Barbecue blasphemy?

The new issue of Gourmet, which arrived in the mail a few days ago, has a feature on Eastern Carolina barbecue -- you know, the vinegar kind. For the record, I love that kind. When done well, it's savory with a lovely texture, complemented by a dollop of creamy slaw. Growing up in the Midwest, I ate no such thing. It was a pleasant surprise to a girl whose exposure to barbecue was limited to my mom's ground-turkey sloppy joes and Famous Dave's Kansas City-style tomato-based sauce.

Well, Gourmet figured out a way to not do justice to the regional phenomenon. They published pictures of beautiful young people at a picnic table -- New York models, no doubt -- chowing away on barbecue and its accoutrements -- as if any beautiful New York model would ever be caught dead putting something fried or pork-based in his or her mouth.

Furthermore, Gourmet just overdoes the food itself. They offer a range of recipes that, objectively speaking, look delicious. But they cross the line when they offer up a recipe for a homemade bun on which to put the barbecue.

Now, aside from the ideological objections to the simple existence of the bun that some might have, why do we need to go to all this trouble? We're already spending hours, theoretically, slow-cooking and seasoning the pig, making the slaw, assembling the 'nana pudding. Why add another time-consuming, unnecessary step to the process when a storebought, smooshy, carbolicious bun will do the trick?

This post is my homage to Smithfield's, a fairly recent discovery with locations scattered across central and Eastern N.C. I worship its unpretentious style and straightforward delivery. Hats off to you, Smithfield's. Stay your very own nonhighfalutin' self.