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.

"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.
>

Chicken under a brick is a recipe I see often. Give it a shot and lemme know
how it goes. I'm interested.

--
Fosco Gamgee Whitfurrows
and his 6" boner

F.G. Whitfurrows wrote:
> "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.
>>
>
> Chicken under a brick is a recipe I see often. Give it a shot and
> lemme know how it goes. I'm interested.

I've done it, it works well.

Jack Curry

In article >,
says...
>
> "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.
> >
>
> Chicken under a brick is a recipe I see often. Give it a shot and lemme know
> how it goes. I'm interested.
>
>
I just saw the BBQ University episode yesterday where Steve cooked his
chicken that way. He said there were several reasons for it:

1. It covered the chicken, thus keeping it moist while grilling
2. It flattened the chicken, if it was uneven to begin with.
3. It pressed the chicken flesh into the grill, thus creating indented
grill marks (though this didn't seem like such a benefit to me - I'd
prefer my grill marks prominent but un-indented. Not sure why - it's an
aesthetic thing I think).
4. I think there was another reason, but I've forgotten it.
--
Donna
A pessimist believes all women are bad. An optimist hopes they are.

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.

--
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----
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.