Smoked Bologna

By Martin Peyruc, Reporter

The Reckless Gastronome, Life News Today

Greetings my most treasured friends and readers, it probably comes as no surprise that I like to try new things (yes, yes, I know you are rolling your eyes.) There are even some who say I have a pathological need for novelty and that I will buy anything that has a label of “new” (not as attached to the concept of “improved” though, go figure.) So together, we are going to try something “new”, a new format! This time (and if its well-received, again) instead of reviewing a new (or new to me) product I’m going to try my hand at making and reviewing a specific dish. Sorry for the bait and switch, but let’s see where this goes. While I’m certainly no chef, I’m told I’m a pretty decent home cook, I have taken a number of cooking classes to keep my skills sharp (intentional pun), and I even worked for a bit as a cook at Jerry’s Subs and Pizza (ooh ooh, Jerry’s!), so trust me when I say my bona fides are completely useless, but I’m going to do this anyways, so you may as well join me.

They say that as men get older, they either get into World War II history or smoking meats and since if I really wanted to find out more about fascists, I could just turn on the U.S. news (all political opinions expressed, no matter how correct, are mine alone and do not represent Life News Today.) Since I am no exception, I have joined a handful of smoking meat groups on Facebook and Reddit and that’s where I learned about this dish.

Smoked bologna or as it is sometimes known, “Oklahoma Prime Rib” (also Barbecue Bologna if you are utterly boring) is, as you’ve likely guessed, a traditional Oklahoma dish, although it is also common in Tennessee barbecue and seems to be making inroads in Texas, which is surprising considering how traditional Texans are about their barbecue. Likewise, a growing number of private meat smokers (there has got to be a better term) have also joined the pink bologna club (God, what have you done, you’re a pink bologna girl, and you smoke at the club, oh mama).

This wouldn’t be a Reckless Gastronome article if I didn’t blather about history and origins before getting to the meat of the article (pun intended, but even I regret this one). And this time will be no different (these articles would be too short if I just thumb up or down everything.) Bologna is the industrialized descendant of Mortadella. Both are emulsified meat products (sexy, I know) but Mortadella has chunks of pork fat and commonly has pistachios, peppercorns, and in some variants, myrtle berries. It has likely been around since the Roman Empire (this counts for your thinking about ancient Rome, quota) and likely gets its name from being made with a mortar and pestle. Speaking of names, why is bologna pronounced “baloney” here in the States (except for “Weird” Al)? Don’t worry, this isn’t a rhetorical question, I have a (likely) answer! The most accepted theory is that much like Italia becoming Italy and other words ending in a “ya” sound being converted into a “y”, the same thing happened with Bologna, even though its spelled different. Just don’t ask me where the “r” comes from in “nanner” pudding. There is no “r” in banana!

For many people (especially those that remember the 70’s and 80’s) their bologna has a first name, and despite being of Italian origin, it’s a German name. In 1883 Oskar (or the Americanized version, Oscar) Mayer started his own shop in Chicago selling German sausages. He had more than just a talent for making sausage though, his skills at promotion were clearly not the “wurst.” He sponsored local events, including the 1893 Chicago World Fair and polka dances. Oscar Mayer started the trend of branding their meats and was so confident in their quality they volunteered to join newly formed federal meat inspection program, though to be fair that may have been a move to distance themselves from the bad press from Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle.” It was around this time that they also started selling bologna. Let’s be honest, the process for bologna isn’t very different than wieners (hehe, I said wiener.) Then, throughout the 20th century they became the face of the deli meat industry through jingles like 1963’s “I Wish I Was an Oscar Mayer Wiener” and the before alluded to “My Bologna Has a First Name” and of course with the iconic Wienermobile.

Alas for my experiment, my bologna didn’t have a first name. The only bologna chub (yes, that’s the industry term and yes, I feel dirty calling it that) I could find is from a brand called Bar-S. Unfortunately, Bar-S is mostly known for its extreme affordability and not, let’s say, its taste, smell, texture, or really anything else. Sometimes you just got to make the best with the chub you got (amirite, ladies?) Still, with five pounds of chub, there was some room for experimentation, so I got a little creative. I did a traditional recipe; I carved a spiral into a block and stuffed it with pimento cheese which is also a classic pairing. Then, since I had a little leftover, I took one of the end caps, hollowed out a small bowl, and after an initial smoke, I filled with leftover pimento cheese and smoked some more. All of this I did on my trusty Kamado grill, which I’ve nicknamed Fenrir, because much like the legendary wolf of Scandinavian mythology, it will absolutely eat your hand if you aren’t careful. I’ve already chipped a couple bones in my hands from forgetting to set the lid locks (newer style smokers have springs that keep the heavy lid from slamming down.)

