My Burger, My Friend

By Angus Hemmingway

There's a smell in the air, but it's not the smell of fear. It's the scent of marinating alpaca loin and leg chops, heavy with vinegar, strong herbs and a host of other ingredients, in a line of five-gallon pickle buckets along the wall of a walk-in refrigerator. They've been soaking for two days and they may sit for two more before being transferred to mammoth stew pans for slow cooking. There, they'll simmer at just under 150 degrees fahrenheit for another day, until the meat falls off the bones and the most famous alpaca burger in the world will be ready to serve. It's a long process, but for those who have acquired the taste, it's well worth the wait.

Hundreds of years before the first European explorers arrived in the New World, the peoples of the Andes were enjoying the savory goodness of marinated and stewed alpaca meat. But as more and more Americans know, you don't have to go back in time to get a taste of this unusual protein source.

Ever since the man they call "Joe" began to peddle his Original Alpaca Burger along the sidewalks and byways of this burgeoning nation in the 1980s, thousands of heavy equipment operators, day laborers, ditch diggers and other assorted worker bees have come to appreciate the tangy, absorbent, resilient flesh of the alpaca. During both days of plenty and nights of want, the Original Alpaca Burger has been there to soothe, satisfy and reassure the men whose grit and determination sandpapered the rough hewn landscape into the smooth system of roads we traverse today.

Joe, who long ago gave up his surname "for tax reasons," is truly an American original. After 15 years working as a prep cook and hunting guide in the New Orleans area, in 1984 he decided to reappraise his existence and hit the road with only his wits, guns, utensils, and life's savings to sustain him.

Oh, and he brought one other thing: A keen understanding of a new arrival on the American livestock scene - the alpaca.

His First Alpaca

His first run-in with the cameloids occurred the previous year, after one of his neighbors called to say he had a dead alpaca to dispose of.

"He shot it because it kept getting into his tools, and he asked, did I want it," Joe recalls. "So I said sure, I'd see what I could do with it. I dressed it out and brought the meat home, and since it was late afternoon I threw a big piece of loin on the grill for dinner."

Married at the time, Joe brought the grilled roast to the table and told his wife they were having "fresh game." Her reaction after the first bite was not promising.

"You try to serve that crap in my house again, I'll call my lawyer for a divorce and my brothers to kick your ass!"

Joe recalls with a chuckle, "She was madder'n a half-skinned cat, that's for sure. And I couldn't blame her. Even if you have a strong stomach, the natural flavor of alpaca is one that sort of makes you sit and wonder."

A hunter by trade, Joe was not one to give up easily. "I still had the rest of the pieces in five-gallon buckets out in the garage refrigerator. I was about to take it out back and bury it, but decided to try a recipe my uncle gave me for fixing large carp."

The rest, as they often say, is history.

Out On The Road

Heading north into the American heartland, Joe spent several days primarily on public land, wandering and contemplating the future. Then, he happened upon an unlikely pair of enterprises: an alpaca farm bordering a highway project. This chance discovery would change his life.

Watching the crew dig the foundation for a section of state highway, Joe began shooting the breeze with the farmer, who was also standing at his fence observing the heavy machinery. The conversation turned to alpacas.

"The story is nearly always the same," Joe relates. "He told me he had invested over $30,000 for 20 alpacas and was starting to think he should have put in a swimming pool or a hot tub instead. I asked him what he had intended to accomplish with a herd of alpacas, and he said number one, an investment in the animals, and number two, sales of high-quality fiber for weaving into cloth."

Joe's expression while telling the story is one of bemused sympathy. "What these guys learn is that for both of these products, there's a fairly closed circle that makes up your whole market. It turns out that, in today's modern society, fiber is really not that hard to come by. Especially when you've got these 150-pound beasts tromping around on your land, you start to think there's probably an easier way to get by. For about 50 bucks you can get a ton of already-woven cloth at the craft store, and who makes cloth anymore anyway? It's like making butter: Most people have better things to do with their time."

"About the only thing you can do with alpacas is make more alpacas," Joe continues. "And even today there's only so many people out shopping for them, so unless you can put those alpacas to good use it's sort of like a pyramid scheme."

While talking with the farmer, Joe had a glimmer of an idea, and he worked the conversation around to the dish he had invented back in New Orleans. The farmer was incredulous.

"You'd actually eat one of these things, buddy? You're nuts," Joe remembers the farmer saying. So Joe offered a wager: He'd cook one up and if it wasn't edible, he'd give the farmer $200. If it was edible, he'd give the farmer $400.

"I think he truly believed I was crazy but I gave him a $200 down payment and that was sure good enough for him," Joe recalls.

Joe spent the next four days working his magic with 75 pounds of alpaca meat, and when the batch was completed not only did the farmer get the full $400, but Joe made an additional $150 profit selling the very first Original Alpaca Burgers to the hungry and grateful construction workers.

"Well we finished off that fellow's herd, and while he didn't recoup all of the original investment he didn't do too bad either. Now he's got his swimming pool," Joe says with a sense of pride. "And then I moved on, and that scene repeated itself all over the country. You set me up with a road project and an alpaca farm in the vicinity, and I'll guarantee you satisfied workers and relieved alpaca farmers."

