For carnivores, there are many barriers between animal and plate. It's easy to forget that your prim filet mignon topped by herbed butter was once attached to a massive beast that lived solely for the dinner table. At the grocery store, deboned, skinned and plastic-wrapped cuts from chickens and pigs are so sterile, they may as well be made from textured vegetable protein or Soylent Green. Most of us don't hunt, can't butcher a kill, and shy away from pictures of slaughterhouses. We live in denial.
But there is one cut of meat that still evokes the primal instincts many folks strive to forget. One cut that forces carnivores to confront the source of their food and their mastery over the environment, for good or ill. One cut that requires getting hands and face dirty, as we grasp a long bone and rip meat free with incisors evolved for just such a job. One cut above others that thrives under the rough handling of those who've mastered the art of slow fire, smoldering hardwoods and digging pits.
You know what I'm talking about. You can feel it in your gut. It's ribs, preferably from the wondrous pig.
Three years ago we pitted 64 pizza partisans against one another. Two years ago, the same number of burger builders duked it out for top honors. Last year, taco technicians spiced things up in a spirited tortilla tournament, decided by you, our ravenous CL readers.
This year, we present you with another compelling question: Which Bay area culinary caveman has mastered the carnivore's art? Who makes the best ribs in Tampa Bay?
This article appears in Mar 3-9, 2010.