We nurse the last drops of our house-made lemonade, looking for every excuse to linger, inhaling the heady smell of the smoker, bantering with Mr Schloegel, and comparing notes and napkin-counts with the barbecue aficionados at the other tables. When we eventually depart, it is with a series of sauce-stained waves.
In the parking lot at Woodyard, Dad re-teaches me one of the great things about the barbecue: it is, perhaps, the most egalitarian of foods, beloved by people from all walks of life. Drool is a great equaliser. See those cars next to each other, the shiny convertible and the broken-down jalopy? That’s a sure sign of good food.
We’re pleased, then, to see the same thing outside our dinner destination, B.B.’s Lawnside BBQ, where there are an equal number of beaters and Beamers.
We’re hoping for some music to go with our meal. Kansas City is, after all, one of the birthplaces of jazz, Dad’s favourite music to go with his favourite food, and B.B.’s has a reputation for its live acts. But we arrive just after one show has ended and the next band, scheduled to start hours later, is just setting up. No matter: we’ll settle in for what we hope will be a long, glorious night.
Our server is – yet again – all too eager to give us a tutorial on her restaurant’s offerings. ‘You’ll want the ribs, of course,’ she says. She looks us over for a moment, sizing up these two skinny, dorky, out-of-their-element-looking guys. ‘You should probably just split a full rack, and maaaybe a couple of sides.’
We’re not sure whether to be offended by this judgement, but when the platter arrives, we’re grateful. The slab is roughly the size of a surfboard. But we make room. For this, we will always have room. The ribs are surprisingly light and perfectly charred, and tender, Dad notes, nice and tender, though he’s still – still! – not entirely won over. (I am, but who am I to question the master?)
Midway through the meal, the meat hits an unfamiliar note on my palate, one that I want to characterise, somehow, as wistful. After a few moments of thought and a gulp of my local Boulevard beer, I realise it’s not the taste that’s getting to me, it’s the whole experience. I’m having, as I did in the car, a neo-Proustian moment, except it’s more bittersweet than comforting or delightful.
We’re here, finally, doing the trip that we’ve always planned. And somehow this fulfilment of my childhood dream seems like final, uncomfortable closure on my childhood. I’m the one drinking beer and Dad, recently diagnosed as being gluten intolerant, is the one who cannot imbibe. I’m arguing with him about who will pay for the meals (though he won’t let me). I’m noticing, for the first time, his slyly sarcastic side – and the slight hobbling, with age, of his proud runner’s gait.
The band begins its sound check, rousing me from my melancholy musings. A blues harmonica player named Rockin’ Jake wanders through the restaurant, wailing away. Dad smiles, and I gesture to him that he has a piece of meat stuck in his teeth.
It’s awfully tempting to stay. Here we have the perfect roadhouse atmosphere (slightly rundown but cheery, walls covered with concert posters and beer signs, floor packed with tables), and even a couple of ribs left. As I eye them, wondering if I have room for just one more bite, Dad utters words that I never thought would pass his lips: ‘We might be overdoing this. I hope we’re not tired of barbecued ribs by the time we get to Arthur Bryant’s.’
This is a problem. Years of anticipation, and now we’re wimping out? What about all the contenders we’re going to have to skip?
But Dad’s right. We’re stuffed. I’m desperate for some of the Pepto-Bismol stashed in the car. And we absolutely have to save room for Bryant’s.
So we’re sorry, Gates Bar-B-Q. Apologies, Oklahoma Joe’s. Mea culpa, Danny Edwards and Hayward’s and Rosedale and LC’s and that guy with the sidewalk stand on State Line Road. It breaks my heart, but we won’t be stopping by, at least not this time around.
Sunday morning starts with the weirdest thing, although maybe it shouldn’t be surprising after last night: Dad and I talk. Not just about barbecued ribs but about life, everything. We stroll around the grounds of the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art. We sit in a public garden and chat for a good hour, enjoying the tranquil stillness of our surroundings and the ease of our far-ranging discourse. There are no earth-shattering epiphanies, just good, adult conversation of the variety that we haven’t had since I became, well, an adult.
