I’m writing this in the Baltimore airport, home of that fly flyboy Arby’s, but to my left is not roast beef. Rather, I have carried with me a sandwich fragment, as precious and slight as a few lines of Sappho, but without any undertones of forbidden lust. There’s nothing wrong about loving a bacon, egg and cheese, least of all when it was birthed at the Nashville airport Whitt’s. (Just typing that makes me want to eat it. Soon!)
Whitt’s, as I explained yesterday, is a local barbecue place often dismissed simply because it’s so easy to get. But not all good barbecue is far away, just as not all distant ‘cue is worth a slog. Whitt’s happens to be dandy, and their location in Terminal B has been the salve which makes the ceaseless to-ing and fro-ing of my college years tolerable. Pulled pork settles the stomach, bracing my delicate constitution for the turmoil of travel, and it’s gotten so that I can barely fly without it.
But state law prohibits the sale of pulled pork before 11 AM, and early flights must be faced with bacon alone. Well, not entirely alone. The egg and cheese are its friends, and the biscuit they hang out on is also a welcome companion. Dazed from my early start, it was all I could do at 9:30 this morning but dash on Tabasco and gnaw. It was good three hours ago, but how has the remainder of my breakfast managed the transition to EST and PM? Let’s see.
(munch munch munch.)
Aw hell yeah. Room temperature and congealed to perfection.
Speaking of judgement, there are a couple of cliffhangers that need addressing. First, the hot chicken throw down I hyped last weekend was, uh, thrown down Saturday night, and unfortunately no one was hurt. It was the best fried chicken I’ve ever made—Mom helped too!—but the hot paste, because of an overzealous oil addition, didn’t absorb the cayenne. It was barely above a mild. Perhaps next time I should work out a recipe that’s not so cheekily unhelpful. Happily, spice or no, my parents’ pals were pleased by our crispy crust, and I avoided making a total fool of myself.
I closed yesterday’s entry forecasting a trip to Mary’s Old Fashioned Pit Bar-Be-Cue, and I made good on my promise. I found meaty ribs which proved as much a mouthful as the restaurant’s full title (zing!). Little fat and a tangy, complex sauce made them among the best wet ribs I’ve ever been lucky enough to meet, and went some distance towards making up for the departure of Dee’s. I’d been told the place was takeout only, but the presence of an assortment of booths and tables suggested a recent change. A big screen TV played Ellen, calling to mind the ambiance of lunch time at the old folks home. But atmosphere, as we all know, is for the weak. My only real complaint is with the short rib sandwich. The ribs were sublime, of course, but to label a rack of ribs next to three pieces of bread sandwich stretches logic.
Sandwiches don’t have bones. They don’t all have bread on top, but there’s no such thing as an open bottom sandwich. They also usually don’t need three pieces of bread.
But I’m quibbling. Mary’s has been around over fifty years, and to their judgement I defer. They could call it a rib soufflé, and as long as it’s really just ribs, I’ll keep my grumbling to myself.
