Chapter 5: Three in the Morning

I didn't ask.

I shook his hand, and his palm was rough and warm, and he let go first.

Our first real cook together was the Friday after, for Saturday service.

Six packer briskets on the table under the yard light at nine at night.

I had my knife out before he'd finished hanging his hat.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Trimming."

"That's a quarter inch."

"That's how much fat you leave on brisket."

"You leave a quarter inch. I leave half."

"Which is why your bark's soft at the edges and too salty on top," I said. "The rub sits on the fat and never touches the meat."

He folded his arms. "Half inch protects it. Mabel runs hot on the right side."

"Then turn it."

"I turn it."

"Then trim it."

We stared at each other over a hundred pounds of beef.

Lorrie had gone home at eight.

The kid had gone home at six.

The dog looked from one of us to the other.

"Three each," Wick said finally. "Your way and mine. Side by side."

"And when mine wins?"

"Then I'll say so."

"Out loud?"

"I'll write it on the chalkboard."

So I trimmed three and he trimmed three.

Then he reached for the wood, and I said, "Hickory?"

"Post oak. Always post oak."

"Post oak with a split of cherry at the end. For color."

"Cherry's for people who want their brisket to look pretty on television."

"Cherry is for people who've won the Riverfront three times."

"Brice won it three times."

"I'm counting the ones I cooked."

He laughed, that short surprised sound again, and threw a split of oak into the firebox.

Then he went into the shed and came back with a split of cherry.

He didn't say anything.

He just set it down by my boot.

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