love this.”
We made our way upstairs to have a drink before the show started. We sat down in the lounge – a high-ceilinged room, with a long bar filled with attractive servers. For a moment we felt like we were back in London sipping wine with the city’s finest.

We then snuggled together on the VIP couches – all for less than we’d spend at a regular London movie theater – to settle in and watch the show. Save for the woman loudly giving  her husband a running commentary throughout the movie, it was the best film experience we’d had in years.
We took advantage of the myriad food choices every chance we got while staying uptown –whether it was unlimited Brazilian meats at Chima or some of the best seafood and cheesy grits you can find at Lavecchia’s. But nothing topped our post-movie EpiCentre choice – Jason’s Deli. Now I know you might think Jason’s doesn’t hold a candle to a more upscale uptown restaurant, but London’s version of deli food is generally a pre-made sandwich, the kind you can get at a gas station. In London, if I wanted to customize a prawn sandwich with mayo on white bread, well, I was out of luck.

We may not see any movie premieres with A-list stars in Charlotte, but we knew we could have a great night out on the town.
Is that what you call a lake?

The pawn business is the second-oldest profession known to man, dating back 3,000 years to China. The practice started in Asia but is rich in European and eventually American history – it’s well known that Queen Isabella of Spain pawned her jewelry to fund Christopher Columbus’ expedition to find a more direct route to the Indies.

A half-mile up Central toward uptown, Will’s Park and Pawn wears its history on its walls, which include a faux rhino’s head, a collection of 1950s model airplanes, an old Elvis exit sign, and a collection of guns and knives that could arm a province in Afghanistan. In business since 1985, Will’s place isn’t about looks, or air conditioning; it’s really about the owner Will Spoke and taking what can be a difficult financial situation and making it at worst manageable and at best feeling like you just made a friend for life. A friend who also happened to loan you $40 on a slightly used Suzuki acoustic guitar.

Spoke’s business includes a set of supporting characters who beautifully round out his shop. Including, in no particular order: his son Will Jr. who, after going to Appalachian State for a short period, decided it wasn’t for him and happily joined the family business; Spoke’s mother, who softens the all-male crew with her charm; Mikey, who when he’s not eating fixes jewelry in the middle of the shop; and Broadway, a true Southern gentleman with a wavy gray pompadour who watches the door. Broadway always has a toothpick in his mouth and started in the pawn business seemingly at random after managing a Sears’ car service center at SouthPark.

Talking to Spoke made me feel like I was listening to a NASCAR driver talk shop while simultaneously driving his car at 200 mph. He didn’t take a breath between explaining the pawn business to me, buying a black leather Harley Davidson jacket from a customer, whispering that he really just wanted it for himself, and then getting an additional $5 from the customer for getting Mikey to fix his watch. By the time this customer left the shop he was smiling, fist bumping Spoke, and promising to come back if he ever needed some quick cash again.

Both pawnshops I visited were quick to explain that they abide by all the rules and regulations set forth by the city, county and state. They provide regular reports to the Charlotte police and help to track down stolen property. As a rule, this was the first thing that I was told. Second was that all items purchased must be held for seven days after the purchase date, and all things pawned must be held for 90 days after they are foreclosed upon. The third was typically that they were making a killing on lending money.

In the state of North Carolina, pawnbrokers are legally allowed to charge 2 percent interest per month on all money lent. However, on top of this interest rate they are allowed to charge fees for handling, appraisal, storage and insurance not to exceed 20 percent per MONTH. So with fees included it is within the law to charge an annual interest rate of 264 percent.

But those in the industry would counter any shock and awe from that number with the following two points. The first being that banks legally charge upwards of $25 for insufficient funds plus any fees levied by the store where you passed your bounced check. For checks under $25 the DAILY interest rate could exceed 100 percent.

The second point is that pawnbrokers have been providing a valuable service for centuries as a source of readily available credit to a section of society that has been underserved. Thousands of years ago it was subsistent farmers in China, today its folks riding the No. 9 bus down Central Avenue working in kitchens across the city, mowing lawns, and doing other menial jobs that for the most part go unseen by the majority of society. It also includes senior citizens on social security or welfare who are unable to pay their bills in a typical month. It is a part of society for which bank-issued credit is not an option as American Express does not bombard them with gold card offers, and in most cases Bank of America will not even grant them a checking account.

Most of the heat and humidity outside has joined us inside of Spoke’s Park and Pawn. The clouded glass door opens, the rusted bell rings and in walks a gorgeous woman in a short, clingy dress and a humongous guy with dreads carrying a vinyl covered guitar case. In the case is an out-of-tune gleaming black guitar and painted on the back is a heart surrounded by a crown of thorns. Along with the guitar and case is a collection of how-to tapes and books. In Will’s place, eventually a story is told about why someone is selling their stuff – in this case, a musical career was planned that never panned out and a need for money overtook the woman’s musical dreams. Will & Co. took a quick look over the guitar and books, offered the couple a price that they took, and another happy lifelong customer walked out the door.

