It’s 6 a.m., and Rooster Roberts is first to rise.
Before sunup, he’s outside, piling meat into his smoker. In the 30-degree air, he rigs each slab of brisket and every rack of ribs with a thermometer.
Wrapped in a brown canvas jacket under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat, he preps his spices next to the smoker, more for warmth than convenience.
Then, he waits. Good brisket takes time.
Closed and wired, the smoker looks more like a space shuttle dashboard than an appliance.
But in that metal box could be a championship win.
By 10 a.m., most other contenders at the Bradford County Fairgrounds have gone through the same routine. It’s Saturday morning, the last day of the Santa Fe College Boots-N-BBQ Cook-Off. Judgment day.
Some of the 63 barbecue teams have set up shop, catering to the 8,000 people who came through the festival over three days.
Roberts and his crew, known as Skin and Bones BBQ, are one of the vendors. Above the service counter are 30 banners showcasing the accolades of his six-year career. Those include 27 different state championships and two world championships. For 37 weekends a year, barbecue is his life.
His secret: no sauce.
After a handful of his own spices and a 15-hour bath in hickory smoke, he said most of his meat doesn’t need it.
That’s his best advertiser, too.
The weekend-long cold front blew the rising smoke down U.S. 301 so you could smell it from the Waldo speed trap 15 miles north of Gainesville.
“You get that smell — that aroma — in there, and people go crazy,” Roberts said.
Two lots over, Gordon Bryant, pit boss for GB’s BBQ, leans over a rack of ribs with a paintbrush.
He stacks them in a Styrofoam box and paints on the sauce with the precision of a makeup artist.
He wipes away the sauce drippings around the ribs, eases the lid shut, then sends it to the judges five minutes before the noon deadline.
In an aluminum-sided building at the front of the fairgrounds, Dennis Schmitz, lead contest representative for the Florida BBQ Association, labels Bryant’s and other contestants’ boxes with a number so only he knows its owner.
Tables of FBA-certified judges chatter in the back of the room while they wait for their samples. When volunteers hand out the samples, the room falls silent. Sounds of chewing fill the building.
One judge tugs a bite off a rib, grimaces, then slams it on his paper plate, splattering barbecue sauce on his score card.
“They need to quit smokin’ mullet a weekend before the damn contest,” said Richard Wolfe, a contest judge. “Don’t cook mullet before the contest, guys, Jesus Christ!”
Because of an off-choice of grill meat, the flavor’s completely off on this one, he said. Plus, it’s mushy.
Pit bosses walk fine lines when it comes to their cooking. It’s a balance between sweet and smoky, tender and firm, spiced and sauced. Too much of anything and they’re done.
Judging lasts most of the afternoon. Some of the pit bosses wander over to the main stage where comedian Alex Ortiz jokes with the crowd and Jimmie Van Zant chimes a chorus of “Freebird.”
By 5 p.m., it’s time for awards. Volunteers roll out a table of trophies to be presented by girls wearing tiaras, cowboy boots and “Miss Bradford” sashes.
After the superlatives — best chicken, best brisket, best ribs and best pork — are announced, the crowd piles in to hear who will be the grand champions.
With the highest scores in each category, Craig Thomas and his crew, Suwannee River Smokers, trot up to the stage, chuckling and slapping one anothers’ backs.
They get a three-foot trophy and a $2,550 prize.
That doesn’t matter, though. Most pit bosses throw away their trophies, anyway.
Until his next competition, Thomas knows he makes Florida’s best barbecue.
