The Outer Cape has its weeks. Carnival is the big one up next. In the Independent, it is apparently barbecue week: Oliver Egger and Elias Schisgall report from the annual pig roast at the Eastham Elks Lodge, Edouard Fontenot writes from grillside in Truro about Puerto Rican pernil, and John D’Addario takes us to a vegan barbecue where he serves up grilled watermelon burgers.
I was a latecomer to barbecue. I’m not sure exactly when I first encountered it — probably in the mid-’80s at the East Coast Grill in Inman Square. But I vividly recall meeting our Hasty Bake charcoal oven for the first time. It was in McAllen, Texas, in the Rio Grande Valley, where Teresa’s parents, George and Jane Parker, were living when she and I got together. They had bought it on their first wedding anniversary in 1958. George demonstrated the unique virtues of the Hasty Bake as he cooked a rack of ribs on it, occasionally tossing some soaked mesquite chips on the coals.
Those ribs were a revelation.
When the Parkers moved to San Antonio and then to Hot Springs, Ark., the Hasty Bake went with them. George kept it in pristine condition, replacing worn-out parts as needed. But the retirement community in Yarmouth Port where they moved in 2013 doesn’t permit outdoor grills, so the Hasty Bake came to our house in Wellfleet.
Its hood, vent system, and heat deflector allow for precise control of the cooking temperature. The most brilliant design feature is the crank mechanism that raises and lowers the fire box. I made some baby-back ribs last weekend, slow-roasting and smoking them for 4½ hours at 180 to 190 degrees.
George approved of the results.
A few years ago, the grill’s ash pan, which sits under the fire box, gave out. I ordered a replacement from the Hasty Bake company in Tulsa, and it arrived promptly. But it wouldn’t fit. It was a half inch too wide.
I called Tulsa and explained to the woman who answered the phone that I had ordered a new ash pan and it was the wrong size.
“Oh, darn!” she said. “Let me get you the parts department, dear.”
The parts manager told me that the company doesn’t make replacements for their 1958 Dixie Belle model anymore. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he said. “I can take a bigger pan and cut it down to size for you. I’ll ship that out today. No charge.”
When our refrigerator gave out in last month’s heat wave, the retailer we bought it from seemed surprised that we were surprised. “It’s nine years old,” I said. “Right, it’s nine years old,” said the woman on the phone.
The Hasty Bake has me thinking about how rare it is these days to escape the planned obsolescence of almost everything we need.
A company that makes things to last has what Paul Tasha might call honor.
That’s something worth celebrating at least as much as a mesquite-smoked, falling-off-the-bone pork rib.
