At first glance, things appear to be no different, no less corporate, in the Mark Twain Amphitheater. A buffet table is laden with coffee and juice. About 35 middle-aged men and women, seminar outlines in hand, make halting attempts at small talk while waiting for seminar leader Roy Barber to call the meeting to order.

Yet, even before Roy welcomes them, there are signs, albeit subtle ones, that this is not a gathering of stockbrokers eager to learn a new closing technique.

Perhaps it's the pigs: Jane Barber (Roy's wife) sports a tasteful pair of golden pig earrings. To her left is Ted Roberts, a member of the media. His press pass is emblazoned with a grinning pig, reporter's notebook in hand. (Ted is a columnist for The National Barbecue News).

To his right a distinguished-looking man affects the anguished posture of a slumming socialite. "I was at a cocktail party last week; it was open bar," he says. "Next thing I knew, I had made a generous contribution and agreed to attend this seminar." Is this tale of alcohol and woe to be believed or is there another reason for his attending the Memphis in May Sanctioned Network Barbecue Judging Seminar?

The jig is up when a glimpse at his wristwatch reveals the bald head of Porky Pig.

Meanwhile, Roy begins handing out the entrance examination. Any barbecue man worth his sauce knows the difference between a pork shoulder and a ham. These multiple choice exam questions, however, are not so rudimentary: "Whole hog judges should sample at least what portions of the hog? When may an entry be rubbed, sauced, marinated, injected or seasoned? Criteria multiplication factors are weighted relative to what?"

Seminar attendees sit hunched over the tests, biting their nails or chewing their pencils while stealing furtive glances at their neighbor's paper. They groan like eighth-graders confronting a word problem. Murmured dissent fills the room, punctuated by a grumble from the back: "Hell, I thought this was barbecue, not rocket science."

After a brief break, exam results are announced. Everyone failed. One assumes that was the intent. Like Marine Corps sergeants molding new recruits, Memphis in May officials seek to break prospective judges of prejudices before shepherding them through their rebirth as certified judges. Accordingly, Roy cautions, "We discourage linear thinking in scoring."

Why all the fuss? After all, they are talking about barbecue, not rocket science.

For the Barbers, and thousands of other participants in "the circuit," Memphis in May is more than the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest. It's a lifestyle in which more than 800 teams compete in 46 sanctioned contests from Florida to Oklahoma.

Though the barbecue circuit has existed for more than 15 years, seminars for judges didn't start until 1991. "You see, in the past, we've had a little trouble with judges hitting the corn before they tasted the pork, if you know what I mean," says a seminar veteran, back for a refresher course. Tales of drunkenness are rife; they constitute a shared experience in which all participants seem to take grudging pride. "Twice last year a judge threw up," warns Jane Barber. "You gotta pace yourself. ... We are here to learn how to judge barbecue by Memphis rules. Remember that, when you walk onto that field Saturday morning."

Although the scheduled packing-house film is canceled, a good bit of the morning is spent poring over butcher's charts in an attempt to discern the differences between cuts of meat like spare ribs, loin ribs and St. Louis style ribs, which are not to be confused with meatier, country style ribs -- considered contraband pork by Memphis rules. These matters are taken so seriously by both participants and instructors that you get the impression that an orthodox Rabbi might be less exacting.

As the one o'clock hour nears, stomachs begin to rumble. Would the hotel staff dare serve barbecue to this crowd? Not a chance. Instead, over chicken salad, deviled eggs and sweet tea, judges and competitors swap war stories.

Conversations are peppered with terms like butts, hocks and bark; impregnated charcoal, firebox shuttles and indirect smokers -- the learned lexicon of barbecue enthusiasts.

Recalling an earlier contest, Memphian Gene Johnson chides his tablemate and defeated foe: "That was a nice smoke ring you had there, fella; you'd a won if your bone had pulled clean."

Upon return to the auditorium, Jane steps to the podium. During a seminar entitled "Pitfalls of Judging," she warns of circuit subterfuge: "Don't let them serve the meat to you pre-sauced; you never know what they might be hiding."

Sauces alone require an hour's discussion, during which Roy compares the education of a member of the hognoscenti to that of a wine lover. "With wine, you start out drinking the cheap, white, sweet stuff. As you begin to develop a more educated palate, you progress from sweet to dry; white to red," he says. "It's the same with sauces. Most folks start out preferring sweeter, ketchup-based sauces. With education and experience, you progress from sweet to tart; mild to hot."

Despite Roy's eloquence and Jane's enthusiasm, eyes begin to glass over, heads begin to nod and stomachs begin to rumble, again. Rumors of being fed some "real barbecue" have circulated all day, but by three o'clock most participants have given up hope. Toward the back of the room, a threesome begins plotting a run to the nearest rib shack.

The whispering and grumbling stops when Roy announces that it's time for some "hands on judging instruction."

"I thought I smelled something," says Joe Flippen, a local computer executive. "I hope it's ribs."

Joe is disappointed (Pork shoulder is served.), but not for long. His attention, and that of his fellow judges, turns quickly to the task at hand.

They taste for hickory. They eat. They debate the merits of indirect smoking. They eat. They measure smoke rings. They fight over their favorite pieces. They argue relative tenderness. They eat some more.

They graduate.

As the courthouse clock strikes four, the newest crop of judges steps into the late afternoon sun of Memphis in May. Each has their assignment for the next day; the fates of three teams are in their hands. "What's it like out there during the real contests? Memphian Bruce Downing is asked. "Does it all taste as good as that?"

"It's like sex with three beautiful women," he says with a snort. "How can it be bad?"

Rocket Science or barbecue logic? Fueled by charcoal, the "Smokin Starlifter can carry seven shoulders."
Photos by John T. Edge