Beating

I sat astounded; my eyes welled up with absolute joy, fear, love, and bewilderment. I had never seen something so perfect, so helpless, and so truly miraculous. I saw our little fetus for the first time yesterday and I will never be the same. I’m going to be a daddy-from-the-start for the first time.

We’ve known for a little over a month. For days, the counter tops were littered with pregnancy tests, some eerily crossing the line between indecipherable and maybe, but some quite clear. When she peed on a fancy one, the result was quite specific: Pregnant. Holy shit, life is going to change as we know it.

Of course, we already raise two children that I call my own. I’ve just never done this from the beginning, and I am so grateful that I have the sober mind to deal with all of this. When we went to the clinic yesterday, we were greeted by several surgeons. I only assumed this because they were wearing face masks.  I was generously let into the building, even though guests and visitors were not allowed because of the virus. This was our first OB appointment for the baby, so they gave me a wrist band stating that I was a visitor, and we checked in to get Amanda an ultrasound.

We know her doctor well; some of you have probably met her at our wedding as she and her husband hosted it, so when she walked into the room, I made several awkward jokes and comments about using the probe on me, and then she went to town. Vagina town. Not my vagina. One thing, on TV and in movies, they always rub the lube on the belly and slide the thing back and forth. Real life is different. There’s a wand with a condom on it and it really gets the job done, as it were.

• At first, all looks like a tunnel. That’s a pretty accurate description. Then it becomes clear; there’s an orb of sorts which was described as the yolk sack, and then magically, layer by layer, all is revealed. In an instant my views on life changed. To me, I wasn’t just seeing a blob or a fetus; this was my baby. Doc moved the wand here and there, and then I saw it; a heartbeat.  My baby, my life, my love; you are alive. And then s/he wiggled around like a rock star. It was dreamlike.

Sitting in that chair next to my wife and an ultrasound machine, I deliberated the next years of my life, but then I brought it back into the moment. One day at a time is a common saying in my life of recovery, and I will try to apply that to this pregnancy, and to the days, months, and years after. This is a weighty instant in my calamitous life that will surely be on my mind for a very long time. The next seven months will be a test, and a delight. We have a spare room that we are going to finish for little wo/man, and whatever else goes with getting ready for a baby. I don’t really know this stuff yet, but I have a great leader who has done this a couple times, and I will look to her for strength and guidance. My wife is strong; she has been through a lot, too. Together we make a great team and pretty good parents so far.

Six years ago I didn’t have a shot. I was withering away and rotting at life. I didn’t have the essentials, or the desire to obtain them, and I didn’t care about the trench I was digging myself. I didn’t have a five-year-goal, nor did I think about the next hour. And then it all changed. The police, the judge, the prison, the parole, the meetings, the sponsors, all of it contributed to re-shaping my existence. I had no idea that this was it; that this was the life. This is where happiness is. This. I don't know what to expect. I don't know what the world is going to look like after this pandemic, but I know that all of our children will grow up in a loving home, with everything they need.

Unless the virus shuts us down for months. Then we'll see.

To clarify a statement above, my baby is currently both a blob and a fetus. I’m not making a political or religious change based on my epiphany, nor will endorse any of the “God loves babies” billboards so heavily prevalent around my town. Every woman has the right to choose.

Now here are a few pictures from Oregon.

The first two pictures are from my aunt's back porch overlooking the Umpqua River and a mountainside.

The hummingbirds were everywhere.

One of several attempts at a good picture.

My loves.

My aunt Connie and the girls.



Maybe my favorite picture in a while. What is she thinking?

Viral

I’ve never worked from home. Before I went to prison, is suppose you could say that I worked out of cars, hotels, and people’s couches peddling meth all willy-nilly. But in my sobriety, as a functional human being, I’ve never had to do my work with a cell phone and laptop. It’s different.

