Cooking a brisket is not unlike having a baby. If it’s your first time, things can turn difficult and it will probably keep you up all night, but everyone admires the end result when it finally shows up. However, unlike giving birth, all the credit for the labor goes to dad, not mom.
Until we moved to the U.S. from England, brisket was something I occasionally threw in the slow cooker and forgot about until the end of the day when it was time to eat. What the meal lacked in excitement, it made up for in convenience.
But on this side of the pond, brisket is the patron saint of chauvinism. Cooking it appears to be a rite of passage for most men, third on the list after learning to drive and spending Thanksgiving afternoon on the couch watching football.
I was not surprised, therefore, when Grumpy announced he wanted to cook brisket for his recent birthday party. Traditionally we have everyone we’ve ever met over for a barbecue. He cooks up a few burgers and hot dogs and gets all the credit, while I do everything else and spend the rest of the week trying to wrestle folding tables back into the basement.
Turns out cooking a brisket on a grill is the one thing that unites all men, whatever their politics or sports allegiance. Unlike us women, who will never tell a first-time mom the truth about labor pains, they cluck and fuss until you can’t tell one end of the tongs from the other.
Fortunately, Grumpy had a secret plan. He watched every brisket cooking show on the Food Network (too many to count at this time of year) and read every online recipe he could find. Trouble is, instead of sticking with one, he used the bits he remembered from a good half dozen.
A few days before the party, he announced he’d be putting the brisket on the grill at 6 p.m. the night before our lunchtime feast. Then he decided 8 p.m. before settling on 10 p.m.
“It’s an hour per pound,” he informed me sagely, by which I mean with wisdom, not the herb. “It can cook gently over night and in the morning, I’ll take it out and cover it with butcher’s paper and plastic wrap. It needs two hours to rest like that and then it’ll be ready. Low and slow, that’s the way.”
That part I knew. The only problem is Grumpy tends to cook high and dry, not low and slow. He has very little patience and if something isn’t ready when he thinks it should be, his solution is to turn up the heat until whatever it is burns to a crisp.
What no one told him was that in addition to watching the TV experts, you also have to take note of the weather. So when I told him there were going to be storms through much of the night, he started to wonder if grilling outside on an electric smoker was actually the safest plan.
Thoroughly exhausted from my day prepping everything else for the party, I headed for bed. Grumpy, did not. He was up all night praying to the weather gods before finally bringing the brisket inside and shoving it in the oven.
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Apparently, the way to tell it’s cooked is by poking it with a meat thermometer. It’s done when it reaches 165 degrees. Or 173 degrees. Or 190. To be honest, I was never quite sure so if you’re looking for a recipe, try Chef Google.
“I need you to help me wrap it,” said Grumpy, plonking the meat down onto the paper with a thwack. He then began five minutes of origami followed by three minutes of wrapping the brisket tighter than an Egyptian mummy. When he placed it in a cooler to keep it warm, I gave up and turned my attention to the sweetcorn cobs.
Fortunately, the rain was a distant memory by the time the party started. Grumpy finally got his dream birthday as 15 men took turns coming up to the grill and admiring his beefy treasure. There were nods of approval, much back slapping and, of course, mumblings of “low and slow.” Grumpy was delighted to carefully slice the brisket and put it in a foil dish over heat as everyone tucked in.
I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but when he later asked me how I’d liked it, I felt obliged to tell the truth.
“It tasted very nice,” I replied, remembering the entire jar of rub he slathered over it the night before. “But if I’m honest, it was a little dry.”
Grumpy Flay has an answer for everything.
“Ah, that’s because you didn’t get your piece when it was at it’s best,” he said. “It’s only good for about five minutes, then it starts to deteriorate. The first slices were very moist,” he added smugly, licking his lips.
Sometimes I feel life here is like the old Wild West, rather than the Midwest. It’s a place where men are men and women are smarter. I mean, is it really worth staying up all night tending a piece of meat that’s only good for five minutes? Is it worth garnering the praise of other men when you could just as easily order in pizza? Yet every man has his own brisket recipe that only he’s allowed to make while their wives take a back seat.
See, I told you women are smarter….
Hilary Decent is a freelance journalist who moved to Naperville from England in 2007.