Eventually, though, the subject returns to food. We talk about the joys and disappointments of the places we’ve been in the last two days – Dad’s still not sure he’s tasted anything better than his favourite barbecue joint in Minneapolis. This only makes me more eager to get to Arthur Bryant’s. Dad is patient, savouring the anticipation, but I’m willing time forward, like a student waiting for recess: hurry up, clock!
After a torturously long time, Dad decrees that he’s ready, and we head to Arthur Bryant’s. I’m disappointed there’s no trumpet fanfare or chorus of cherubs as we walk in, but the scent of the place makes up for this omission. It’s intoxicating.
At the front of the line, the counterman asks what I’m having. It’s the cue I’ve been waiting for all my life, and I know my lines. ‘Pork ribs, beef ribs and burnt ends.’ It’s this last part that I’m most eager to sample, the food about which Mr Trillin waxes most rhapsodic.
‘We’re out of burnt ends,’ the counterman says. I’m crushed. It’s like going to Paris and learning that the Eiffel Tower has been dismantled. I’m terrified that this is an omen.
We find a table and, unsure how to mark this long-planned occasion, do a weird little toast with our ribs, clanking the bones together. And then, the moment of truth.
Well … we needn’t have worried – these ribs would have brought even the most tired, jaded palate to life. They have a flavour that is at once vivacious and grounded, delightfully unexpected, yet elementally familiar, like a bass drum and a snare combining to make the most boogie-inducing jazz riff. Even better is the velvety pulled pork, which was my substitute for the burnt ends – it’s like the greatest, meatiest pudding ever made. Within a bite or two, I have, at last, a new standard of excellence for barbecued meat.
Dad agrees.
Looking at the newspaper clippings on the walls, it’s clear we’re in good company, given the lengths to which people will go to get their Arthur Bryant’s fix – one guy, apparently, flew here from Los Angeles, picked up 140 pounds of ribs, and flew back to serve them at a party.
It’s the sauce that seals the reputation – tangy, gritty, slightly spicy, unlike any others we’d sampled. When the restaurant’s namesake died in 1982, the (now-defunct) Kansas City Times ran a cartoon of Mr Bryant arriving at the gates of heaven, where St Peter asks, with a hopeful look in his eyes, ‘Did you bring sauce?’ By the time we’re done, utterly sated, our hands have started to turn orange. I want to put that sauce on everything, scoop it up with my fries, my bread, my spoon, my bare hand. I’m surprised there are no signs reading ‘Please do not squirt sauce directly into mouth’.
As we leave, Dad’s spirits are buoyant as he extols the wonders of the sauce and cracks jokes about the carloads full of frat boys that have just pulled up. I can almost hear him thinking, ‘See, those stories I read to you were true, not fairy tales.’ He’s beaming, big-time, and his gait isn’t hobbled at all – in fact, there’s a spring to it.
Propane and Hot Sauce
LIZ MAC DONALD
Liz MacDonald lives on the Central Coast of California. She is pursuing an MFA in creative nonfiction at San José State University, and is working on a book about the nature of beekeeping and the American workplace. Her work has appeared in Reed Magazine, where she served as managing editor for the 2009 issue.
I parked the car, feeling sceptical of Laurie’s assurance that the world’s best hot sauce would be found here. The yard functioned as a parking lot, appliance showroom and propane dispensing station. In the centre, a tanker trailer gleamed in the sunlight, a silver monolith standing its ground warily against the yellow Cat
erpillar tractor parked across the street. Around the tanker, like worshippers on a pilgrimage, stood several high-end stainless-steel stoves nestled in weeds and tall, scraggly grass. If it weren’t for the ohia trees and trade winds, I’d think I was back in southern Ohio. A vinyl sign hung from the roof of the squat white building, corroborating Laurie’s claim and announcing both the name and the wares of the store: Propane and Hot Sauce.
Laurie and I made our way across the lot, over gravel and packed earth, weaving around stoves and haphazard piles of lumber. Around the side of the storefront, an ageing yellow Labrador retriever lay in front of a corrugated-tin smokehouse. The dog remained still, except for her eyes, which followed us, and a slight tremble in her upper lip.