I don’t like it. As I wrote a few posts ago, I was recently promoted to Executive Sous Chef at my place of employment. This came with a plethora of new responsibilities atop an already full workload. But I embraced this opportunity, and after our family vacation in Oregon last week, I was ready to give it my all. But while we were on vacation, the news started flowing of the novel carona virus, and its impact on our country.

On the last day in Oregon, two states had already made the decision to shut down restaurants and bars.  I knew this could happen in Minnesota, I just didn’t yet understand the implications. As we landed safely in Denver for our layover on our way back to MSP, I took my phone off of airplane mode, and almost immediately, I saw several messages from coworkers and vendors with the news. All restaurants and bars in Minnesota were to close their doors. Shit.

As I pondered what to do we all stopped at McDonald's, I had the wife order me something called a quadruple Big Mac. I just kind of pointed at it, and continued my calls in English and Español para la cocina, and waited for the girls to get their happy meals and proceed to the gate. McDonalds is the absolute worst. It goes against everything I have ever learned, and eating something that I could hardly fit in my hands I’m sure made me look like a disgrace. People saw me randomly with a bouquet of french fries or an awkward grip on a burger that was losing its lettuce all over the concourse switching between languages and cursing in front of children, wondering what I was so animated about. Fair enough, strangers. Fair enough.

I was cancelling all of the orders that were going to come in to the club the next day, phoning my employees to tell them I didn’t know what to tell them, and strategically planning my own existence should the industry shut down for good. On my third call, I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed at work for two weeks following travel, which also applied to my wife as we work at the same club. Shit.

It was a 45 minute layover, and as I was starting my last call, I received a message stating my grandmother was found unresponsive, slouched over in a chair. “Now boarding flight 669 to Minneapolis.”

I had an hour and a half long flight to consider all scenarios and conversations I would need to have when I got back. Then I realized it would be nearly midnight when we got in and I had some time to think. I needed the time. So did everybody. There is a lot of management in a big club like ours. We have 950 members last I checked, and they all have spouses, kids,  guests, etc. there was a lot to contemplate.

On the way home, the wife said she was hungry and since the McDonalds at the airport was so bad, she wanted to try again. So, I obliged and we sat in an essentially unattended drive-through for fifteen minutes so she could get her fix. As we drove away, I shoved a bouquet of fries in my mouth and wondered when I would have a heart attack.

I’m on day three of working from home and it is incredibly frustrating and stressful. Orchestrating a show that I can’t see is maddening, and I don’t know if I’m doing all I could be, but I’m doing what I’m allowed to do. I am on the phone constantly, monitoring emails, sending thoughts and ideas to people, ordering what I can from a distance, and relentlessly thinking about how to make the most out of this dire situation. The club is doing carryout like most other restaurants and it has gotten off to a good start. We are a private club, so we do have some exclusivity to provide to members in an era where everybody provides pickup availability. We are thinking of family style, or even mimicking something like Hello Fresh, packaging raw ingredients for members to assemble and cook. Yes, yes, I know we have to have a HACCP plan for that. Let’s just pretend we do and keep on thinking of other ways to satisfy the never-ending call for prepared meals.

I have twelve days left at the minimum to work from home. Maybe I will write more. This took me about twenty minutes, so I certainly can find the time. I hope all of my fellow foodies out there are handling this well. I would love to hear comments on what you are doing differently these days to cope with the closures.

P.S. Grandma is okay. She has low blood-sodium, and sometimes symptoms mimic stroke. It's happened a few times before, so I wasn't incredibly worried.

Stay safe out there.

Good(bye) Charlotte

High above the ground in a 717, I see the rivers, streams, and shades of corn and pine that make up the right side of the country. Or maybe they don’t grow corn here. Maybe it’s just some other yellow shit. I do like that sentence though, so I’ll leave it in. We’re now surrounded by white (clouds), much like I am when I’m in my small town. I’ll miss the culture, the people, the diversity, and the food of North Carolina.

