We just don't love bones like we used to. While I'm sure that every reader of this column has a freezer full of homemade stock, is well au fait with the lamb shank and never plumps for breast when there's thigh on offer, the real joy of bones – "picking [them] up … and chewing the sweet juicy meat still clinging to them", as Jennifer McLagan frankly puts it in her fabulous book on the subject, Cooking on the Bone – is a sadly rare treat these days. She reckons they "satisfy a deep primal urge to eat with our fingers"; I suspect that gnawing on bones is one of the few purely textural pleasures left to us in western cuisine.

Ribs are, of course, supreme proof of the attraction; given each serving is three-quarters bone, if we didn't enjoy stripping off those sparse morsels of flesh, then they would have gone the way of other less meaty cuts – for who, apart from a few Fergus Henderson types, fancies chewing on a pig's ear?



It's not just about texture though: not only does meat cooked on the bone tend to be more flavourful, but, in marked contrast to much modern pork, that around the ribs is marbled with fat, which means it's always succulent – even more so with spare ribs, the larger, meatier kind most familiar to us as the obligatory meat element of Mixed Starter number 2. For cooking at home, however, I prefer baby back ribs (also known as loin rack in this country: a shorter, curved cut from up near the backbone. Not only does a whole rack look more impressive but – and, at the risk of infuriating barbecue experts everywhere – I'm convinced they taste better.

We tend to think of ribs as a barbecue classic – but actually, as anyone who's ever found themselves still desperately chewing on one long after even the wasps have given up on the party, this is a myth. Or, at least, something that's been lost in transatlantic translation. Racks of ribs are a speciality of southern barbecue – food cooked long and slow in a pit – as opposed to British barbecue, which refers to food cooked very quickly over a hot grill. (To underline the difference, you'd be hard pushed to burn a sausage on the former.) You're better off cooking your ribs, a cut of meat which, with its sinew and its fat, demands more than a token toasting, in the oven – something which suits the British summer down to the ground.

A simmering debate

Nigella ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

Many older rib recipes call for the racks to be gently simmered in hot water before roasting, presumably in order to relax the tough connective tissue which holds them together. However, posters on online food forum chowhound.com are indignant at the idea, protesting that "parboiling any meat is a crime against humanity" and suggesting that such a step might make a tasty "pork broth", but does nothing for the flavour of the ribs themselves.

The new cookbook from renowned Yorkshire butchers, the Ginger Pig, however (worth buying for the sausage roll recipe alone) boldly flies the face of such naysayers, with a recipe which calls for a half-hour pre-simmer before the racks are marinated and baked. The resulting liquid is porky smelling enough for me to doubt the wisdom of this approach, even before I taste the finished article, which is distinctly tougher than any other recipe I try – perhaps it would work better with meatier spare ribs.

How low should you go?

Food science god Harold McGee is an advocate of the long, slow cooking of ribs, baking them for 6–8 hours at an oven temperature of between 95 and 80C – "the lower the meat's temperature, the less moisture it loses," he says in his Curious Cook column in the New York Times, "but the longer its connective tissue takes to dissolve, too". Ribs cooked at 60C will thus be very juicy, but, on the flip side, will take "several days" to become tender – so his method is a compromise between texture and time.

Sadly my oven won't go low enough to give his recipe a try, but Jamie Oliver's "truly incredible" 5-star pork ribs, from Jamie's America, adopt a similar, if slightly faster approach, by cooking the ribs for 4¼ hours at 135C. As a contrast, I follow them up with Nigella's Finger Lickin' Ribs, from her book Feast, a deliberately quick recipe designed, apparently, for eating "oozy and sticky" in bed, which cooks at 200C for an hour. Jamie's ribs are certainly far more succulent, but Nigella's nicely caramelised, slightly crisp top is undeniably seductive.

Best of both worlds

Leiths ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

The Leiths Meat Bible suggests a cunning third way, which has something in common with McGee's suggestion of giving his slow-cooked ribs "a brief finishing hit of high heat or smoke on the grill". After cooking the five-spice barbecue pork ribs in a moderate, 170C oven for 2 hours, I allow them to cool in their marinade, then finish them off on a hot barbecue "until browned and slightly charred". This seems like the best of both worlds – the meat is tender (if not quite so silky as Jamie's), with the kind of smoky, crunchy crust that's barbecue at its best.

Tenderisers

There are ways of helping the process along, of course. Leiths use pineapple juice in their marinade, which contains bromelain, an enzyme well known for its tenderising effect on meat, but, although this does work, I'm not keen on the slightly tropical flavour it gives the ribs.