Laurie had sent me my first bottle of Paradise Pepper Sauce eight years ago when she had spent some time on the Big Island while taking a break from college. A spice-lover marooned in the Midwest blandlands, I was instantly hooked. The well-balanced flamer hit your tongue with just enough heat to raise sweat beads on your forehead, but not so much that your eyes turned bloodshot and bulged in their sockets. The capsaicin burn was tempered with just a hint of sweetness, the faintest breath of vinegar, and a garlicky aftershock. It improved any cuisine: eggs, burritos, pizza, steamed kale. Paradise Pepper Sauce became my constant culinary companion, my condiment of choice.
Laurie’s stay on the island lasted less than a year and soon enough she was back in Cincinnati to finish college. My hot sauce hook-up had run dry, and like any junkie, I went through a difficult withdrawal. Tabasco, Tapatio, Cholula, Sriracha and a number of boutique brands cluttered the shelf in my refrigerator door, but none delivered the perfect blend of flavours that Paradise had seared across my palate.
When Laurie returned to Honolulu for grad school, I was quick to plan a visit and insisted we hop a flight to the Big Island for a little grocery shopping.
We stepped through the open sliding glass door into the store. Instead of shelves neatly lined with products and an attentive clerk, the room looked like an abandoned garage sale. It contained antiques, bric-a-brac and more stoves – brand-new stainless-steel numbers and ’50s Magic Chefs in Easter egg colours. In the centre, a wicker chair was draped in mosquito netting. Both the netting and the chair had scraps of paper taped to them, with prices handwritten in black ballpoint pen. On the walls, flyers advertised pit-bull-mix puppies and used pick-up trucks for sale.
We moved into the second room, which contained more antiques and a tall thin refrigerator bearing two computer print-out signs: ‘Smoked Ahi Tuna Jerky for Sale, $21 Per Pound’ and ‘World’s Most Energy Efficient Refrigerator, Popular in Japan, $1200’. I zeroed in on the row of red bottles in a white wicker spice rack in front of the cash register. The object of my desire: Paradise Pepper Sauce.
I rushed over to inspect and was met with disappointment. The rack contained only three tiny bottles of the superior original flavour sauce, and several larger bottles of the lesser mango- and papaya-flavoured recipes.
‘Let’s see if they have some more,’ Laurie said. We milled around, waiting for someone to appear.
Several minutes later, a man wandered in through another sliding glass door leading to what looked like the back lot.
‘How can I help you, ladies?’ he asked. His thick Boston accent contrasted with his island appearance – tie-dyed shirt, knee-length denim shorts, flip-flops.
‘Is Dave around? I’m an old friend,’ Laurie said.
‘Ye-ah,’ said Boston. ‘Dave,’ he shouted in no particular direction, ‘some girls here to see you.’ No response, but Boston nodded anyway. ‘You can go on back.’ Apparently our gender gave us a free pass.
Laurie led the way through the second sliding glass door, around a corner and out to a wooden deck overlooking a hillside of wild green that fell away to the glittering ocean below. Banana trees laden with ripening and rotting fruit loomed over the deck. Sitting beneath the fronds enjoying a 24-ounce Miller Lite was Dave. He reminded me of a Tom Robbins wise man with his bright, curious eyes, deep tan, strong brow and wild grey hair. He wore his faded Hawaiian shirt open and was shoeless, revealing his toenails, which were painted red and black on alternating toes.
‘Laur!’ he shouted.
‘Hey, Dave,’ Laurie said.
‘Where have you been? What have you been doing?’
‘I’m living on Oahu now, going to grad school, studying communication.’
‘Well, that’s good, because you suck at it,’ Dave said.
They caught up a bit. During her island stint eight years ago, Laurie had lived and worked on the farm Dave owned down in Waipio Valley.
As Laurie and Dave talked, I looked around. The storefront was just the façade of a much larger compound made from a series of rooms, seemingly joined at random – a shanty town constructed of rattan and bamboo with no clear division between indoors and out. Creeping vines climbed up the lattice walls, and mango and papaya trees crowded up in any open spaces. A curdling bucket of what once was mayonnaise sat on the deck rail. Empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays were balanced on ledges and nooks.
‘You’ve done a lot with the place,’ Laurie remarked.
At that moment a diminutive man in frayed denim short shorts appeared. He had the thickest layer of grey body hair I have ever seen, and brandished a plate of chocolate truffles.