Backing up yet again, as some of you know, I drive a pretty sweet minivan. Currently, I am driving my mother’s Mini Cooper, because she is out of the country, and I’ve assumed her identity while she’s away. But, my vehicle is a minivan. Months before we left on this trip, we purchased our tickets, and rented a car; a Hyundai Accent to be specific. When we landed, got our bags, and walked up to the garage after checking in at the car-rental desk, there seemed to be some confusion as to our arrival, and the nice lady informed us that there was only one vehicle available; a 2016 Dodge Grand Caravan, identical to mine in every way but color. I was disappointed but I suppose at least I had a vehicle I would be familiar with while navigating unfamiliar territory.

We departed the airport parking garage, and plotted the directions to the hotel for our first night, which, unknown to me at the time of planning, was about 25 miles away from our main destination, and the big city. I simply Googled hotels in Charlotte, and didn’t pay much attention to where it was. I must’ve clicked on an ad, but nonetheless, they had beds, running water, and the first BBQ joint I wrote about nearby, so we were good.

Currently, cruising along at about 500mph, we have encountered some turbulence. It’s frustrating to type when my computer keeps moving around. But I’m going to keep at it because I have two hours to kill, and I’ll likely not write again for a while, as life at home is busier than ever.

This trip made me think about life at is is: it’s fragile; simple. At any moment, we could drop out of the sky and we would never remember any of this. Life is happy, tragic, and full of mistakes. The more I think about the terrible dinner we had the other night, the more I recall being in the moment, and laughing and sharing common stories and goals in the business. I know that if I want to enjoy life as I have, I have to keep doing something that I love doing for work. And in order for me to love it, I need to keep shaking things up, trying new ideas, and taking risks. I am currently writing a menu for a beef and wine tasting in early April, I’m taking a private dinner for eight into a home at the end of March, and I’m teaching the ServSafe class to 28 people on the 23^rd of this month. All of these would have scared me years ago, but I’ve built myself up to handle the stress of the kitchen life, and I take these challenges as learning experiences. I’ll still make mistakes, but I’ll learn from those as well.

I miss my family. I miss the girls, my wife, our dog, and our home. I can’t wait to see them all, and feel their love around me again. We will all leave together in about a week for a trip to Oregon to visit my aunt where we will hike, eat, and bond, and enjoy our time away from work. We will talk about life, and where it is going to take us.

Over the next few months, I’m going to make a decision about the blog that I’ve pondered for a while. I went over a month without writing, and I didn’t really miss it. Readership is down, and time is the scarcest commodity. I do enjoy writing, but I would like to do it in a different capacity, and start writing another book. It’s either that, or I stop altogether, and focus on career and family. That’s the decision I have to make. I’ll write a post here and there, but I need to take my time and come up with the best idea for all of us. I have struggled to find recovery-related topics, and in my mind is growing a story that I don’t want to contain, but I can’t write publicly because you would all think I’m crazy, or at least really fucked up.

So, for now, I’m signing off. I’ll post this when I arrive at home, and I’ll pick it up again when the feeling comes.  Until then, eat well.

NC 4

I’m not just here for the food. I am attending the 2020 Chef-to-Chef conference at the Westin Hotel in Charlotte. This is a rendezvous of roughly 500 private club and resort chefs from all over the country, here to engage with each other, listen to lectures, eat food, and see new trends. I’ve never been to anything like this before, but I’ve been to several food shows, which are one-day events where vendors show off their goods in hopes of promoting their businesses. Here, there are vendors, but many of them show off wares, applications, and services.

I don’t have any desire to bore you with the intricacies of the lectures I endured, but I did pick up some highlights which I will surely bring back to the club and unwrap with my management team. What I enjoyed more than anything was the tour we took of three local clubs: Carmel Country Club, Quail Hollow, and Meyer’s Park. All were unique and similar, and all had their own flair that they showcased for us; fellow club employees.

