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.

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Every chef, to one extent or another, is on a mission – mostly to feed people tasty food, to make them happy. But in recent times a number of chefs have realized they can have a greater impact and do something fulfilling for themselves as well as for those around them, and maybe even for the planet.

Johnson & Wales University, as well as other culinary schools, is an incubator for training the next generation of socially responsible chefs. But, in order to become one, it helps to have met one. Two faculty members at JWU, Robert Brener and Paul Malcolm (though all the instructors at JWU are on board with them) have taken on the challenge of modeling how to make a difference in the world for their students by heading up two major green initiatives at the school. One is the development of a community garden to provide some of the food cooked at the school, and the other is an important supporting project for the garden – a composting program that converts kitchen scraps into a high-potency natural fertilizer.
Uptown Magazine sat down with the chefs to find out more about what’s behind all the extra work they’ve taken on. Here’s what they had to say:

Uptown: You both have pretty full schedules – teaching, culinary coaching and team competitions, and families. Why did you take on such big projects as composting and community gardening? What’s the fire in your belly that’s compelling you to take this on?

Robert Brener: My passion, and I think it’s true for Paul, as well, comes from the desire to make a difference.  We hope to create a better world for our young children ¬ Paul’s kids, Griffin, Rory, and Jillian, and my son, Nathan.  Teaching in the College of Culinary Arts allows us to make an impact on an eager audience comprised of future leaders.  To me, that’s pretty compelling in itself!

Uptown: What was the biggest challenge in getting these projects off the ground? How did you get your colleagues and the university to support you on this?

Paul Malcolm: For the composting, we recycled 5-gallon buckets from the baking and pastry labs for two years and ran a successful composting program. During those two years we proved that we could also make it work in our culinary labs.  We remove 140 pounds of green matter from eight culinary labs every week.  What makes it work is that we run it through the combined efforts of our entire community of students and faculty.  During that time there certainly were those who posed serious questions of practicality and wondered about acceptance by the student body, as well as the faculty.  What we learned, though, was that both groups – students and faculty – not only were intrigued, but wanted to do everything they could to make it a lasting, sustainable project for our campus.
Brener: The challenges were many. Trying to create a beautiful garden has enough obstacles in the best of circumstances, but we’re growing our garden on top of a concrete slab, next to the train tracks, in a gravel parking lot.  We have no water source on site yet, and we started with no funding. But we have established a sustainable water system by creating planters that preserve water for the plants, we’ve held fundraisers, and applied for and just received a state grant.  Our greatest hurdle, however, is misconception.  Many do not understand the word “sustainable.”  Really, what we are simply trying to do is raise a heightened awareness of the world, our world.  After all, we rely on the earth for everything, not just for good food.

Uptown: These are pilot projects run at a culinary school. What do you think the implications are for those working in restaurants and food service businesses? How feasible are they and, in a larger sense, what are you modeling in terms of the ethical responsibilities of working chefs and even householders?
Brener: I worked in Munich, Germany, where sustainable waste management has been in the kitchen for decades, and I also lived and worked in Ireland, where most foods were local.  I recall having to let our duck sit overnight before butchery to allow the meat to relax, and our amuse of lemon-essence goat cheese being delivered that day from three miles down the road.  That’s fresh, local and sustainable. That’s the kind of vision that chefs can bring to a community and it’s exciting to be a link in that chain. So now, it’s important to enroll the next generation of culinary professionals into carrying it deeper into their communities.

Malcolm: I grew up in Colorado, working in restaurants since I was 12.  Eating locally grown foods became a reality for me when the many kitchens that I worked in were frequented by local foragers on a regular basis.  The flavors and variety were so much better than the commercial products provided by our vendors.  Later, I moved to Vermont to attend New England Culinary Institute and the lifestyle of the Vermonters was incredibly appealing.  If we didn’t know where it came from, we usually didn’t eat it.  Since moving to Charlotte, I’ve assisted with several farm to fork dinners, some of them held right in the fields where the produce was grown.  So next, Bobby and I plan to incorporate the gardens into all of the culinary labs and are currently working with the other colleges at Johnson & Wales to use the garden as a community learning environment, utilizing the ideas created by Chef Alice Waters in her Edible School Yard program in Berkeley, California.

Uptown: If others want to follow in your footsteps, how can they get the help and information they need to get the ball rolling?

