Jengo’s Fire Roasted Sausage Bites

"I have eaten meals in royal courts and in mountain huts but nothing prepares you for Jengo Juice. It sneaks up on you. Sweet at first then it grabs you by the jaw and reminds you why Lyanmar cooks do not play around."

— Travener Lysa Thornbridge

  Jengo’s sits along one of the well traveled trade roads that cut through Lyanmar, the kind of beaten route where caravans pass daily and locals stop when they need a drink more than they need good manners. The bar has no official name and no sign that anyone trusts. People call it Jengo’s because Rolff Jengo has run the kitchen long enough that the place can’t be called anything else. It is rough without being threatening, a place where the only real trouble comes from cutting in line or blocking the doorway. Each morning the kitchen produces a set amount of food, and once it is gone, Rolff sends latecomers to the bar with a shrug and a drink.   The bar remains busy even after the kitchen closes because Jengo’s is, at its heart, a drinking hall that happens to allow food when it is convenient. The counters are scarred, the beams stained dark with years of smoke, and the stools wobble in ways only locals find acceptable. Despite this, one dish is always available. It is quick to prepare, impossible to ruin, and has long since become the one thing Rolff will still cook even when he is ready to throw everyone out.   The dish began on a morning Rolff still curses when the memory comes back to him. A supplier delivered far too much poor quality pork, more than he wanted and none of it worth serving honestly. Waste was not an option, so he chopped the sausage into uneven chunks, grabbed every bottle and jug within reach, and drowned the meat in a chaotic mixture before shoving it under the hottest part of the fire. It was nothing but frustration and necessity disguised as food preparation.   Instead of burning into shame, the tray emerged with a glossy caramelized glaze that clung to the sausage and smelled far better than the meat deserved. Customers devoured the first batch before Rolff even tasted it. Reproducing the accident took him days and left him in a foul mood, but once he matched the flavor, the regulars named the sauce Jengo Juice and refused to call it anything else.   The method remains the same today. Rolff tosses chopped sausage in a thick coating of the dark, sticky glaze and blasts it under open flame until the edges crackle. It arrives piled on a dented metal plate for sharing or speared with toothpicks for travelers who insist on a show of manners. The smell of smoke and caramelized spice lingers long after each tray leaves the kitchen, dragging in anyone who claims they already ate.   Word spread across Lyanmar quickly. Caravans began carrying jars of the sauce to outlying towns, and taverns elsewhere attempted their own versions. None managed to match the balance of heat, sweetness, and bite that made the original famous. Some say Rolff keeps one part of the blend secret. Others claim the flavor comes from the ancient stone hearth he has used for half his life. Rolff answers neither rumor.   For his part, Rolff Jengo treats the dish like an inconvenience that refuses to die, though he keeps an old chalkboard behind his counter with a fading line no one has convinced him to erase. Best mistake I ever made. What began as a desperate fix for cheap sausage has become a staple of Lyanmar’s road culture, proof that some traditions are born not from grand stories but from a bad morning, a stubborn cook, and the simple refusal to waste anything that can still be cooked.

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Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 425°F (220°C). High heat is key as you want the sauce to caramelize, not just bake.   2. Cut the sausage into chunks, about ¾ to 1 inch thick.   3. Toss sausage in steak sauce in a mixing bowl until generously coated.   4. Line a baking sheet with foil and spread out the sausage pieces in a single layer, spaced apart.   5. Roast for 15–20 minutes, flipping the pieces halfway through.   Rest for a few minutes to let the glaze settle, then serve. Toothpicks optional, but highly encouraged if you’re feeling fancy.