In North Carolina, private clubs are not subjected to health inspections, therefore, they can do cool things like curing meats, and aging steaks without having to write a HACCP Plan.

These are the bubble girls. Because when you have so much money you don't know what else to do with it, you put acrobats in bubbles.

First, yesterday was Monday, universally the only for-sure day off in the club industry. I am forever in their debt for not just showing us around an empty club, but for bringing in an entire staff to cook and plate never-ending small plates for us to gorge ourselves on. And second, I was inspired equally by each club for going over-the-top for us; non-paying non-members. It felt good to be waited on for once, to simply set a used plate down on a tray and have somebody whisk it away. I gleaned an essence of what it is to be a member, what it’s like to be treated like you are important, and I can use this to up my level of service to our members at our club.

I am also here for the food, and I had a bad taste in my mouth after our disappointing dinner at McNinch. I wanted to expound on my experience at the Stalling’s Rockhouse BBQ joint we started the trip with, not necessarily bbq, but good southern food. We picked a place called The Asbury, which sat beneath the sophisticated Dunhill Hotel. The door was locked, and there appeared to be not a soul inside. Fortunately, one of us (not me) had the idea to go through the hotel entrance, which provided us ingress and eventually a table for three. And I was wrong; there was plenty of soul in that restaurant.

When in Rome, you do as the Romans do. When in North Carolina, you seek out soul food, and you gain weight. They had a menu I could have eaten. Grits, chicken, biscuits and gravy, porridge, oh my; I’ll take one of everything, please. I settled on the chicken and waffle with collard greens, and when it arrived, I could only smile.

Soul food has a place in my heart although I’ve only ever cooked it much to the dismay of my patrons over the years. I can cook, and I can cook soul food well, but people in my home region don’t seem to have a taste for greens, okra, grits, and so on. I’ve always wanted to try real chicken and waffles in a real southern state, and I was in absolute heaven when I dug into the perfectly balanced dish. Sweet, savory, crunchy, and chewy are the best possible descriptors for this dish. I’ve never had anything so great, and instead of a $200 bill, it was under $20. What a perfect rebound.

We left to check in at the hotel, to find they were behind schedule, so we left our bags with a stranger and proceeded to attend mini-lectures. We went out for a late lunch of BBQ at Queen City Q, where I ordered smoked chicken, brisket, sausage, and ribs, with fried okra and maque choux. We also ordered smoked wings and pork rinds which were still popping when they arrived at our table. There were six sauces at our table to choose from, and I tried them all and once again landed on the mustard-based as my favorite. Truly, I was in a state of bliss, and I wanted to live my life in that restaurant, but we had to pack up the remains and get back to the hotel…. For dinner.

To be continued…

NC Part 3

Before I carry on about the dinner in Charlotte, I want to sidetrack ever so briefly to explicate on my travel time between Minneapolis and my first stop in North Carolina. For the two-hour airplane ride, all I brought with for entertainment was my laptop. I hadn’t written a post in over a month and was overdue on some stories and life events that I’ve been holding on to, and I wanted to spend the entire flight tapping away. When the seatbelt sign went off, I reached into my carryon and pulled out the computer and switched it on. Log on failure. Reboot. Or some shit in computer jargon. I rebooted several times, and looked around me to see if anybody else shared in my frustration. I hit F12 upon suggestion from my screen and it performed a diagnostic at which point it told me there was no hard drive. “Hm.” I said. And I picked up the device to see a large gaping hole where once had been some sort of drive. Well, the hard drive. “Shit.” I wasted no time in packing it up, and saving my search for when I was in a hotel room. I did find it in the bottom of my carryon, and clearly I'm back to writing.

I decided to pay for internet service for the remainder of the flight, so I got my phone set up to the point where I could pay, and then a message appeared stating internet wasn’t available on this flight.  And that’s the end of the suspenseful intermission; now to the conclusion of our dinner.