Brener: Anyone interested in getting involved should contact either me or Paul, or contact Mecklenburg County Solid Waste Management.

Uptown: Is this just the tip of the iceberg? What future initiatives do you see coming in terms of stewardship and green activities from the culinary community? What still needs to be done to make a difference, both locally and globally?

Brener: Uptown is, for us, just the beginning of the project. We hope to develop internships and apprenticeships on local farms in addition to establishing a presence at local community gardens and farmers markets.  Education and awareness are our most important goals, so we intend to conduct workshops and provide green management assistance to community gardens who might be interested.  I’m also the adviser to our student organization known as The Co-op.  It is a co-op style group that has been the driving force behind the project.  They have just completed a very successful inaugural year culminating in their green symposium entitled, “Gastro Green: Sustainability in the Food Service Industry.”  We hope to continue programs like this and to reach out to Charlotte uptown in the city’s efforts to establish itself as a green energy center.  There are many misconceptions about our project.   If there is one statement that conveys our message, it’s that little things can make a difference, for sure, but a life change is also necessary to make a real difference.

To help or get more information about these projects at Johnson and Wales contact 
Robert Brenner or Paul Malcolm

~ Peter Reinhart

When I arrive I find her standing in the same shape that I left her, only empty now. She’s all cleared out and quietly waiting. First things first: I start the coffee before walking back to light the kitchen. The hood sings a squeal like an old man when I hit the switch as if he were ill and that I woke him. I say, “I’m sorry,” because I know just how he feels.  The pilot lights are lit and the hiss of gas becomes a flame. Down the line I turn the knobs and bring the kitchen to life again. I shuffle back out to the coffee pot with a cup and with sugar from the bin; I fill it up, then pour cream in and watch the spirals until they blend. Outside the city is showing signs of life; the headlights and traffic lights bicker back and forth like fireflies while commuters sigh behind the wheel. I step outside to steal one more smoke and, with a note, join the chorus. A verse from a hip-hop song pours into my head and I grin, reciting the lyrics as the beat drops in: “I spark up the caffeine and nicotine binge and that’s pretty much the pattern of how the day begins.”
Each day begins this way, this tempo – tranquillo. Like a track though, it’s coming – the transition to rapidity. This is my rendition. This is my symphony.

Back inside. My hands are washed, my apron tied and my knife is upon the board. I walk into the cooler and check the rack; I’m two soups short. I finger the produce, wondering what will induce my fancy. What meats talk to me about the soups they could be? To cream or not to cream. Butter – yes, almost always start with butter – nothing smells better melting. I help the onions in and listen as they begin to sweat, then celery and leeks, then garlic. This is my minuet.

Before the morning crew arrives, as the sun begins to break the sky, with the radio tuned to classical, most days there stand I, over a stockpot or two, and a saucepot or a few, wooden spoon in hand, a happy man, conducting soup as usual. There I find my peace, my minuet, in this, my symphony.

The bedraggled boys of the morning crew have found their way to work. Their stations are set for the lunchtime fight, their knees now deep in the prep for tonight. It’ll be noon soon and the crowd will come all at once. The lawyers and the businessmen, the women and their lunch break friends, the out-of-towners and the regulars – their hunger upon our hands. I stand ready for testing – the first round of service, the sudden pop, the rush, then emptiness – the quickness of a summer storm. Torn between calm and calamity, lunch dies as quick as it’s born. Andante now for the finishing, the diminishing list of prep. The cleanup and the curtain call, the clocking out, “until tomorrow y’all,” and like that – Act One is done. I’m the only one left, remembering that Act Two is still to come.  I look to my shadow for sympathy. This is my symphony.

Intermezzo: the slow midday hours, somewhere between 2 and 4; placing orders, checking reservations, having meetings, making sure we’re set for the week. To be honest, I’d rather be in the back, on the floor, by the ice machine, taking a much-needed nap. I settle instead for a cigarette, out back where the alley cats meet, the galley for the industry, the stoops on the back streets where cooks meet and discuss the meaning of life. Who did what to whose wife? By balls do you mean these? And what in the fuck happened to what’s his face? He never showed up last week. I would say that I don’t mean to be so crude, but I do, I do indeed. That doesn’t mean that I mean what I say; I just say what I say when I feel the need. My mother would be ashamed of me but this is my symphony.

