Mike Royko made the best Ribfest
Fans ate up his fantastical sauce story — and an event was born
Thewoman, carrying cans of beer in both of her hands, asked for an autograph.
“And wherewould you like that?” said Mike Royko.
Thewoman raised her T-shirt, baring her stomach and more and said, “Anywhere you’d like.”
Thiswasmore than 30 years ago during whatwas one of the most joyful and weird and smoke-filled and, simply, wonderful events in this city’s history.
Itwas known, for its few years, as the Royko Ribfest.
It started innocently enough, when Roykowrote a 1982 column in the SunTimes “claiming” that the greatest rib sauce in the worldwas created in 1449 inWarsawby his ancestor, AuntWillieMae Royko. He wrote that that her inspiration came when her husband, Uncle Bubba Royko, slammed his fist on the dinner table and shouted: “I’m tired of always eating pierogi and kielbasa.”
Hewent on to provide the details:
“Unfortunately, the family’s pet pigwas sleeping on the table whenUncle Bubba slammed down his fist, and the poor beast died of shock. “
AuntWillieMaewept, but being a frugal sort, she decided to make the best of the tragedy and have him for dinner. “She said: ‘He was a good and loyal pig. So, he deserves something special.’
“And thatwas when she made her sauce, with 351 secret ingredients.”
He wrote that this recipe had been passed down through the centuries until coming to him, whichwas the reason, he claimed, “why I amgenerally acknowledged— at least by myself— to be theworld’s greatest barbequer, the man known as ‘The Top Slab,’ ‘The Thriller of the Griller’ and ‘The Bone that Stands Alone.’ ”
As an example of the sort of influence that some newspapers columnists had in the pre-internet era, and an example of howeasily some people can fall for obviously fictional stories, Roykowas bombarded with so many phone calls and letters disputing his best-sauce boast that he was compelled to stage the first Royko Ribfest.
Memories of this floated into the present while Iwas having dinner recently with Royko’s widow, Judy. We were at Twin Anchors, an Old Town tavern that has been serving ribs since the 1930s. Frank Sinatrawas, andDavidMamet is, a fan of the tavern.
We remembered what a gloriously ebullient and funnymaster of ceremonies the late broadcaster Tim Weigel had been and the Ribfest events; the bands that played, mostly blues. We remembered some of the silly T-shirts that contestantswore; the smiling, sauce-stained faces of people no longer alive.
“I miss so many of them, but thatwas so much fun,” said Royko, and shewas right.
As perhaps have many of you, I often findmyself dragged into the past. Maybe it’s because the city is so quiet nowthat old memories can more easilywander around, sneak through.
That first Royko Ribfest, generally acknowledged, by no less an authority than “The Chicago Food Encyclopedia” (University of Illinois Press), to have been “one of the nation’s first
large barbeque competitions,” attracted more than 400 contestants, spread out in 10-by-10-foot cooking areas across a vast portion of Grant Park, just north of the old band shell.
Itwaswon by a Charlie Robinson, whomRoyko described as “a black entrepreneur whoworks his massive grill with the virtuosity of a concert pianist and has a secret sauce that goes back to plantation days.” Robinson, whowas then an ice cream distributor, parlayed his prize (a certificate and a “Ribs 1” Illinois license plate) into a restaurant.
The second Ribfest took place in 1984— Royko writing in his new home at the Tribune that “I don’t like to have annual events too often”— swelling to 600-some contestants. The winnerwas CleoWilliams, a Chicago fireman who, Roykowrote, learned his “secrets of rib sorcery as a child on his grandma’s sauce-stained lap.”
I served as a judge for both of these contests, a job that consisted ofwalking with two other judges (chosen fromsome of Royko’s pals and persuasive
volunteers) along a rowof 10 “chefs,” eating their offerings, drinking what theywere serving (beer and wine to hard liquor), meeting their friends, seeing their decor (froma couple of folding chairs simplicity to Ravinia lawnlike opulence) and T-shirts (clever, crude and everything in between), listening to their pleas and refusing their bribes, generally playful but some involving real money.
Thiswas fun and, for one of us, debilitating. I sensed it almost immediately, as one ofmy fellowjudges began eating more than eight ribs at our first two stops, saying, “I saved up my stomach and didn’t eat for the last two days to be ready,” finally collapsing and requiring a trip to the hospital.
We scored in various categories (taste, texture, sauce, etc.) and handed in our sheets.
Fifty semifinalistswere scored and selected, and that number was pared to 10, with those ribs tasted by a small group of “experts” on stage, usually including noted food critics and eventually such previous winners as Robinson and
Williams. A grand prize winnerwas then chosen.
I suppose because I remained ambulatory in those first years, Iwas tabbed to be the chief judge of the 1985 event, tabulating all the scoresheets.
Didmy part. Winnerwas selected. And Royko felt “outright disgust.”
Thiswas not, hewould write, “because I didn’t win. I’ve lost before. I’ve lost at every one ofmy own Ribfests. If nothing else, my defeats serve to prove that the judging is on the legit.” The reason for his revulsion was that the winnerwas, in hiswords, “a white yuppie.”
His namewas Steve Crane, 29 years old and, Roykowrote, “ethnically and racially aWASP … I didn’t even knowthat WASPs ate anything but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
After that year’s winner was announced, Royko directed me to hang onto the dozens of soiled and stained scoring sheets—“I want to make surewe have them if someone thinks a fixwas in,” he said— which I dutifully did for many years.
But memories are not so easily discarded, and so I when I recall the Ribfests, what I remember is the unity, the harmony and the togetherness of them all. Therewere, side by side, groups fromGlencoe and West Pullman, Rosemont and Roseland, Austin and Streeterville— white, Black and brown. Therewas no anger or violence, no arrests or trouble. If there were arguments, theywere about cooking methods or sauces “sweet or tangy.” Thesewere harmonious and hopeful gatherings.
Therewas another Ribfest in 1986, when Royko allowed a contestant from Oak Park to enter making “gluten (ugh) ribs.” He had previously put off vegetarians by writing, “I occasionally eat vegetables — a tiny onion in a martini or a stalk of celery in a bloodyMary. Keeps me fit.”
But by 1987, Royko had had enough. The eventwas becoming an organizationally nightmare, the prizes too lavish, corporate intrusions too frustrating.
Its playful innocence lost, Royko “retired” from the rib scene. Claiming in print that his life has been saved fromhoodlums by a pet pig named Prince, he wrote, “I ampassing the bone so to speak, tomy colleagues, (Kathy) O’Malley and (Hanke) Gratteau, the authors of the INC. column. … They are superbly qualified, especially Ms. Gratteau, whowasmy assistant for several years and with whom I entrusted all ofmy secret rib cooking techniques.”
So, Judy Royko and I both had ribs at Twin Anchors. Theywere delicious.
She showedme some old photos that she had taken at one year’s festival.
“I just found these. Not sure what year, but aren’t they great?” she said. “You know, I once had Mike’s recipe, but it has long since disappeared.”