The salad was a success, but not liked by everybody at the table. My former coworker, who was with us for the early arrival and now for the remainder of the conference, noted that it was just a house salad with some honey mustard dressing, although the enoki mushrooms were on point. Yes, Tim. Good call. He was right, as we picked it apart verbally, we realized it was just mixed greens rolled up in a cucumber, sliced on a mandolin for a fancy pattern. The bacon was dry, the dressing was plain. Enough.

I may mix up the order of the next few dishes because only one of them wasn’t underwhelming. I’ll start with the fish dish. Steelhead trout is a salmon-like fish from the ocean, whose freshwater version would be the rainbow trout. It’s flavorful, delicate, and can be cooked like salmon. Ours was fully cooked. It was served with a curried carrot broth or puree—I can’t recall. It was served with baby white carrots, which the waitress refered to as rainbow carrots. Since that moment, all white objects we have seen have been pointed out as rainbow colored, much like the space inbetween the words I’m typing now. There were also two, randomly plopped Brussels sprouts, and a sprouting of bull’s blood for garnish. Bull’s blood is a small, acidic, leafy red green that also garnished our soups, and we would see a theme moving forward. There was no color play, and the broth—we believe—was also a pear base, which we guessed because it had the same consistency as the soup, and if you took out the curry, perhaps even the same flavor.

Hi, I'm bull's blood.

The servers and the sommelier were on point the whole time, never leaving a  cup half full, and always eager to talk. We didn’t ask the questions we should have because I think we were all anticipating some grand main course.

Intermezzo: Raspberry sorbet: Cooling, palate-cleansing, quite delicious; simply plated and garnished, I have no complaints so I’ll move on.

The duck. The fucking duck. Here’s the first rule in cooking duck: start with a cold pan and let it work slowly. There is a large portion of very render-able, very crisp-able fat that lies over the breast meat. Our duck breast fat had sort of a gelatinous body to it, and the only crispiness came from some sort of glaze that was caramelized over top. This means he seared it in a hot pan, giving the fat no time to render. There was another pear-based sauce at the bottom, and I was fantastically disappointed in every bite except for the asparagus. It was smoked—I think, and it had great flavor. Oh, this was all topped with bulls blood.

 

 

 

And then it was time for dessert, which deserves no time for a lead-up. It was just crème brulee. It was not very good, and there was far too much of it.

No, we didn’t complain about it at the time; maybe partly because my two companions were bribed into submission with “splashes” of wines from around the world, or maybe because we in foodservice tend to not complain. The truth is, it was a fun evening. We were surrounded by awkward silence from the get-go, and as the wine kicked in, our table encouraged others to speak up, and the atmosphere became livelier. I made some pretty good jokes throughout the night like when I asked the sommelier if they carried Alize. He either didn’t hear me, or he did and chose not to answer. We had great conversation about culinary trends, club members, and life. I got to announce to my former coworker—and I’m announcing this to the public now—that I was recently promoted to Executive Sous Chef at my club, and that this was a huge opportunity to learn, and make some changes and create some fun dining events and experiences for members who thrive on new things. But enough about that for now.

We paid our tab—Over $200 for me, and more for the wine drinkers, and we left. We made fun of the five stars on the sign, and we never looked back. Our respective companies will reimburse us for all of the food we purchase on this trip, so we aren’t out the money. What we lost was the truly unique experience that should have come from a tenured, passionate chef. I haven’t decided if I’ll leave a review anywhere yet, but here is my opinion from somebody who knows about the food that we ate.

3 out of 5 stars. They earned one extra star on service alone.

Fortunately, not all food in North Carolina is overpriced and boring. Remember, I came here for BBQ, and I found some last night that I won’t soon forget.

To be continued…

Charlotte Part 2

I began day two at 5am with a trip to the local Snap Fitness. As I wound my way through what reminded me of the pine-tree forests of northern Minnesota, I pondered the night before, and what had happened. I wondered if anybody else felt the same way I did, and if it was worth more conversation. Throughout the rest of today, our dinner last night was on the topic frontlines, and I’ve been waiting patiently to write about it all day.

