There’s crummy barbecue out there, people, and I think I’ve eaten too much of it in my lifetime. The problem could be as simple as salt, or as intangible as laziness. Time after time, promised “the best pulled pork/ribs/brisket in the south,” I’ve been treated to mushy meat as flavorful as the bread served alongside. Rarely has famous barbecue risen above humble Whitt’s, a Nashville chain without too much pride to actually season their meat. I don’t pretend to be a barbecue expert, but The best pulled pork I’ve ever had was at Abe’s, in Clarksdale, MI, and the best ribs came from Dee’s Q, in East Nashville.
Abe’s is my ideal, setting a standard which is not that high but, to my disappointment, never approached. Driving back from New Orleans this time last year, my parents and I went up state highway 61, tacking on three hours to see the ruins of Windsor and the flat, eerie Delta. Using cellphone and GPS, we enlisted my parents’ friends to recommend places to eat. We considered renowned hotel restaurants and meat and threes, but chose Abe’s because we thought it would be fast, and at sunset we were still hours from home. Quick it was. Five sandwiches and two beers later (for the whole group, not just for me), we were back on the road with full stomachs. (I also took with me the knowledge that Michelob Ultra is so named because it is beyond terrible.)
We made a few phone calls, we pulled over, we ate. It was good. Was that so hard? Apparently. I tried the same thing on Thursday, as a supplement to a trip to Memphis, and the world of slow-cooked meat rebuffed me. A yankee houseguest and I had gone to see Graceland, and were surprised to find that after a three hour drive we passed through the mansion in 45 minutes. Oh well—let’s get something to eat. Before leaving I had put in calls to my parent’s friends, coming up with a list of restaurants which were closed for the holiday. All closed, save one: a place called Bozo’s, about 45 minutes east on I-40. (Famous not just for their meat, but for a legal battle with the like-named clown which went to the US Supreme Court.)
Our GPS got us lost on the way, sending us off the highway onto a road that, though I could see it out my window, was not drawn on the map. Barely containing our panic, we were able to make our way out of the twilight zone and back onto highway 70. We drove until the machine announced “Destination”—an abandoned trailer guarded by a shattered green lawn chair. A call to the restaurant corrected the error, and we were there as the sun disappeared. I’d thought the GPS was simply baffled by the vagaries of state roads, but after we ate it was clear it had been trying to save us from our stomachs.
There was nothing wrong with the pulled pork—there was simply nothing right with it, either. It had the color and consistency of brains, and all the explosive flavor of rewarmed mush. I realized this after I had—thinking I was doing my father a favor—ordered a pound of it to go. It seems the creative power of Bozo’s had gone towards their sauce, a deep red sludge with medium heat and deep, smoky flavor. It took about a gallon of it to render the meat edible, and I think I sprained my wrist smacking the bottle.
I feel bad ragging on their product, for the people of Bozo’s were incredibly friendly, working hard to get us off highway 70 and into their establishment. The prices were reasonable and the baked beans were exceptional. Really everything was good but the pork, and that failure is a tragic shame.
In other news, the fried chicken experiment is reaching its conclusion. Four months ago I declared that I would match Prince’s by Christmas. Though my mother and I have done a lot of good work, we fell short of the December 25th target. No matter—I ate well and enjoyed doing it. We’re having one more test tonight, and this will be the big one. Hearing of our exploits, a friend of my father’s threw down a gauntlet of his own, declaring the cayenne-heavy flavor of Prince’s flat, and claiming that he knows of a Sichuan pepper which makes mockery of the best North Nashville to offer.
Who will prevail? Southern simplicity, or the deep hot pepper of the East? He promised it would have all the sweet depth of Sriracha, and frankly I fear he will best us. I’ve never claimed I was making the most intellectually compelling hot chicken—I just wanted to learn how to do it Nashville-style. If that style is ultimately flat then so be it. We may lose, but we have played the game well.
