I was not a devotee of BBQ in general (and pork spare ribs in particular) before I moved to the Bay Area to go to school. Growing up, the Weber in our backyard didn’t produce what any well-traveled person would consider to be BBQ. My father grew up during the Great Depression and worked after school in a butcher shop. Whatever he witnessed there thoroughly turned him against pork. When Memorial Day marked the beginning of the summer grilling season, my Father started marinating various cuts of beef during the week so that it was ready for the coals on Saturday afternoon. BBQ at our house always meant grilled beef…with the occasional incinerated chicken drumstick thrown in for variety.
But when I moved to Berkeley, I discovered Flint’s Barbecue. It was on Shattuck then, near Alcatraz, on the Oakland-Berkeley border. It was across the street from my favorite Irish bar, the Starry Plough, and was the perfect antidote to a few too many pints. It was only take-out. It had a small vestibule and counter in front, but in back was a huge, concrete roasting oven filled with wood embers and various cuts of meat. Next to it was a massive cutting board where orders were portioned by someone with a giant cleaver and biceps bigger than my thighs. I sometimes ordered a combo with links and ribs (Flints made its own outstanding sausages in-house), but my usual was pork ribs with medium hot BBQ sauce, potato salad, and an individual-sized sweet potato pie. All orders came with white Wonderbread, which sounds gross now, but was very effective at sopping up sauce.
One night I paid a visit to Flint’s with my friend, Paul. Pearl, the manager, was taking orders and behind her, a rather imposing young woman was wielding a cleaver at the cutting station. I ordered my usual. Paul thought for a change, he’d have the sliced beef.
“Ain’t got no beef,” the woman with the cleaver yelled over her shoulder as she brought her knife down and cleaved a chicken in half. It was enough to put you off beef for the duration.
Just after Pearl delivered our orders, the door to the joint opened and a foul wind of fortified wine and cheap whiskey enveloped us. Pearl froze. We turned to see a man with a gun in his hand. He didn’t hold the gun very steady because he was exceedingly drunk. He was so drunk, it took him a full minute to bring us all into focus. If he hadn’t been leaning against the door, he would’ve collapsed. When he could finally see us, he motioned us away and lurched to the counter.
“Gimme your money,” he slurred to Pearl. Pearl sighed and opened the register. She took out a hand full of bills and placed them in one of the to-go paper bags. The robber stared at the bag for a few moments and then jerked his head up as if he remembered something. “And an order of beef.”
The woman at the cutting station, who had not heard or seen any of this go down, yelled over her shoulder, “Ain’t got no beef!”
We tensed. Would the robber kill us all?
The robber shook his sadly, a little drool escaping the corner of his mouth. “All right. Then just gimme some ribs.”
Unfortunately for the robber, the police arrived a few minutes into his meal. He didn’t seem to be surprised or upset about being arrested, but he did look distraught at leaving the plate of ribs behind as he was escorted out to the waiting squad car.
Yes, Flint’s ribs were that good. Personally, I wouldn’t have given them up without a fight.
Since then, I have eaten ribs all over the world. And yet, none have ever come close to Flint’s ribs for tenderness, flavor, slight brown char, and amazing sauce. On the home front, I have used smokers, charcoal and gas grills, and even a pit, to try and duplicate that perfection. Nah, not even close.
While this will sound like heresy to true pitmasters, I have found that a slow roast in the oven will at least get me close to a spare rib worthy of a Memorial Day kick off to summer.
Here is my recipe for oven-roasted ribs and my famous (in my own mind) KB BBQ Sauce.
