We understand how certain delicacies evolve from specific geographical origins, and we can be assured that for every possible edible creature (or part thereof) there is a story of provenance. For the more popular menu items, a number of competing locales may claim primacy, and lest the argument escalate into open warfare, cooler heads generally organise a Cook-off.

The Tri-tip, which is well-regarded by most Californians but of small renown elsewhere, is exclusively an item of barbecue, which would almost automatically ensure its popular acceptance within the widespread community of people who barbecue in their back gardens.

This atavistic urge to barbecue lurks very deeply within the dreams and instincts of the American suburbanite. Quite possibly, the ancient godly demands for burnt offerings came about as a compromise between something that the gods would have really liked (chocolate...?) and something those pyromaniac carnivorous apes were actually capable of delivering. To be fair, some of those burnt offerings have transcended the common fate of common flesh and actually achieved a sublime plateau of texture and flavour...as if a brand-new species of food was conceived and nurtured in the vulgar fire-pits of Charleston, or Nashville, or Kansas City, or New Orleans, or San Antonio...or in this particular case, Santa Maria, California.

We hear how Saint Louie folks can do up some pork steaks right good, and how them Texans sweet-talk their beef briskets¹ into falling apart, but very rarely do we hear about Tri-tip, unless we encounter a wandering soul, such as your friendly Researcher, who has been there and needs to regale us with a wistful slobbering paean to the perfect cut.

Santa Maria, an agricultural and light-industry town in northern Santa Barbara County is (with the exception of a recent media circus involving the trial of some pop star or other) really a quiet town. The people there do the things you might expect to be done in quiet towns, which of course includes barbecuing. On festival days, tonnes of Tri-tip are prepared and enjoyed.

The Meat

Butchers call this Bottom Sirloin. The roast itself weighs somewhere in the vicinity of a kilogram. Presented in the supermarket butcher's tray, it looks vaguely triangular, and vaguely like the African continent. The Sahara is the thickest part (two to three inches) and it tapers down gently as we proceed south. It is usually packaged with a half-inch-thick slab of fat attached.

Your friendly Researcher insists upon trimming off that large chunk of fat. The meat itself is well marbled. Besides, beef tallow has very little flavour magic, compared to pork or chicken fat. They make candles from it, right? Other than the trimming, the tri-tip remains in one piece.

Two modes of preparation are addressed here: charbroiling and smoking.

Charbroil It

The charbroil method involves marinating, braising, and finally broiling.

Marinate the meat at least overnight in a concoction of beer, pepper, onion, garlic, and whatever else strikes your fancy. Or indeed, whatever tried-and-true marinade you like to use with beef. The object is to enhance the moisture content as well as the flavour.

Prepare a medium-sized (300^°F) fire; wrap the meat in heavy-duty aluminium foil, along with some of the marinade. Ensure the package does not leak, then place it above the coals and allow it to braise for a minimum of 30 minutes. Flip it, don't flip it, no problem.

Open the package; retain the juices, if you wish.

Place the naked beast on the grill now, to receive the delectable charbroil finish. Add dry seasonings as the mood strikes you, and generally apply tender loving care until you, the cook, consider it done. An hour total cooking time is sufficient. Poke the thickest part with a fork. It should enter and exit easily. Also note the colour of the juice. If it's clear, the meat is medium to well-done. But with a single Tri-tip, it is possible to satisfy the entire spectrum of preference.

Your friendly Researcher has never observed barbecue sauce on Tri-tip. It seems to be one of those things that is simply not done.

Slice the meat fairly thin - about a quarter-inch - across the grain. Serve with beans, tortilla crisps, and salsa verde. This feeds five to six people.

Smoke It

Prepare a slow (200^°F - 250^°F) fire; have hickory, mesquite or other aromatic wood chips soaking and ready to go.

Apply dry seasonings to the frozen Tri-tip. Levitate it to the proper position within the smoker; failing that, place it on a rack laterally between the fire and flue.

Place a small pan of water in the smoker. A little moisture aids the convection and smoke penetration, and of course keeps the meat from drying out.

Smokers, unlike grillers, do not expose the meat directly to the fire. The technique is to bake the meat in the presence of pungent smoke. The fire itself is cool, and patience is the main ingredient here; the total smoking time is no less than five hours.

Monitor the fire. Add a handful of wet wood chips occasionally...keep tabs on the temperature, and leave the meat alone. It does not even need turning.

Keeping in mind what was mentioned earlier about the flavour magic of pork fat, it would not hurt anything to drape several strips of breakfast bacon (or 'streaky bacon' if you're in the UK) across the roast.

Five hours...six hours? About this time, the roast exhibits all the signs of being done; a rich dark-cherry-red hue to the exposed meat and minimal resistance to the exploratory fork stick.

Call the tribe together. Hack the roast into fist-sized servings. Snarl at the dog for daring to claim a portion. You wonder briefly what happened to the side dishes, and you remind yourself that ale is a better side dish than most. With the tribe's help, the Tri-tip is devoured within five minutes.