In between customers, Spoke is boxing up items for eBay like an assembly line, weighing the box, packing the goods, and slapping a USPS pre-printed label on the outside to be picked up by the mail carrier, sometimes upward of 30 boxes a DAY. Both shop owners I met agreed: eBay is a huge source of income for all pawn shops and in most cases more is sold on eBay than in their stores. Plus, eBay is a ready source of current prices for just about anything. In Central Jewelry & Pawn I was told of a woman who brought in a sterling silver tea set she valued at $1,200. A quick look on eBay found that a similar set recently sold for just south of $500. As a result, the tea set was bought for $200. Before eBay, they all agreed, this sort of price shopping was impossible.

A healthy but harried woman in her early 30s comes in to Spoke’s store after Will had left for the beach; Will Jr. takes care of her. She lays on the counter three very small silver necklaces, with crosses made of semi-precious stones. In a business-as-usual manner, Jr. takes the necklaces, eyes them under a jeweler’s loop, tosses one aside, and takes two to weigh on his scale. The numbers tickle upward ever so slightly as the necklace folds into a small bundle on the scale. Will Jr. quickly turns and apologizes, saying there really isn’t enough silver in her necklace to be worth much more than a couple dollars. Her demeanor quickly changes from one of nonchalance to quiet desperation. Not understanding Will Jr., she says she’ll take it. He clarifies by saying the necklaces are worth $3 at his price, meaning only about a dollar to her. She hears this but once again says, “Fine, whatever I can get.” With a small amount of patience left, Jr. says it’s really not worth it to fill out the paperwork, get thumbprints, take down a driver’s license, and report it to the police for a potential profit of $2. Not hearing and with the desperation in her voice growing, she says she understands but would still like to sell the chains. Will Jr. realizes the situation she must be in, and with a touch of exasperation reaches back and pulls $3 from the cash register, and without taking the chains he hands her the money.

~ Todd Trimakas

When Anna was born her diagnosis crushed me; the attending nurse had to tell me twice what her diagnosis was. Trisomy 21, Trisomy 21. I had to ask what that was. Down syndrome. Like I’ve said before, the news was devastating, so much so that it threw me to my knees, crying in a heap in the corner of the delivery room and into a state of shock for a week.
But that was more than a year ago, and things have changed, to say the least.

I recently heard a man say that the word “adventure” is overused. In his mind an adventure doesn’t start until everything goes wrong. I couldn’t help but smile and nod my head. How true.

In my mind an adventure is also shaped by how we respond to what went wrong. Do we remain crying on our knees or get up and move forward? From this experience with Anna, I think moving forward is life while standing still is death.

A couple months after Anna was born, my wife, Julie, and her mom, Sara, were talking on the phone. At the time it wasn’t meant as a joke, but Julie and I joke about it now. Sara asked her if she thought that I was going to leave the family because Anna had Down’s. Julie mentioned it to me, and I said I wouldn’t, but if I ever leave and go to Mexico I’d be taking Anna with me. Thankfully we never had to find out.

I realized with Anna and with the magazine, seemingly insurmountable obstacles will appear one day, then the next will appear to be a blessing in disguise, and in the end just make your adventure that much more interesting.

Just this past week I was able to escape to Oak Island with the family and some friends. We had a great spot on the beach and we would go out every day to drink beer, soak in the sun and play in the sand. With Anna still in diapers you never know what surprise may come, but eventually a surprise will come and one afternoon it did, in her swimmy diaper. Mom went to clean up Anna in the surf, and she came back with a naked, sleepy, salty, wet, fat baby in her arms. Mom gave her to me and for the next 30 minutes a very happy baby slept in Daddy’s arms as a warm, soft Carolina beach breeze dried her off. It didn’t matter one iota what she did or didn’t have, just that she was mine.

~ Todd Trimakas

The race draws a wide range of people… from triathletes, marathon runners, gym rats, and ex-military… to folks just looking to have fun. It was a 5.5 mile trail run scattered with obstacles, marines yelling and blowing whistles in our faces, and of course the best part… a mud pit two feet deep. Teams are asked to dress alike… so needless to say… folks break out some crazy costumes. I saw a team of clowns, fairies, roller-derby chicks… and of course some folks just wearing matching t-shirts.  I took some pics from the race’s official FB page for your viewing pleasure!

It’s not your mama’s run of the mill 5k race…. Add on a couple extra miles, duck walks, flutter kicks, military crawls, scaling walls… you name it.  Pretty much everyone I talked to didn’t complete the race with out some battle wounds… scratches, cuts, bruises, strawberries, blisters, etc.  In fact, a few people didn’t even finish.  I talked to one of the event officials who said they called medic a handful of times… reports of someone breaking an ankle, another passing out… yowzers! It may sound bad, but that just tends to happen in a lot in races.

By the end of this race in particular… you feel hard core… like you can conquer the world… whether it’s a physical task, something emotional your going through, or even encouraging yourself to go above and beyond at your place of work.  I would definitely recommend trying a mud run.  There’s another one going on in Columbia, SC on September 25th.  This one is shorter… 4.2 miles.  Maybe I’ll see ya there… unless you’re scared to get dirty!

~ Anna Kooiman
AnnaKooiman.com
getfitcharlotte.com