The best chicken I ever tasted wasn’t Paul Bocuse’s truffle-and-foie-gras-stuffed poulet de Bresse en vessie (poached in a pig’s bladder). It wasn’t the chicken I once dined on in Hong Kong, wrapped in lotus leaves, baked in a mound of clay, and served with a hammer for cracking its casing. It wasn’t even my Aunt Annette’s plump, juicy, golden gedempte capon (although that last comes close). No, the best chicken I ever tasted came off a barbecue pit in Memphis, Tennessee, where it had been smoked upright in a singularly undignified position: straddling an open can of beer.
Beer-can chicken, also known as drunken chicken, dancing chicken, or chicken on a throne (and some other names not fit to print in a family cookbook) is a classic on the American competition barbecue circuit. To make it, you roast a seasoned chicken in an upright position on an open can of beer. This is usually done on a barbecue grill using the indirect method of grilling or in a smoker, but you can also roast beer-can chicken in the oven.
I first tasted beer-can chicken in 1996, at the Memphis in May World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest on the banks of the Mississippi River. Since then I have written about it in The New York Times, demonstrated it on Good Morning America, and taught how to make it in countless cooking classes across the United States. Everywhere it has met with enthusiastic acclaim.
So what is it that makes beer-can chicken so irresistible? Well, first there’s the flavor and texture. The rising vapors impart a delicate beer flavor, simultaneously keeping the bird juicy and tender. And because the steaming takes place inside the chicken, the meat stays moist but the skin doesn’t become soggy.
Then, there’s the benefit of grilling the chicken upright. A vertical position allows the fat to drain off and the skin to cook evenly, even on the back. The result is a bird that’s crackling crisp on the outside, moist and tender inside, and bursting with barbecue flavors.
Next, there’s the irresistible tang of wood smoke, for beer-can chicken is almost always cooked in the presence of smoldering wood or wood chips. To reinforce the beer flavor, many pit masters actually soak their wood chips in beer.
Finally, of course, there’s the wow factor. Few sights are more amusing or arresting than a chicken on a can of beer on the grill, its breast thrust forward, its legs stretched out in a leisurely fashion. Some folks heighten the comic effect by inserting a stalk of celery for a head, the eyes, nose, and mouth formed by cloves stuck in the celery.
My initiation into the rites of beer-can chicken came from the Bryce Boar Blazers barbecue team. I happened on their site at Memphis in May one Friday afternoon just as team captain Jim Birdsong was lifting the lid off a giant smoker. Inside were a half-dozen chickens, their skins bronzed with smoke and gritty with spice rub, sitting upright on cans of one of America’s favorite beers. The Blazers had injected their chickens with Cajun seasoning, using the culinary version of a hypodermic syringe, and rubbed brown sugar and onion and garlic powders under and over the skin. They seasoned the open cans of beer with more spice rub before inserting them in the cavities of the upright birds. Then the Blazers slow roasted the birds to perfection in a smoker for 4 hours over smoldering mesquite. It’s easy to see how these slamming beer-can chickens won the Bryce Boar Blazers a coveted first place at the Memphis in May barbecue contest the next day.
So where did beer-can chicken originate?
Jim Birdsong says he learned it from one of his company’s customers in Texas. WCBCC (World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest) chairman Mike Cannon saw his first beer-can chicken at the Delta Jubilee Cook Off in Clarksville, Mississippi. But beer-can chicken could be found even outside the quirky world of competition barbecue. My cousin Rob Raichlen, who works for the Los Angeles Clippers and knows his way around a kettle grill, practically lived on beer-can chicken at University of Southern California cookouts. He learned how to make it from a college roommate from New Orleans. I have since been able to confirm that Louisiana connection. While I was talking barbecue on a New Orleans radio talk show, a half-dozen listeners called in to volunteer their recipes for beer-can chicken. One confided that he adds garlic and onion juice to the beer can. For another, the secret was a generous shot of crab boil.
“The birth of beer-can chicken is sort of like the domestication of animals,” suggests Ardie “Remus Powers” Davis, one of the most respected judges on the barbecue circuit, recognizable by his signature bowler hat and tuxedo studs fashioned from pork ribs. “It just happened everywhere at once.” (Davis barbecues his chickens on “tall boys,” 16-ounce cans of beer.)
Beer-can chicken is just the beginning. In the five years since I first encountered this singular dish, I’ve experimented with every imaginable bird, brew, and seasoning. In the following pages, you’ll find instructions for beer canning duck, game hen, partridge, quail, and even turkey. (The turkey is roasted on a giant 32-ounce can of ale, while the quail are cooked on diminutive 6-ounce cans of fruit juice.)
As for beverages, I’ve used everything from beer to wine to soda to fruit juices and nectars to lemonade, cranberry juice, and even iced tea. The seasonings alone will take you on a tour of the world’s barbecue trail, from Mexican chili rubs to Mediterranean herb pastes to fiery Asian spice mixes. The great thing about beer-can chicken is once you understand the basic principle, there’s no limit to where experimentation will take you.
Writing about beer-can chicken and its variations led me to think about other wacky things you could cook on the grill: Chicken breasts grilled under rocks. Steaks grilled with hay. Fish grilled on boards. Vegetables roasted in the embers. Not to mention foods you’d never dream of grilling—from eggs to seaweed to ice cream. In writing this book, I let my imagination run wild and I hope that you will, as well.
If you have any reservations about grilling a chicken with a beer can inside, rest assured that the process has been thoroughly professionally tested and is perfectly safe. You don’t have cause for any qualms here—as long as the beer can is open. Never grill a bird on an unopened can!
Every beer-can recipe in this book calls for opening the beer or soda can and pouring out half of its contents before placing it and the bird on the grill. This avoids any risk of the can exploding. As a further safeguard, the recipes call for making additional holes in the lid of the can with a church key-style bottle opener.
To avoid spilling hot beer or soda, always use long-handled tongs or heatproof gloves to transfer the chicken from the grill or oven to a platter. If using tongs, grasp the chicken by the can and use another pair of tongs to steady the top of the chicken so it remains upright. You will want to present the chicken on its can to your guests at the table, but take it to your kitchen or work area to remove the can and carve the bird. For detailed instructions on the best way to remove the can, see page 28.