Let’s start with my more “creative” choices. I decided to pair the smoked bologna with its traditional partner, Pimento cheese (don’t worry, I’m not going to do the history of pimento cheese) (this time.) Carving the spiral itself was a bit difficult. I used a long thin carving knife, but a metal wire would have probably worked better. A good rule of thumb (lest you lose it) is always keep in mind where your off hand is, before moving your knife. A lesson I learned the hard way making sausage from scratch a few years back (hmm, maybe I should get gloves). In an ideal world I would have been able to roll the spiralized meat out like a scroll, but unfortunately it wasn’t quite structurally sound and started to break apart under its own weight (much like my knees), so I slathered as much cheese as possible and then desperately tried to shove in even more. I then tried to tie it with twine, but my Shibari skills are lacking and I made a mess of it. So much for my backup career as a dominator (the female suffix is -trix and that’s definitely not for kids). Smoked it at 225°F with lump charcoal and post oak wood for about an hour. I am well aware that there is nothing people like more than telling others what they’ve done wrong, so go ahead, you meat smokers out there, let me know how you would handle a five-pound chub (I’m going to break my comment section). The result was a lot smokier and less cheesy that I had expected. I had forgotten that bologna swells when you cook it and had pushed out most of the cheese, I had stuffed it with. The increased surface area also meant that it absorbed a lot more smoke, so it was rather potent, but what cheese remained was amazing.

My next test was hollowing out one of the end caps into a bowl and filling with the leftover pimento cheese. The other end cap had proven too alluring to my baby chihuahua (don’t tell me he’s too big to be a chihuahua, he’s just really big boned and you shouldn’t body shame pets anyways) and he absconded with it when my back was turned. I smoked the bowl first, put the meat in the grill (see what I did there) and then once it was mostly done, I filled it with cheese and smoked for about ten minutes. I ate this with crackers and it was absolutely divine. Warm unctuous cheese, with the smoke and bit of extra salt from the rub was an umami wonderland. Next time I’m smoking meat, I’m certainly going to put some in a temperature safe bowl as a little snack.

Now at last, I did the traditional cut. I diamond scored the exterior, used a yellow mustard binder, and coated it with a savory (later research suggested sweet, but I had already made it) seasoning rub, and smoked with pecan woodchips also at 225°F or so the gauge told me for about 45 minutes. I point this out because even though I smoked it for less time I feel like it ended up a bit more cooked than my first attempt with a drier skin and noticeably darker. I probably could have lacquered it with barbecue sauce, but most recipes I found didn’t include it.

At this point I have already eaten more bologna than a sane or loving deity would ever permit, and my dog (Havi, by the way, he wants you to subscribe to his OnlyPaws) won’t stop following me around. So once more I reach for the safety of tradition and made a sandwich. Of course this is a fried smoked bologna sandwich, just incase the lily hadn’t been gilded enough. White bread, mayonnaise (or as is it known in my house, “Sandwich Lube” to my spouse’s disgust), a splash of mustard, and a slice of American cheese melted betwixt two moderately thick slices of the bologna. As weary as I am of bologna, I have to admit this is pretty good. It is nicely balanced, salty meat, creamy mayo, fatty cheese, sweet white bread, and a hint of acidity from the mustard. It hearkens back to a simpler time. I didn’t eat a lot of bologna as a kid, but it was always there as a backup.

Ultimately that’s the real point of it all. Upscaling a dirt-cheap source of protein (I paid $10.99 for a five-pound chub) into something a little more special. There’s a reason its many peoples favorite struggle meal. Since it is so inexpensive, it’s a good way to learn more about smoking and feeding a crowd. Also, once you’ve got the smoker going you can toss on any number of other things while you are at it (I also smoked a couple chicken breasts for my popular Smoked Chicken Enchiladas.) It might not be the star of a family barbecue, but it can round out a meal and make it stretch a little farther. Still, that was way too much bologna for one man (and his pilfering pooch) and so I think I’m done with this for the foreseeable future.

Chub found at Food Lion, but preparation was all me, baby.