‘Would you ladies like a truffle? They’re lavender. I made them myself.’ He peered at me expectantly with bloodshot blue eyes. Creeped out, I wondered when Laurie would bring up the hot sauce so we could be on our way.
‘That’s Harlan,’ Dave said.
As is the island custom, Harlan greeted Laurie with a hug. I knew I’d be next and regretted choosing the skimpiest of the tank tops I’d packed when getting dressed that morning. I steeled myself to come into direct skin contact with his hirsute embrace.
After the hug, Laurie accepted one of Harlan’s truffles and I reluctantly followed suit. After nonchalantly inspecting it for stray hairs, I put it in my mouth. The chocolate melted on my tongue, rich and sweet, followed by a wave of lavender so floral and airy I felt light-headed. I would have hugged him again for another. Harlan put the plate aside and, grinning, asked, ‘You ladies want some pot?’
‘You gotta have some pot,’ Dave said. ‘We’ve been smoking all day out of this papaya shoot, like a one-hitter.’
Harlan brandished said papaya shoot, inserted a bit of marijuana into the tip, and offered it to me. I waved it off – I’m an uptight mainlander and pot makes me too paranoid. Besides, I had to drive the rental car from Honoka’a to Kilauea once we got the hot sauce.
Laurie accepted, took a toke, and passed the papaya pipe to Dave.
As the pot made its way around the group, Dave explained the work he’d done with the place. He, Harlan, Boston and some other dudes had built the additions to the store over the course of a few weekends. They intended to rent out the flimsy rooms to tourists to supplement their propane, propane-powered appliance, truffle, tuna and hot sauce revenue streams. Just as soon as they got around to putting up a website.
‘You gotta see the opium beds,’ Dave said. ‘I got some Thai opium beds for the rooms.’
‘What?’ Laurie mumbled, eyes glazed.
‘Come on, I want to show you the beds.’
We followed Dave through the maze of thatch rooms, each outfitted with the finest stainless-steel propane-powered appliances, until we came upon one of the beds – a low platform with a teak canopy hand-carved into an intricate, interlocking pattern.
‘I got three of these cheap on my last trip to Thailand,’ Dave explained. ‘They had them in the opium bars. You’d just smoke some opium and lie back on the bed and stay there for an hour or a week or whatever.’
I regretted not hitting the weed when offered. I could imagine passing a pleasant afternoon stoned and sprawled out, gazing at the intertwining design of the bed posts, listening to the distant surf and the wind rustling in the palm fronds, and s
nacking alternately on tuna jerky with hot sauce and lavender truffles.
Dave led us back to the deck (‘Want some mayonnaise?’ he asked as we passed the putrefying bucket), where we settled down on the sun-beaten patio furniture. Harlan fired up the papaya pipe again, Dave cracked open another Miller Lite, Boston wandered over, and everyone settled down for a good bullshit session.
‘We were just saying we needed some new women to look at – we’re sick of all the same old gals around here,’ Dave said. ‘Then you two dropped in.’
It was clear a hot sauce purchase would not happen for a while.
Laurie and I listened as the men put on a good show. Dave’s painted toenails were mocked, the result of a lost bet having to do with his beloved Washington Redskins. We also learned that the Redskins were the organisational model for Dave’s rental propane tanks – each tank was numbered to match one of the player’s jerseys, which is how he kept track of them. At one point a lighter was dropped, and when Harlan bent to pick it up, Dave delivered a playful kick in his ass. A chorus of hooting went up; this too was one of the compound’s running gags – trying to get someone to bend over so you could boot them in the behind.
‘For a week straight, there was a $10 bill on the living room floor, but nobody would bend over to pick it up,’ Dave howled. ‘Finally Harlan needed some beer, so he went for it. We got him good.’
We sat for over an hour as dappled sunlight filtered down through the banana fronds and snatches of Velvet Underground drifted out from an unseen radio. The conversation floated from one topic to another – the conquest of a vacationing red-headed real estate agent who turned out to be clingy and nuts, a good dog that had died the year before, Dave’s upcoming trip to Thailand for hernia surgery.
A Moveable Feast Page 10