Finally, A Clear Conscience

Bringing joy to disillusioned alpaca owners gave Joe a sense of purpose that his life had previously lacked. His wife had divorced him "for a variety of reasons" and he sank into depression. But his new vocation brought meaning to his life. Joe's Original Alpaca Burger became his ticket to financial security and, he believes, a more promising disposition in the afterlife.

"I see the look on the faces of these alpaca owners after I've relieved them of their burden, and believe me it's a look of pure, unadulterated gratitude. I've done some low things in my life, but I have to think the Big Guy upstairs is giving me a little bit of credit for all the good I've done the past 20 years."

An obvious question arises: In light of all the recent marketing being conducted by the alpaca industry, isn't it a little self-serving for Joe to paint this negative picture of the alpaca lifestyle? After all, he's getting the animals far below their original cost, which now can be tens of thousands of dollars each, and some of the former owners are losing what was supposed to be a major investment for their future. Might Joe not be trying to play "short" in this market, and take advantage of scores of new investors?

Joe shrugs off the question. "I've never had to persuade a single owner to sell me their alpacas. They're like boat owners: The greatest two days are the day you buy, and the day you sell. You would not believe how desperate some of these folks become!"

Because they are related to larger beasts of burden, alpacas hypothetically could be used to haul freight. Odd as it may seem, this is one of the last-ditch efforts some alpaca owners have made to try and coax some utility out of their investment. According to North Carolina alpaca farmer Bob Rhinehardt, this effort is sure to fail.

"You have to try it, because they are so gosh-darned lovable and really don't cause much trouble around the property. But after a year or so, you start to ask, why the heck did you buy all these animals that you can't do anything with? The entire alpaca community is focused on selling alpacas, unloading alpacas, and when you're the new guy on the block like we are, you've got nobody to sell to until someone new gets into the business. So yeah, we tried to start a freight hauling business, we called it 'Tarheel Dromedary Express.'

"But the first problem is," as Rhinehardt explains, "Alpacas are pretty disorganized if left to their own devices, so they need to be trained to operate as a unit. Your average suburbanite or wealthy rural homeowner - your basic yuppie type, just like us - hasn't retained much of the ancestral memory of herding skills from their nomadic forefathers of 1000 years ago."

And even if an owner, like Rhinehardt, is able to organize his animals, there's still a tough row to hoe. "Show up at your neighbor's house with a proposal they can save gasoline or diesel by parking their machinery and hiring your alpacas to haul dirt or crops, and you're likely to be met with a great big 'Huh?' People tend to say, 'I WANT to use my truck - there's a reason we have trucks in America instead of camels.'"

Countless stories like this are what convince Joe that he is in the right business, and that he has nothing to be ashamed of for spreading the Alpaca Burger "gospel." And in some cases it is indeed a selfless endeavor for Joe - because some of the alpaca owners end up launching their own burger operations. Most of them have no idea where to start: With this, Joe is more than happy to oblige.

"When I show up with the meat truck, nearly all of these alpaca farmers are ready to talk. Some of them just want out. They feel cheated. But when they hear about my operation, some of them say, 'Tell me more.' Now, the payoff here is not lobster- or beef- or really even rabbit-type numbers, but it's not chump change either. A 150-pound alpaca yields about 150 half-pound burgers. At six or seven dollars a pop, you may not make your money back, but at least you get the things off your land and you can go back to raising turnips or grass or what not. And you know you're doing some good by providing some construction workers with a fairly nutritious meal."

Or, perhaps - not: The Rhinehardts tried Joe's burger and looked out at their farm of 35 alpacas and saw a very viable use for the animals. It may not be the most cost effective way to put food on the table, but for some alpaca farmers it has been the solution to two big problems.

As Bob explains: "You love these animals, they become your friends and your kids' friends, so you get used to having them around. On the other hand, it costs a heck of a lot of money just to have a bunch of 'em walking around and not producing anything for the investment. So when Joe showed up and spent a few days here making a batch of these sloppy joe-type sandwiches, my wife and I tasted one and just looked at each other, and we both knew that, well that was it. We'd keep them, we'd raise them, we'd enjoy them, and we'd eat them."

Betty Rhinhardt says, in a nutshell, what more alpaca owners may be saying as they learn about Joe's work: "Raising alpacas has changed our lives....Now, we eat like kings!"

Recipe for a Glorious Future

Joe won't divulge the secret formula for the Original Alpaca Burger, but he will give us some hints about the process.

"Basically you're eatin' a llama, so there are some big preparation issues. You're not gonna want to make sushi out of this puppy," he says. "The whole secret is a heavily salted marinade, which can cover a whole lot of nature's mistakes. I can take a week-dead mackeral and marinate it and slow cook it and serve it over rice, and not only would you be able to keep it down, you'd in fact enjoy it! With enough salt water, soaked long enough, you can soak the stink out of a road kill squirrel."

It starts with the heavily salted water, freshly rinsed several times over several days, ending with a final 48-hour plunge with a secret blend of herbs, oils, tenderizing agents and malt beverages. Then the meat is slow cooked with onions, carrots, celery and some ingredients that might surprise you, to yield a burger that rivals the best southern barbecue. From a live, odiferous alpaca, to the final delicious product, it's quite a journey.

Joe waxes philosophical about his life's work: "Now if you asked me: Could I take a pile of old boots or blue jeans and put them through this same process, and deliver an edible product to a bunch of highway guys? I might say no or I might say yes. But it wouldn't have the cachet of an Alpaca Burger, and it wouldn't really be making the world a better place."

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