BBQ & A

Hollis the Mountain Man gets a grilling

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

Hollis the Mountain Man is no fancy cook, but if he's in the mood, there's nothing he likes better than firing up the barbecue. Steak from the local butcher, onions from his great-aunt Winnie's garden, zucchini from his own -- if he can cut it so there's a flat side, the grill's the place. He's a secret reader of gourmet magazines and has lately been experimenting with mesquite chips (actually available in Tritown, in case you don't think we got exotic stuff heah).

When he puts the chips on his battered Weber kettle, the smoke is at first overwhelming, but a tangy aroma soon permeates the air and extends an ethereal perfumed finger toward the nose of Lorencz the Hermit, who had been slumbering in his gutted school bus in the woods.

Hollis hasn't seen Lorencz for weeks and is at first surprised to see he's wearing a deeply stained "Frampton Comes Alive" T-shirt Hollis had been using to polish his truck. Lorencz's beard is no more matted than usual, but there's a rapturous gleam in his eye.

"Ah, mesquite," he purrs, loping toward the grill. "The aroma of the gods, or at least the gods of the Plains and Canyon states, which I have, on occasion, had the good fortune to meet."

"Before or after the peyote," murmurs Hollis, stirring the chips with his poker.

"During, my boy," says Lorencz, who approaches the grill with reverence. "And what are we having for dinner tonight? Baby potatoes gleaming in their jackets? Free-range chicken that's had Mantovani piped into the henhouse so the flesh is succulent and unstressed?"

Lorencz turns his beady eyes to his friend who shakes his head.

"I gotta steak, some zukes and some corn on the cob," he says. "Mine seems to have the blight."

Hollis points to his kitchen garden, a project begun every spring with great hope, enthusiasm, and much sod-raking. By mid-summer, the weeds have had the upper hand (er, upper leaf) for a while.

"Yes," says Lorencz, "I noticed the stalks were looking a bit weedy. Well, steak and veg sounds great."

Hollis laughs. "Actually, Hasky and $erena are supposed to come by, and Delia Ellis Bell may drop in too," he says. "There wouldn't be enough."

"Well," says Lorencz, who hasn't eked out a living on an extremely modest military disability pension for nothing. "Since $erena is probably still vegetarian, and I just took out a few trout this morning, the potatoes I have in the bus should round out the meal nicely."

Hollis gazes at the twinkly surface of Picture Pond. It's clean water, but he's never been able to eat any fish he caught. Maybe it was different if someone else did the fishing. He sighs. Before he finishes saying "Bring it over, and change your shirt why-don'tcha," Lorencz has darted back into the woods, as nimble as a rabbit in the cabbage patch.

WHEN BIG THERESA (of the T 'n` T Beauty Salon) collapsed and went to the hospital, everyone was convinced she'd snipped her last coiffure. Though her symptoms suggested a heart attack, ultimately gastro-intestinal distress was diagnosed. This may have been triggered by the news that $erena, her favorite niece (and also her cousin; this Tritown family had labyrinthine inter-connections) was planning to stay in Providence rather than come home as she should. Or it could have been sympathetic anxiety over the quarter-billion dollar Powerball stakes. In any event, after $erena came back on the first bus, Big T was happy to recuperate at home, while $erena took her place part-time at the salon.

Delia manages to convey this entire story to Hollis while shucking a dozen ears of corn and knocking back a bottle of home brew while they wait for $erena and Hasky to arrive.

"He's a new man," says Delia. "He picks her up at work and everything."

"Well, that's considerate," mutters Hollis. "Considering he's the one with access to all kinds of vehicles and could take an afternoon to fix her car if he wanted to." Meanwhile, Hollis stirs his coals, and when he figures they show the correct amount of glow, he pours the wood chips atop them.

Within moments, he and Delia are enveloped in thick clouds of smoke.

"My god, Hollis," Delia exclaims, moving out of the way. "That's worse than a tenement fire. Are you sure this is good for grilling?"

Hollis waves the smoke away with his Tri'd-'n'-Tru Chips foam baseball cap (one of the "bennies" of driving for the company) but more billows upward in great plumes of black clouds . . .

"Funny thing," Hollis gasps, attempting to spread the wood chips out. "I don't remember mesquite having this funny sprucey smell." By this point, Hollis is almost gagging on the smoke, and Delia has moved upwind but is considering taking refuge in her car.

They both watch the grill from a safe distance when Hasky and $erena drive down the lane. (Though Hasky and Hollis are abutters, and share part of the driveway, Hasky is of the culture that asks, why go if you don't have to? and, why walk if you can drive?)

$erena has a bag of tofu dogs ("hut dahgs") and rolls, and, of course, a big bag of Tried-'n'-Tru Vinegar-Dubl-Salt chips. Hasky has a case of beer from Myrt's R 'n` R. Both are shocked at the smoke.

"I thought the paint factory finally went up," says a dumbfounded Hasky.

"Well, it's starting to thin out," says Delia. "You guys are just in time -- the steak's been marinating for a while."

Indeed, the smoke is starting to clear. As they cautiously approach the grill, they notice Lorencz the Hermit (wearing a white shirt that had been hanging on Hasky's mother's clothesline that morning) sitting on the other side.

He's got a collection of breaded trout fillets crisping nicely on the grill, along with a pile of spuds. The spruce smell is gradually giving way to a fishy bouquet, and Lorencz's face is smudged with soot.

"Just in time," he says magnanimously. "These fishies are dainty things. Ladies, may I serve you?"

$erena and Delia look at each other, and then take the paper plate they're offered. "Aren't you glad to be back?" asks Delia moving to a spot in the grass.

"Seems like I never left," says $erena.

Meanwhile, Lorencz has surrendered his tongs to Hollis and is explaining the peculiar smell. "I just get bothered by certain regions of the country being regarded as boutique or status compared to good old New England," he says. "Our food used to be the food of the nation."

"That's right," says Hasky. "Johnnycake and porridge. Yum."

"Broiled scrod," says Hollis, "with a chaser of fried clams and Moxie."

"Food of the gods, though, right boys?" asks Lorencz, turning a blackening spud with his thumb.

"So whydja put spruce chips in with my mesquite?" asks Hollis, whose eyes are still stinging.

"Just a little experiment," says Lorencz. "What if it had worked, and the next thing you knew, `genuine spruce-grilled codfish,' brought the yuppies into Tritown waving their platinum cards?"

Hasky, who is about to crack open his third beer, hears only the word "yuppies." He snaps to attention. "I ain't repairing another BMW, no way," he says.

"We can write that into the vows," says $erena sweetly.

"Along with `in sickness and in health,'" adds Delia, who'll be chief bridesmaid and general organizer of this extravaganza.

"Spruce-grilled wedding dinner?" asks Lorencz hopefully.

There is a delicate silence, and then everyone changes the subject.

Hollis the Mountain Man's BBQ Secrets

* Marinate (meat and self, if so inclined).

* Make enough for guests (can't waste those coals).

* Stand upwind when you spray the lighter fluid on the coals (don't ask).

* Spruce gum used to be an ingredient in caulking, and if you ever grill with the stuff, you'll see why.

Sally Cragin sends a tip of the chef's toque this week to David Barber, himself an ingenious cook.

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