That’s all I’m sayin’.
After hearing the peeps at work rave and croon over this barbecue joint, we headed there for lunch. City BBQ.
So we head there, even though Evan is lamenting the notion that maybe, just maybe, they won’t have chicken tenders on the menu, and ohmyGodwhatwillwedoiftheydon’t! Now is the point where I ‘fess up that in all of my Midwestern-ness, I have never eaten a barbecue sandwich of any sort. My mom used to love them, and they looked like scary pseudo-meat to me. Eww. But we go. I am expecting a better version of the slop that looks more like chemical sludge than actual meat. And I order a pulled chicken sandwich. And then John orders pulled pork and I think, shit, he’s done this before. And so I get what he does. And we wait in line for our food, while we watch a guy actually pulling the meat from the hog carcass in the back. Thank God the pig did not have a head or I would’ve fled the joint in tears for poor Porky. The events to follow leave me feeling somewhat ashamed and dirty in a way,
First of all, there were no friggin’ plates. None. We got our food on these tin trays that looked like a damned slop pan. And our sandwiches were on wax paper and were more like mounds of meat with bits of bread on either side. Where’s the barbecue sauce, dude? Mercifully, they put my mac & cheese and John’s green beans in little bowls.
And so we head to our table. Where are the napkins? The silverware? And so John goes in search of them, only to return and tell me they are on the table. What? You mean that roll of paper towels on a paper towel stand doodad??? You cannot be serious. It isn’t a five-star joint, but I did just pay over $40 for what is essentially just sandwiches. Really, now. And then I found the sauce. And there was a selection of 6 sauces, in squirt bottles, artfully displayed…in a damned empty 6-pack cardboard carton. Yeah. Classy. And the floor was concrete. And I was just about to die as I tried to tear off a piece of paper towel from the classy napkin dispenser/ backwoods paper towel roll thingy while barbecue sauce started to dribble. Fancy shit, y’all. I was not amused.
And then I ate the food.
Oh. Oh my God that shit was delicious. And there was tons of it. And I felt so damned guilty because there is no way a fatty should be eating it. But if I was going to die right then of a clogged coronary artery, it would have been worth it.
John loved it and kept saying, “Now this is Southern.” (He grew up the in the sticks of Kentucky, and married him a Yankee girl, y’all.) Evan was just thrilled that they had chicken tenders. And I was ashamed that I was eating this messy stuff without the plate, out of a slop tin, to the point that I finally tried to eat the sandwich with a fork. Not an easy feat when the sanwich was on waxed paper.
I soooo wanted to point out to John that he was in the great Buckeye State. Not the deep south. Him saying that reminded me of the guys you see driving the huge pickup trucks on lift kits, with the western wear, belt buckles the size of a hubcaps, and cowboy hats, blaring country music and friggin’ forgetting that they are in Cincinnati and we are not known for rodeos, damnit. We are in Ohio. And what do Buckeyes know about barbecue?