More effective is a step that I'm surprised none of the recipes mention – removing the tough, translucent membrane from the back of the rack; perhaps Hugh, the Ginger Pig et al assume the presence of a good butcher to do such things for you. In any case, it's easy enough to do, and also seems to help the marinating process.

Rub v marinade

Jamie Oliver ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

Jamie, as befits someone who's competed in a real Georgia barbecue competition, recommends a two-stage rub and sauce approach, rather than the marinades more common in British recipe books. I make a "lovely deep red paste" from fennel seeds, smoked paprika, dried thyme, brown sugar and garlic, and then dunk the ribs in an apple juice and vinegar mixture, massage the rub into them and leave it to sink in overnight. While the meat sleeps, I'm kept busy making a spicy barbecue sauce from (take a deep breath) onion, garlic, chillies, thyme, rosemary, coriander, bay leaves, cumin and fennel seeds, cloves, more smoked paprika, orange zest and juice, balsamic vinegar, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, English mustard and apple juice.

The cooking process is similarly complicated – the ribs are baked uncovered for an hour and a half, then in a foil tent full of apple juice for an further hour and a half, then uncovered again for 15 minutes "to help them dry out", and finally, for half an hour generously brushed with barbecue sauce. Sacrilege perhaps, but we find the rub overpoweringly spicy – I'm pretty sure it's pork under there, but frankly, it could be anything. My flatmate, something of an rib aficionado by this point in the evening, suggests it would have been nice to give the barbecue sauce more time to caramelise as well. As with the Leiths recipe, however, the period under foil has helped to keep them nice and moist – shame there's no finishing sizzle in Jamie's method.

Keep things simple

Ginger Pig ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

The marinades seem to strike a better flavour balance in my opinion – but after trying four different recipes, I'm with Harold McGee when he says, although "it can be fun to concoct rubs and mopping liquids and sauces with dozens of ingredients, the end result is usually an indistinct, generically fruity and spicy flavour."

Both Nigella and Leiths, with their Chinese five-spice and cinnamon, and their ginger and soy sauce strike an Asian note which is a slight disappointment when you're hoping for a barbecue rib. The Ginger Pig covers both bases with soy and Worcestershire sauces (yes, yes, I know the latter originated in India, but it's definitely naturalised by now), as well as tomato purée, Dijon mustard, garlic and lemon juice. While a certain tanginess is vital to prevent the sugar in a barbecue marinade, necessary for that caramelised crust, from turning the rack to candy, I think there's a bit too much going on here.

River Cottage ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

My favourite of the evening comes from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage Meat Book, and involves garlic, soy sauce, ketchup, English mustard and vinegar – it manages to be both sweet and savoury without smothering the flavour of the ribs.

On the basis that anything soy sauce can do, Marmite can do better, I've made a patriotic substitution (although if you really do hate the stuff, feel free to switch back: the marinade will simply be a little more liquid) and added some smoked paprika as a nod to the flavours of the barbecue – although you're perfectly at liberty to finish them off in a hot griddle pan if it's easier. Or raining.

Perfect barbecue ribs

Felicity's perfect barbecue ribs. Photograph: Felicity Cloake for the Guardian

Ribs are one of the great pleasures of carnivorousness, and simplicity itself to prepare, as long as you cook them slow enough to melt the hard-working meat that makes them so tasty, and don't try to get too fancy with the marinade: this is a cut that really doesn't need it.

Serves 4

2 racks of baby back / loin ribs

1 tbsp Marmite

1 tbsp English mustard

1½ tsp smoked paprika

2 tbsp tomato ketchup

2½ tbsp dark muscovado sugar

1. Turn the racks curved-side down, and with the wider end facing you. Use a small knife to peel the edge of the translucent membrane away from the smaller end of the rack to form a tab you can grip on to. Pull this towards you, so the membrane comes away from the bones.

2. Mix together the marinade ingredients and rub about half into the ribs well. Put in a shallow dish, cover and leave in the fridge for 4 hours, turning once or twice during this time to make sure the entire rack is coated.

3. Pre-heat the oven to 150C. Cover the dish tightly with foil and cook for about 2½ hours until tender, basting once or twice during this time, and removing the foil for the last 15 minutes. The rack should end up floppy.

4. Heat a barbecue or a griddle pan until hot, then brush the ribs with the rest of the marinade and cook until charred and caramelised. Serve immediately.

Are ribs overrated, or a porcine classic? Do you prefer spare or babyback, American barbecue or Oriental spice – and does anyone, apart from genuine Pit Masters, actually cook them outdoors?