Last night the three compadres that arrived early to the Chef to Chef conference in Charlotte, North Carolina to explore the city and try fine food spent the last few hours of the evening at the McNinch house. The restaurant is an 1892 Queen Anne style home of the Victorian-era Charlotte Mayor Sam McNinch. For 30 years, the house has served escalated food in a fine-dining formal environment. All I knew of the place was that they required a jacket to dine. About two weeks before my trip, I went out all by myself and purchased a big boy suit just for this event.

We donned our formal attire and strolled out from the parking garage we eventually found—never try to park anywhere in Charlotte. We stopped at a tavern and the boys I was with tried some local bourbon and perhaps something called an old fashioned. I drink tap water from a fancy glass bottle that they poured into a small tumbler. After a few rounds, we walked a few blocks through the character of a busy and well-populated urban sprawl. As we approached the restaurant, we all noticed that the only person we could see inside from the sidewalk was clearly not wearing a jacket. It was okay, we would be the best-dressed gentlemen of the evening.

We strolled into the reception area where we perused the local and national accreditations. There was a review from Zagat’s that was rather flattering and generous in my opinion with their point system. There were many local awards, and letters, all adorned with varying degrees and arrangements of stars or points, some were based on a maximum of five points, and some 10. All ranged near the top.

We noticed immediately that it was very quiet. Guests were whispering, and I felt immediately that  I would break the silence with a perfectly timed fart or bump against a china hutch. We were greeted by a friendly host/server, and taken to our table which was decorated for royalty. Beautiful china, actual silverware, fancy folded napkins, etc… I don’t know the terminology for many things I saw there, so I’ll use the term fancy where appropriate. The host was also a server, and everybody working seemed to be working together and we were greeted by them all, including the wine steward.

One thing that I mention from time-to-time is that there are days and events where I really wish I could drink like a normal person. Wine is a thing I’ll never understand. I know I like the smell of it, and I know there’s a whole culture and side of my profession that I can never be a part of because I’ll take it too far. So when the sommelier greeted us, I asked him politely to take my glasses away. I didn’t tell him why; I didn’t have the time.

Shhhh, inside voices please. Only violin played overhead as the S's, T's,  and stifled laughter were all to be heard from other patrons. We were given menus and we quickly decided we wanted the five-course Chef tasting at $189 each to include wine. 20% gratuity would be added automatically at the end. The description stated that, if we were seeking the ultimate experience, we would encounter a variety of flavors and ingredients, as well as sensations, technique, and stellar service. We were sold.

The first course—amuse bouche—came out in a small porcelain cup. It was a pear soup with a crumble of raspberry stilton. It was divine. It was fruity, bright, deep, and rich. It felt perfect as it coated my tongue and stuck around to tease me with a mouthfeel of fat and salt. It was a flavor that would present itself in nearly every remaining dish; a theme if you will. About every five minutes, the sommelier would stop by and ask the other two gentlemen at the table if they would like, "another splash?" The answer was routinely affirmative. For the purpose of a recovery-based blog, I'll limit my writing of wine and drinking unless if feel it is integral to a particular story.

The second dish was also soup. Yes, two soups. This is where I had my first problem. The soup was cream of artichoke. Subjectively, cream soups should be smooth. The artichokes were left in, and I kept chewing until I felt as if my next step would be to blow a bubble. There was very little or no acid—not vinegar or citrus—to brighten it up, and overall I thought it lacked in visual appeal. I didn’t even take a picture. I actually didn’t take a picture of either soup. It’s soup. I washed the blandness away with a chug of fancy bottled water, poured into a crystal water glass; on to the salad.

My favorite segment of the dinner visually, was the mixed green salad with braised enoki, and bacon vinaigrette. It was the only dish that seemed to have any local flair in that the dressing was a mustard-based vinegar sauce. The presentation was flawless, and the salad went down without a fight. This was my first picture of food at the restaurant.

