Peppered Twice

Owensboro sits on the Ohio River in Daviess County, in a corner of western Kentucky that raised sheep for wool and sent the old ewes to the pit. The barbecue there is mutton, and the sauce it goes with is not called sauce. It is called dip. Much of it is still cooked at the Catholic parish picnics that run every summer, which is where the tradition was kept while the rest of the country decided barbecue meant pork and brisket.

This is that sauce pointed at a bird, and one thing had to go for it to make the trip. An Owensboro dip carries allspice, and the allspice is not decoration: it is there to meet the gaminess of an old ewe, which is a specific job on a specific meat. Put the same dip on a chicken wing and it arrives as a warm baking-spice note with nothing on the plate to answer it. So the allspice comes out, and cayenne and garlic take the weight instead, because chicken is what they are for. The Worcestershire stays where it was, forward and doing the work, which is the part that keeps this recognizably a dip.

The pepper goes in twice. Most of it simmers, which is where the burn comes from, and the rest is cracked fresh and stirred in raw once the pan is off the heat. Piperine survives a simmer and the aromatic oils in a peppercorn do not, so a dip that puts all its pepper in at the start ends up tasting of pepper without smelling of it. The last of the vinegar goes in at the same moment and for the same reason. Those two additions are the only lift in the jar, and they are why it is worth waiting a night before you open it.