The night crew enters a well-tuned kitchen, discussing the night before. They are the owls of the industry, the ones who work till 2, stay up until 4, and sleep away the morning. They are war-torn combatants, proud of their scars, ready for the revelry, with hardened hands and sturdy hearts. My line cooks play their part – a full-speed start, the race for mise en place, the prepping of their line, the back and forth banter of the frantic order, all the while preparing themselves for dinner time. We all know what’s coming because we’ve already been here, but, underneath the confidence lies the undertone of fear: fear of the unknown. No matter how many times we’ve played this song, we play it differently every time. The rhythm of the rush will change the lyrics with which we rhyme. It goes:

One for the customer and two for the food they fancy; three for the way the server rings it, and four when the cooks start dancing; five for the freedom, six for the stress, and seven for the madness when we all fall into step.

Allegro: As the expeditor I’m yelling, “Fire!” Plates come flying from all directions; section five has food that’s sitting. Where’s my runner? What cover’s missing? Six soups all day, I need a Caesar, I’m down two Ahi – on the fly! Why in the hell is this sauce separating? Take it back and do it right. Bump table 12 – their steaks are resting. I need those sides to make it sell. Hey, tell the bar I need well whisky and change the Blue Points to Chesapeakes.
This cacophony carries on for several hours with tiny lulls. In the midst of the poetic madness I’m aware that I love it all – the successes and the failures, the good, the bad, the ugly, the smooth and the oh-so rough. I may earn pennies for my passion but the pennies are enough. This is my finale, my rush, my symphony.
The rush dwindles and the tickets trickle; the sigh of relief is mutual. As usual, the banter thickens now that it’s been given time to breathe. The camaraderie of accomplishment echoes down hallways and soaks the walls. The chaos is on our aprons but off our hands as the rush withdraws. There will be no encore until tomorrow. The time to clean is coming on soon – we erase the evidence of our battle and tomorrow start anew. The curtain call is never all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ll get some sleep and a bite to eat before I repeat this memory. From the top, I’ll play it again.
This is my symphony.

~ John Zoet

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On an early-summer evening, he ambles through the door and looks around to see if anything is out of place. He talks to the manager-on-duty for updates on the happenings of the evening. She points, he looks, and they smile. The two appear to have a family-like bond, like relatives who actually like each other. Shortly thereafter, Bazzelle inconspicuously checks tables, eyes the big fluffy desserts atop the counter, and approves of what his chefs are crafting on the grill behind the steamy glass partition. He almost seems to be camouflaged, as if he’s a patron, until he eases behind the counter like he owns the place.

This place is the eleven-year-old storefront restaurant aptly named Mert’s Heart and Soul. Mert’s is one of the original storefront restaurants in Charlotte’s new Uptown area and, according to Bazzelle, former Bank of America CEO Hugh McColl even had a hand in its creation. The eclectically decorated eatery sits at 214 North College Street, a stone’s throw from the corner of College and Fifth Streets.

From the outside you can’t really grasp the “heart and soul” through the oversized glass windows. But once you swing open the door, an ethereal heart and soul quality comes rushing at you like DeAngelo Williams in the fourth quarter. James Bazzelle wanted it this way. The father of four envisioned a family-style establishment where his patrons could enjoy themselves and feel like kicking their feet up and rubbing their bellies in satisfaction. Except I wouldn’t suggest actually kicking your feet up. This is a respectable place that might even have a grandmother emerging from the back to smack your ankles with a rolled up newspaper if you did. In fact, it was Mertle Lockhart, James Bazzelle’s favorite grandmother-like patron, for whom Mert’s Heart and Soul is named.

“Mrs. Lockhart would come in to my first restaurant during the lunch buffet. She was a feisty woman who wore bright colors and big jewelry. And she loved my cooking,” Bazzelle reminisces.

Mertle Lockhart was one of many patrons that loved James Bazzelle’s cooking because it seems that James Bazzelle was born to cook. He is from Athens, Georgia and discovered his love of cookery after enrolling in a home economics class in high school. From there, he attended Athens Vocational College, earned an Associate’s Degree, and started his own catering business.

