Dads, it's your day to stick to your ribs

John Kass: Dads, it's your day to stick to your ribs

Published June 18, 2006

Father's Day.

Say it in a deep voice, like that guy what's-his-name, he's long dead, who narrated NFL Films.

Father's Day. The phrase evokes a Valhalla where we get what we want, even a cigar, as long as we smoke it outside, if our wives and kids give us permission, which they won't.

And barbecue. Ah, the simple clarity--coals and meat and time to quaff a beer or three, maybe a nap, if "they" let us.

Yet, on this day, we stand like heroes of yore and speak as one the following words:

On Father's Day, a father shall do absolutely nothing, unless he wants to do something. But it's got to be his idea. And he may spend the afternoon making barbecue in his back yard on a smoker. If the poor sap has no smoker, those who pretend to "love" him may take him to any one of a small handful of the best authentic Chicago rib joints. (A list is available at the bottom of this column, including Kass' favorite, the famous Honey 1 BBQ at 2241 N. Western Ave.)

This barbecue edict was inspired by Bob, a reader.

"My good man, put politics aside and focus on what is truly important! Your beer-can chicken has made me a hero in my family. And your essays on ribs have made me venture into the world of `slow-and-low' rib smoking. I long for something to do that won't get me in trouble with my wife or lead to jail. Please help. Bob Gornik, Wheaton, Illinois."

OK, Bob, here's a barbecue column, but no chicken. I'm still bitter about the debacle of Kass' Beer Can Chicken, since I wrote and wrote about it but never made a dime off it and other so-called experts horned in, making my chicken on TV.

So others poached my territory and made fortunes that by right belonged to me, all the while hawking their ridiculous beer-can holders, as if a chicken's behind can't hold a beer can by itself.

For Father's Day, the only civilized thing to do is to crank up a smoker in the back yard, add back ribs with dry rub, sauce on the side. Let others make the coleslaw and corn, since you'll be outside where you belong.

And, if you're looking for something extra to smoke, why not try some Dragon Turds?

My wife has expressly forbidden me the use of the term. But she doesn't write the column, and by the time she reads this, it'll be too late. Besides, that's what Gary Wiviott, Chicago's esteemed Doctor of Ribs, calls them.

Dragon Turds are a tasty delight of jalapeno peppers (cored and de-seeded) stuffed with spicy chorizo or hot Italian sausage. Wrap each with a slice of thick bacon. Secure the bacon with toothpicks.

Smoke them low and slow alongside some ribs. When the bacon's done, the sausage inside the pepper should be ready.

"Make about 20 of them at once, but make sure the beer's cold," Wiviott said. "They're nice and spicy and you'll want beer with them. A lot of beer. If you cook them on a smoker low and slow, and the bacon's done, cut into one. You'll know when it's time."

Wiviott is the professor of ribs in this town, a man devoted to barbecue and other slow foods. If you want to learn how to make real barbecue, get yourself a Weber Smoky Mountain cooker and visit his Web site at www.wiviott.com.

Full disclosure: I have no financial interest in Weber or Wiviott, and he gives his knowledge away for free.

Follow his directions and people you haven't seen in years will stop by. You'll find them in your driveway, making pleading sounds and salivating.

"What else would a man do on Father's Day, or any other day, but barbecue?" Wiviott asked. "This tradition goes back to our cave-men ancestors. Can you see him? In animal skins, with a spear, happy, satisfied, having kept his family alive one more day. He's roasting meat. He's complete."

Unfortunately, though the Chicago area prides itself on authentic food, there are only a handful of barbecue places that do ribs right. And I don't care what your brother-in-law says about ribs. He's wrong.

Most places pretend to be authentic, they call it barbecue, but they parboil their ribs, or bake them. Or, they use a gas cooker. Such ribs you can eat with a spoon. Don't call them ribs. Call them what Wiviott calls them:

Meat Jell-O.

Preferably, you'll try making some real ribs at home. Just don't soak the hickory wood chunks even though they tell you to do that on the bag. Ask yourself: WWGD? What would Gary do?

Or, if you don't have the time, then try one of the rib places that were part of a rib lovers tour over the weekend, as long as you try Honey 1 first, where you'll meet a true pit master, Robert Adams.

Here they are. Just call ahead first to make sure they're open.

Honey 1 BBQ, 2241 N. Western Ave. (773-227-5130). Barbara Ann's BBQ, 7617 S. Cottage Grove Ave. (773-651-5300). Lem's BBQ, 311 E. 75th St. (773-994-2428). Uncle John's BBQ, 337 E. 69th St. (773-892-1233).

So let it be written. Let it be done. Happy Father's Day, men.

jskass@tribune.com