Frank Stephenson had a few options.
When deciding to add hot links to the menu at Boar’s Breath, Stephenson’s inclination was to craft his own sausages. The veteran chef had, after all, prepared and cured meats at his Middletown fine dining location before scaling down and moving to Clearlake.
With a cramped kitchen, however, it seemed best to find a traditional source for the spicy links.
So did he turn to the sultry east Texas towns of Pittsburg or Elgin, famed for more than a century for their hearty sausages? Did he opt for the fiery pop of Louisiana hot links, sold by street vendors since days gone by? Or how about the calmer, herbal burst from the classic Chicago style?
Oh, he sampled them all, but settled for southern hot links made in Portland, Oregon.
“These are the best I’ve tried — better than what I could make,” Stephenson said, explaining the choice. “They have the right amount of heat.”
Hot links have long been popular for the balance of spice and rustic, oozing meat, as well as the compelling snap from its casing. Depending upon the location, people steam them, smoke them or even spill them from their skin. Sometimes they are ruddy, other times dark, made from beef or pork, served on a roll or perhaps with sauce — there was a lot to ponder.
Clearly he was seeking a flavor profile that would benefit from his touch.
At Boar’s Breath, the hot link platter features two glistening sausages, split and placed over sauteed peppers. That’s it. The chef’s contribution — other than the months spent scouring the country for the right sausage — only becomes evident once you take the first bite.
Yes, the links grumble with spice. The heat smolders, threatening to flicker to life and scorch the rich but simple savor of beef. But you are soon distracted, and then mesmerized, by an aura that is not quite smoke, yet something more than wood, Something vaguely acrid, but with a calming, hearth quality. It wavers above the heat and then settles, a drifting veil that lends a gathering depth to the spice.
The combination will cause you to drop all conversation. You might even settle into a culinary fugue, forgetting all else at the table. There is, however, a clattering of char — a threatening, bittersweet crackle that breaks through the misty reverie. Its edges score the peppery spice cured into the sausage. Its coal-dark bite sends gusts through the smoky calm.
Ah, but your fork clutches fronds of sweet grilled pepper — common bell peppers with a little poblano — and the racket again settles.
No wonder Boar’s Breath guests who order the hot links barely mutter a word through the meal.
Stephenson’s hand in the matter settles everything. A little bit of time in the smoker and a finishing turn on the grill transforms good hot links into something remarkable.
Of course, the chef bristles at the mention of smoke. The sausages do not absorb the ashen wafts of spent oak. Instead, they capture the spirit of hewn blocks as they seethe in that moment between dense gray smoke and dull soot.
“Smoking — that word is not correct,” Stephenson explained. “You are cooking with the heat. You get the wood flavor.”
Stephenson places the links over hot white oak for just long enough to get that elusive essence. It’s a deft move — as is the scorched remains from the grill.
“You can’t go wrong with a char,” he said with a chuckle.
And you can’t go wrong with the Boar’s Breath hot links. Pittsburg? Elgin? The Big Easy? The Windy City? Try Clearlake, instead.