The brick will let you cook large bone-in chicken pieces (or a whole
spatchcocked chicken) at a hotter temp (and hence faster/juicier) then you
could without it.

I usually take a more what's your hurry approach to BBQ.

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Louis Cohen
Living la vida loca at N37° 43' 7.9" W122° 8' 42.8"


"OhJeeez" > wrote in message
...
> This above-titled NY Times piece (below) offered: "I massaged barbecue rub
into
> the chicken breasts and arranged them on the grill, placing a foil-wrapped
> brick on top to compact the meat." Any merit to this technique? Thanks.
>
> March 10, 2004
> The Clash of the Barbecue Titans
> By STEVEN RAICHLEN
>
> IT wasn't his blowtorch; they are almost as common as cutting boards in
cooking
> competitions. It wasn't even the designer charcoal he used, although the
> contest rules expressly forbade it.
> It was the platter that really spooked me: a hand-painted, yardwide,
> one-of-a-kind ceramic piece that was said to have cost $5,000. Didn't the
chef
> have enough of a home court advantage, with his command of the language
and a
> squadron of professional sous-chefs, without having to trump me with a
> gallery-quality serving piece? Such are the hazards of doing barbecue
battle
> with an iron chef on Japanese television.
> The challenge came after I prepared a traditional Fourth of July barbecue
> complete with smoked brisket and beer-can chicken at our home in Martha's
> Vineyard for a Japanese television show.
> Then came the ultimate trial by fi an invitation to appear on the
Tokyo
> Broadcasting System's "World Bari Bari Values" to face off against
Rokusaburo
> Michiba, the first winner of the Iron Chef competition.
> Born into a family of tea ceremony masters, Mr. Michiba is revered in
Japan.
> He presides over three exclusive restaurants in Tokyo. His Web site
describes
> him as the "God of Japanese cuisine," and his fondness for warrior robes,
> traditional wooden platform sandals and hand-forged knives has made him
Japan's
> leading culinary samurai.
> Fortunately, I had a culinary warrior of my own by my side: my stepson,
Jake
> Klein, who is the executive chef of Pulse at Sports Club/LA at Rockefeller
> Center. Jake has worked with me for more than a decade, testing recipes
and
> even helping to open a restaurant in Hong Kong, Miami Spice, that is based
on
> my book of the same name.
> We arrived in Tokyo on a steamy August afternoon and convened a war
council,
> resolving to follow the advice of the great Sun Tzu, and study our enemy.
> We made the rounds of grill restaurants. The Japanese are at least as
> grill-crazy as we Americans are. Grilling turns up everywhe at street
> festivals, in rough-and-tumble yakitori shops, in elaborate kaiseki
> (tea-ceremony-inspired) meals, and at exclusive restaurants where dinner
for
> four costs more than I paid for my first car.
> On the third day, I reconvened our war council and reviewed our
observations
> about Japanese barbecue: Small is beautiful. Simple is beautiful. Delicate
is
> beautiful. Traditional is beautiful. And don't forget the theatrics. We
quickly
> realized we would never be able to compete with the Japanese on their own
> terms.
> I decided to start with a dish that no tradition-minded Japanese grill
master
> would conceive of - barbecued soup - a sort of gazpacho made with smoked
> tomatoes, peppers and onions.
> The main course would be quintessentially American: grilled chicken and
> barbecued ribs, both seasoned with a paprika-based rub and slathered with
a
> thick, sweet, smoky Kansas City-style sauce. For a touch of theatrics, the
> chicken breasts would be grilled under bricks, while the ribs would be
served
> with a shocking lack of Japanese delicacy, in whole, plate-burying slabs.
> Dessert would sound a tropical note from our hometown of Miami: wedges of
> pineapple brushed with coconut milk, dipped in cinnamon sugar, then
sizzled on
> the grill.
> The problem was the grill. I had requested a charcoal-burning
American-style
> kettle grill. What we got was barely a grill at all. Imagine a gas-fired
ring
> burner topped by an overgrown cake rack. We placed a ceramic diffuser
between
> the flame and the grate, but the contraption still looked like a giant
Bunsen
> burner.
> According to the rules, each contestant would prepare three courses.
After
> prep time in the afternoon, there was 30 minutes of grilling time in the
> studio.
> The food would be judged by the two hosts, eight professional actors on
stage
> and an audience of 40.
> At 9 p.m., a production assistant came to collect us, and time slowed
down. I
> have heard the theme music to the Iron Chef show dozens of times, and now
Jake
> and I were marching into the studio to its cadence.
> "World Bari Bari Values" is a cross between a quiz show and an evening
> magazine, with a dash of Letterman. During the show, the actors were asked
> questions about American barbecue - to add the humor. The audience sat on
> risers to our left.
> Dead ahead was chef Michiba, unsmiling, in his platform sandals and
indigo
> robe. We locked eyes and bowed, and the bell for the battle rang.
> I began by rigging up a smoker in a wok to smoke the tomatoes for the
> gazpacho. I massaged barbecue rub into the chicken breasts and arranged
them on
> the grill, placing a foil-wrapped brick on top to compact the meat.
> As I worked, I explained what I was doing. After all, when you cook on
> American television, you talk. Mistake No. 1.
> "Why is the American chattering so much?" one host asked the audience.
> Come time to cook the ribs, I summoned the other host, a timid young
woman,
> motioning for her to turn her back to the audience, and pointed to her
spine to
> explain the St. Louis cut of sparerib I was using. (The gesture never
fails to
> break the ice with television hosts in the United States.)
> Mistake No. 2. The young woman looked terrified and the host glared at me
> again.
> Mr. Michiba, meanwhile, had not uttered a word. His cleaver spoke for
him,
> magisterially whacking live spiny lobsters in half. He placed a metal
sheet pan
> on the grill (so much for live fire cooking), heaped it with seaweed,
piled on
> lobsters and fresh abalone, and threw in some hundred-dollar-a-piece
matsutake
> mushrooms for good measure. He placed seaweed on top, then a metal plate,
then
> a layer of glowing charcoal, then a bunch of fresh fern fronds. In a
matter of
> minutes, the whole thing hissed and fumed like Mount Etna.
> So much for the theatrics of grilling under a brick.
> Then a remarkable thing happened. The host came over to my table and I
offered
> him a tiny taste of barbecued chicken, which he ate with his fingers hot
off
> the grill. He asked for another piece, then a rib, then a forkful of
coleslaw.
> "Michiba is using the most expensive ingredients he can find," the host
mused.
> "The American is cooking with inexpensive, commonplace ingredients, like
> chicken, pork and cabbage." Suddenly, everyone seemed interested in
tasting my
> ribs, and Jake smiled for the first time in 24 hours.
> It's not polite to gloat, so I will not tell you the final score, but I
will
> tell you that humble American barbecue bested the iron chef's lobster and
> matsutakes - gallery-quality serving platter not withstanding.
> The host wrapped up a half rack of ribs in foil to take home. Mr. Michiba
> bowed graciously and mentioned something about a rematch.
> I can't wait.