Manhattan dining can be a traumatic experience for a South Alabamian. Not that we can’t hold our own when it comes to ordering off fancy menus. Alabamians have some of the finest culinary manners in the world.
It’s the food I’m talking about here.
I certainly don’t mean to imply that New York City has a shortage of good food; it doesn’t.
One of the glorious aspects of this town is that a person can just about eat whatever one wants, that is, if one can find it.
For example, I’ve been to Indian, Greek, and Ukrainian restaurants all in the same day. As for Ukrainian food–skip it. My borsht (soup) looked like someone had thrown a live chicken into a blender. No wonder communism fell.
The restaurants of this great metropolis seethe with cultural life. Our apartments are so small that most of us go out for dinner all the time. Incidentally, “dinner” is called “lunch” up here. Sadly, I’ve yet to hear of New Yorkers eating “supper”–their two-meal day is another testimony to their substandard quality of life.
But despite the variety and scope of the city’s dining establishments, I’m upset because I can’t find some decent barbecue.
I’ve had this problem before. Once I spent a month in North Carolina and nearly started a riot in Uncle Joe’s BBQ when I sent my plate back to the kitchen.
The barbecue sauce was white. White barbecue sauce! Who heard of white barbecue sauce? Worse, they had put slaw on top of my BBQ sandwich. Blaspheme! I don’t even eat slaw unless it’s my mama’s sour “killer” slaw. Her killer slaw is so sour it makes my cheeks pucker and my eyelids flutter. The stuff could suck the smile on Jimmy Carter’s face.
But here they’d put white sauce and sweet sauce on a perfectly good barbecue. I had no choice but to accuse Uncle Joe of being a commie.
In New York City, as I’m sure you can imagine, finding a good BBQ sandwich is darn near impossible.
I admit it, I’m picky about my barbecue. To this day, I get hankerings for big pork sandwiches drowning in tart (red) sauce, complimented by side orders of French fries, baked beans, fried pickles, lemon meringue pie, and of course, sweet tea.
As a little boy, I use to have conniption fits as we drove into Andalusia by way of the dam. That dancing neon pig meant hog heaven.
To this day, I get hankerings for big pork sandwiches drowning in tart (red) sauce, complimented by side orders of French fries, baked beans, fried pickles, lemon meringue pie, and of course, sweet tea.
These barbecue fits come on something terrible about once per month. I get real irritable if I don’t eat some chopped-up, hickory-seared pig.
One would think that, with nearly 1,400 restaurants on this island, I could have some decent barbecue.
First, I tried a joint that claimed to be ‘an authentic Tennessee barbecue. A sandwich cost $14.95 (no joke). It came with soup and salad.
Only an ignorant Yankee could dream up eating BBQ with Caesar salad and French onion soup.
I sure wasn’t going to patronize any establishment that served that sort of sissy fare.
Besides, the building was too nice. If there’s one thing that’s true of all good BBQ joints, it’s that they’re all sorry structures that resemble cattywampus shacks.
A good barbecue business will generally lean as much as 20 degrees depending on how heavily the wood is stacked against the side of the building.
Inside, a barbecue restaurant will be smoky, greasy, and tacky; preferably in that order. If my eyes don’t water and I can recognize the person sitting across from me, I generally know the barbecue won’t be any good. Superior houses of barbecue will always have at least one picture of the late, great Paul ‘Bear’ Bryant, the sovereign deity of BBQ
Thus, my next venture into New York.
The barbecue world seemed more promising. ‘Cousin Jim’s had a big pig painted outside and Christmas lights around the window. A couple of drunks were staggering around the seating area. The place held promise.
Held promise, that is, until I read “AUTHENTIC NORTH CAROLINA BBQ” stamped on the menu.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t leave because I had just ordered myself a soft drink (with ice).
That’s another problem with New York City. Yankees act like putting ice in your drink is a federal offense. I’ve literally had to manhandle the Four Season’s waterboy to simply get one cube.
Oh sure, they’ll be happy to put in a lemon, lime, or orange slice. I’ve even had a cranberry put in my water. But no ice.
Tea, too, is a problem. Suddenly the whole city is drinking sweet tea like ‘Snapple and ‘Arizona’. Everywhere I go I see New Yorkers slurping down these bottled teas.
They call them ‘iced’ tea.
In the South, we don’t say ‘iced tea. The fact that it’s cold is just a given. There is only one variable to contend with: tea is either sweet or not sweet. In my case, I like my tea sweet enough to give horse diabetes. And if they want to put lemon and sprig of mint in it, that’s fine too.
But if someone ordered a hot tea with their BBQ in Alabama, no doubt we’d send the carpetbaggers home. Not so in New York.
Despite the fact that New Yorkers are constantly swigging down bottles of sweet iced tea, they’ve yet to make the inductive leap that it can be served in restaurants, too.
Thus, I ordered a soft drink in ‘Cousin Jim’s house of putrid North Carolina BBQ.
The waiter came sulking back out with my drink. It contained exactly one cube of ice. But no matter, I was thirsty.
I took a sip. My eyes narrowed. My right hand trembled as I clenched the glass A gag reflex kicked in.
I must tell you that I spit that ‘other’ soft drink out like an elephant blowing water. Perhaps that waiter thought I wouldn’t notice the difference between two different brands of soft drinks.
And for those of you who don’t remember, the cola wars started when one company ridiculed the other for being a bunch of “hicks.
Any self-respecting Southerner worth his fizz knows which side to be on. I told Cousin Jim that he should give Uncle Joe a call and then I got outta there. And to this day, I’ve yet to find any decent barbecue in New York City, and I’m in a bad mood about it.
So if you get a chance, Andalusia, the next time you gobble up a good BBQ sandwich (chopped inside meat please) think of me and order a refill on your sweet tea.