SMOKE AND COVER
I remember the evening was warm for mid-November New York, and the bus was running on time. Settled into my usual seat, I opened The New Yorker, flipping the pages blindly, hoping to lose myself in an article out of the New York metropolitan area. A properly traditional story, built around our collective condition with enough quirk to make the pages turn.
“Raashi Singh retains more than a hint of her childhood accent as she calls out the orders from table seven. ‘Two pork plates, both with baked beans, potato salad. One sweet tea, one lemonade.’ Her kitchen, relentlessly awash in the sweet and savory smoke of a freshly cooked pig, emanates the air-thick scents and sensibilities of Deep South cooking—characteristics in seeming contradiction to her traditional North Indian wardrobe and vocal cadence. The restaurant’s expansive dining room (formerly a consignment shop and tire store) reflects a different kind of tradition, with red- and white checked-table cloths; long, worn wooden benches; and yellowing black and white photographs of days long bygone.
"Since 1981, Singh and her family have owned and operated Smoke and Cover (recently crowned New York’s best barbecue joint for the fifth year running) in Jackson Heights. After coming to the US from India in 1975, Singh and her husband, Viraj, spent four years in Smithfield, NC—hardly a dot on any map or mind save for its role as the nexus of Eastern Style pulled pork barbecue. There she learned—"
The stop at Thirty-Fourth broke the story, and I looked up just as we lowered to the curb and accepted four riders. The last was a western man—well, an eastern western man. An Asian Cowboy. He strode purposely toward the back, toward me, stumbling briefly with the lurch of the bus before steadying himself against a pole. His boots clicked as he walked.
He chose the row of seats next to me, pressed against the window, and tipped his hat to no one in particular. His eyes squinted as he surveyed. As proper New Yorkers do, the lot of us held our gaze forward. Feigning disinterest. Waiting for his words in our strained silence.
“Y’all can just drop me off at this next stop, y’hear?” "Eh?" "I'm'a get off at the next 'un." "The cord! Pull the cord!" "I've told yuh where I'm'a goin'. You just pull on over when I says."
The driver, broken, pulled over three blocks later. The man pulled himself up, left us staring at our toes, and clicked his way into the night. Satisfied, I returned to my story.
“There she learned the art of whole-hog smoking. ‘Food was the key to my transition here,’ she says, with a widening grin. ‘I admit it was a shock at first, this being my first experience in America. I’d expected tall buildings, clogged streets and people dressed in suits storming all around me. But I found in Smithfield a warmth and an honesty that reminded me of India, and the kind of soulful cooking that made it a place easy to call home.’
"Singh began waiting tables at The Dixie Grille, a Smithfield legend. The owner, Buford Wilson, allowed her two-year-old daughter to stay with his wife next door. ‘I started waiting tables, but I was always drawn to the back, to the kitchen and the grill outside. Cooking barbecue is a delicate combination of tradition, science, and love—it’s all-engrossing, and I was mesmerized by the process and the result.’ After several months, Singh asked to be reassigned to the kitchen and taught how to cook over the pit. She so endeared herself to the Wilsons that they shared with her the family barbecue recipes. ‘They were wonderful to me. They brought me into their home and trusted me with their legacy. That’s why I’ve kept the recipes whole to this day. I feel it’s my duty to honor them.’
"In 1979, Singh’s husband was transferred to New York, and the family moved to Queens, leaving behind—”
An explosion of horns ripped me again from my story. We were suddenly in the midst of a gridlock on Fourteenth, drivers weaving tapestries of swears and threats. New to the city, I couldn’t help peering across the bus to catch the scene outside. My auburn-haired neighbor caught my straining eye with amusement. The new guy who can't help but look. She'd read me. And she smiled.
“In 1979, Singh’s husband was transferred to New York, and the family moved to Queens, leaving behind friends, comfort and, most important for Raashi, barbecue. A smirk draws across her face as she continues, ‘I remember it was a cool day, perfect for a cookout, when we visited the first and last barbecue restaurant we’ve been to in New York—aside from Smoke and Cover, that is. We excused ourselves mid-meal, and I told Viraj that I wanted to start a restaurant. And here we are.’
"Patrons pour in from every borough, every day, from 12:00 to 10:00, to sample the homemade pork cracklins and the sweetened iced tea. But it’s out back, in the small but city-inspected-and-approved grass yard that Singh works her magic over the smoker. The hogs, brought in from nearby—”
“Astor Place, last stop. Last stop, Astor Place.” The crackle voice from the speaker brought me one last time back into the bus. A glass bottle rolled downhill toward the driver's seat. My auburn-haired friend was already standing next to the door. We stepped out in line. The air had cooled during the ride, and the wind was swirling. A new New York, just forty blocks later. I turned down Seventh, giving my friend enough headstart to avoid the awkward side-by-side. But what if? Was it more? Was I missing something? Good Christ, what if she was the one? Should I catch up? Did she smile?
“I know. I never know what to do when that happens either!” she’d say. We'd go for coffee, no drinks, and then dinner, and then exchange phone numbers and then build a life together.
She stopped two doors ahead of me and pulled out her keys. My pace wavered only a moment as I walked by. Two beats later, my nerve steeled, I turned around and watched the door close behind her.
The gusts blew harder and colder, twisting around buildings, bending the spindly sidewalk trees. My skin tightened, and I trembled deep from within as I pulled my arms against the cold. Leaves, yellow, red, and auburn—fuck...auburn—coated in the evening dew danced away from the trees and stuck to my clothes. I escaped the cold in the familiar rhythm of my steps, when suddenly, the blocks melted away and I stood in my apartment. The steam pipes hissed and spat. I settled into my chair and pulled out my story.
“The hogs, brought in from nearby Pound Ridge, are certified organic and fed a combination of grass and leafy greens, characteristics that contribute to their even tone and the soft texture of their meat. Before opening the restaurant, Singh asked the Wilsons to come to New York and help her choose a hog supplier. ‘It was important that we start with the best meat, and I knew only one trustworthy opinion.’ The Wilsons, in their first trip north of Richmond, helped Singh find a suitable farm—a process that took dozens of interviews and a week’s worth of driving throughout the, often surprising, New York and New Jersey countryside.
"Last summer, Singh made a trip back to Smithfield to be honored for her services in promoting the town’s way of life and cooking. She and her three daughters (her husband passed away six years ago) were accompanied by the Wilsons to a town festival and, what else, a pig pickin’. The food? ‘It was delicious. You don’t mess with perfection. The smoke, the vinegar, the bite of pepper. Every time is like the first time.’ The banana pudding, it was mentioned, could have used a few more Nilla Wafers.”
I folded the magazine and lay it aside. Sliding deeper into my chair, I made a sweeping survey of my surroundings in my single-room apartment. I stood, lifted the window high, and felt the wash of the coming winter come into my home.