“My parents never talked about college. Everyone mainly worked in the local plant doing the same thing every day. I told myself that I wanted something different,” he confesses. Relocating to Charlotte in the early 1990’s, James produced meals for Holiday Inn and later had the idea to create his own dishes for his first restaurant, Georgia on Tryon. During its three-year run, Georgia on Tryon served original recipes of healthy baked meats and tasty sides. Along with his original healthy dishes, the iconic Shrimp and Grits was one of the favorites on the menu. After learning that everyone wasn’t quite ready for his unconventional idea of wholesome-Low-Country-meets-down-home-soul-food, Georgia on Tryon closed its doors.

Bazzelle and his wife went back to the drawing board, drafting a slightly different menu. He wanted to appeal to his former customers, entice new patrons such as taste-driven “meat-atarians” and dedicated vegetarians, and all the while incorporate more health-conscious selections containing all of the flavor one expects from true Southern cuisine. With this revamped philosophy, James Bazzelle compromised with his followers and incorporated fried chicken and fish. However, he didn’t budge on using fresh vegetables and healthier cooking oils.

I’m a vegetarian, and Bazzelle’s philosophy has served me well. On even the most vegetarian-friendly menus I get headaches searching for something that’s healthy yet tasty. But I’ve been eating at Mert’s regularly for a year and a half and I’m never frustrated.

On my first visit, before even perusing the menu, I thought I would have to concoct my own weird veggie plate as I always do at restaurants—omitting this, modifying that, and making sure it wasn’t boiled in chicken broth. My entrée order typically ends with me apologizing for being difficult, the servers telling me it’s okay while mentally stabbing themselves with their No. 2 pencil.

At Mert’s, I was able to order the actual Veggie Plate Dinner with Okra and Tomatoes, Macaroni and Cheese, and Sweet Yams. It took me twenty seconds flat to decide, and I modified nothing. Minutes later, a smiling server scooted a modest plate in front of me. Initially I thought, Is this it? That was before I learned that in a society where bigger is thought to be better, Bazzelle decided to discredit that myth by serving meals comparable to those served years ago, before the appearance of “super size” menus. Healthy food and healthy portions are his aim.

I wasted no time digging into my meal. The bowl of okra and tomatoes was first. I used my fork to scoot a small bit of both onto my fork, not knowing what to expect. Okra is typically slimy and cooked tomatoes are known to lose their density, but I was pleasantly surprised. The perfectly balanced flavors exploded in my mouth. The hearty chunks of tomatoes complemented the slices of okra in a way that no other vegetable can. The natural juice created by this marriage was so delightful I requested a spoon to scoop the remainder that hid in the bottom of the bowl.

The mac and cheese was next on the plate and it didn’t disappoint me. I’ve tasted this dish prepared a variety of ways, from versions with bread crumbs sitting on top to ones where pimentos had been tossed in, and while I’m sure there are other hidden ingredients added, the version at Mert’s seems as if it is made simply from cheddar cheese and macaroni shells, baked to perfection.

Next, to top off the meal, was the bowl of yams. I purposely saved it for last because this vegetable, at least for me, serves double-duty as a flattering side item and an appealing dessert. The butter and cinnamon, and what tastes like honey contrasted nicely with the salted notes in the previous dishes. I scraped the bottom of my bowl, and even dumped it over to get the last drip that hid in the curve. I was deeply satisfied.

On my next visit the same week, I swapped the mac and cheese for thick mashed potatoes and enjoyed them just as much. I also bragged about the place to a friend and decided to treat him to my new discovery. At the end of the meal, the friend sat across the table from me and gnawed on his fingers, savoring the oversized chicken wings he’d just devoured. He also finished off a bowl of collard greens that were piled high with fresh chopped onions and tomatoes.

Over the last eighteen months, having frequented Mert’s Heart and Soul regularly and gotten to know the modest health activist behind the scenes, I’ve developed a new appreciation for James Bazzelle and his quest for a healthier life for his customers. I’ve also become one of his biggest fans. This isn’t a man who wanted to become famous by fattening his patrons while fluffing his pockets. For eleven years, James Bazzelle has relentlessly dedicated himself to Mert’s Heart and Soul, and to the city of Charlotte, in attempts to undo the harmful stereotypes of fatty Southern cooking. Not many are aware of the subtle battle he is fighting on our behalf. As a witness to this mission, I assure you that he continues to greatly exceed expectations.

Mert’s Heart and Soul located at 214 North College Street, operates Monday through Friday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., and Saturday and Sunday, 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. For more information about the restaurant, visit mertsuptown.com or call 704.342.4222.

~ Dawn Cauthen