I didn't feel comfortable using my flash, so some of the pictures could appear rather drab 

One cherry tomato could have really taken the plate to another level, but as we would experience, there was only one level.

To be continued...

Charlotte Part 1

Up, up, and away we went. The city below shrank and the pressure in my head and in the cabin grew until I popped it with a yawn; my head, not the airplane cabin. I popped it like it’s hot. Just a two-hour flight and we arrived at our destination. Everybody outside the airport in Charlotte, North Carolina was dressed in parkas and face masks, but I had on only a T-shirt and jeans as I strolled out into the spring sun.

A coworker and I had been given this opportunity to travel for work to the annual Chef to Chef conference a few months ago, and it seemed so far away back then, but here we are at the Country Inn and Suites in Matthews, NC. Yesterday was optional in that it wasn’t part of the conference, we just wanted to come explore and enjoy some local food. My main goal since I printed my itinerary was to find the smallest BBQ joints and hole-in-the-wall smokehouses I could and eat my way through a city.

I got off to a good start yesterday about two miles from the hotel at a side-of-the-road shack called Stallings Rockstore Bar-B-Q. I could see the neon sign from a few blocks away and I could also see that it appeared to be a small operation in a beautiful 1930’s renovated stone gas station. I couldn’t actually see that part, but that’s how Google described it. We pulled the rental into the small parking lot, and wandered into the small dining room where we were greeted by a literal Mom and Pop family welcome. I ordered some of everything, my coworker ordered a half-rack, and we went to town.

Now, for those of you that don’t know, BBQ is a little or a lot different everywhere you go. Some regional BBQ that I’m familiar with and what I try to imitate when I cook at home are  St. Louis, Kansas, and Carolina. St. Louis is more sticky-sweet whereas the Carolinas present their food with much more mustard and vinegar. In Kansas City you can expect a lot of dry rub to finish. All BBQ has a place in my heart, but I’ve never been able to try it in its own origin. So I was excited.

I was also disappointed. Not in the meat. The chicken was perfect. It was tender, juicy, flavorful, and with just the right balance of sweet and vinegar with a healthy dose of mustard sauce. Very little smoke flavor presented itself, but there was just enough to know it wasn’t simply cooked in a n oven. The pork was average in that it was shredded and soaked up the sauce as it should. And the rib-tips were exceptional and full of smoky flavor. When ribs are cooked properly, they should not literally fall off the bone, they should be tender enough to peel away from the bone with little effort. It’s a fine line and they nailed it. Again, I added extra mustard sauce, which is my favorite of all BBQ sauces.

It was the sides that fell short for me. The slaw seemed to be just cabbage, roasted red peppers, and vinegar. And if I dug around in their recycling bin out back, I would put my paycheck on finding an empty #10 can of Busch’s Baked Beans. The worst part was that they didn’t even doctor them up, Most of my professional cook friends who may read this know exactly what I mean; we’ve all done it. It was an unsatisfying end to a good start.

I’m certainly not done trying; I’ll need to find at least three more similar places to dine before I leave this place.

We finished up, cleaned up our table, and thanked the owners for their southern hospitality. As I would find out later, we aren’t truly in the south. Not many people here have the stereotypical accent, which should have been my giveaway.

We had big plans for the night, we were meeting up with a former coworker for a fine-dining experience at the McNinch House, which was adorned with dozens of local and national critic awards and stars and medallions and whatnot. We had made reservations three months in advance, and I even bought a suit because a jacket was required to dine.

That will be part two…

This is a 2016 Dodge Grand Caravan. It's blue. The only differences between it, and the van I own at home, are the color and the license plate. I arranged to rent a 5-speed Hundai Accent, so we could zoom to and fro, but when we arrived at the airport rental agency, they had only one vehicle left to rent: my dad-van.