Although this might be more approprate for the foodee board, this is CLUBHOUSE-caliber content.
I give you a scene from my forthcoming novel, Charlie Honda. This part is delicious. Hope you enjoy it and, yes, there's a reason it's included.
***********
It's a long drive back to Tivoli and the sky's getting grayer. A front's moving in. Probably why the wind shifted. Shouldn't be too bad.
Goliad passes, then Cuero. It starts raining in Cuero, then Gonzales, then Luling, then it stops raining when you get to Lockhart... Lockhart smells wonderful because it's around lunchtime and there are bar-b-q places everywhere. There's a sign up ahead for Seale's Bobbyque. Sounds good. "Anja, how about that Seale's place. The spelling's perfect for a good bar-b-q joint."
"Yeah. Car? Manual driving."
The car shifts to manual and Anja pulls over to the right and follows the signs to Seale's. The smell is overpowering. Hypnotic. Powerful. An offering to the gods, the sweet smoke carrying offerings up to the heavens. Hickory chips soaked in a marinade of centuries-old family secrets. Rolls of paper towels and sacks of white bread on the tables, tables covered in butcher paper or plastic coverings, folding chairs to sit on... oh, mercy, the perfume of the fire-pit!
The tendrils of smoke, amplified by the cool, damp air, set their hooks in your nose and draw you inside. Inside, you're in a warm, close environment as the line meets you there at the door. You can't even see the menu, yet you can smell it. You step forward whenever possible and then more people extend the line behind you, their pilgrimage to the temple of meat arriving at its climax.
Turn a corner in line and behold! The vegetables! Corn, slaw, pickles, onions, potato salad, green beans cooked with bacon, ranch beans, sweet potatoes, collard greens, they're all there. You don't like all of them, but their being there is a sign of good bar-b-q. The spirits of the Taino from the Bahamas chant "Ba ba coa" as you select corn and sweet potatoes and get your roll and cornbread.
Next is the meat. This will be good right down to the bone. You see into the fire pit, with big, black chefs grabbing racks of meat off the flames and plunging them into boiling pots of fragrant bastes, then shoving them back into the fires. You see the smokers where descendants of coastal African tribesmen turn skewers of meat over delicious woods and coals.
Choirs of warriors and maidens from ancient Benin join their voices to the Taino chant while Charlie must make his order and realizes why the line is so slow. How do you choose from among the pleasures of the cooked flesh? There they are, luscious and tender before your eyes, pleasing to your nose and tongue, even causing your skin to tingle with the warm drafts of scented air that brush past.
The words barely squeak past your lips. "Quarter pound of ribs, quarter pound of brisket."
The smiling matron nearly dances as she hollers to the crew to produce sufficient ribs and brisket to satisfy your order. She slices them up with precision, weighs them before your eyes and then tosses a little extra brisket in with a bigger smile on her face. With all the bounty from the earth, how can she be stingy? In this righteous place, how can she deal wickedly? Those scraps need eatin', too.
Then... the crockpot of sauce up by the register. You pay and then ladle out several plastic mini-bowls of the reddish-brown delight. That it has tomatoes, garlic, onions, and aged vinegars, there is no doubt. What else is in there is a secret known only to the priests of this temple. All you must do is participate in their rites and make the proper donation to enjoy the fruits of their day-long worshiping.
Charlie and Anja make it to the table. They nearly faint with anticipatory delirium. They sit. They pour the sauce on the meat, a sacrament of marriage in the significance of this step. They taste.
Oh, they taste!
The chill of the rainy world outside vanishes as the down-home bobbyque from Seale's melts on the tongues of the communicants. All power to the tastebuds right now. The meat's cooked all the way through and... is that a hint of plum in the sauce? The sauce is even good on the corn and mixed in with the sweet potatoes.
Save the cornbread, Charlie. You're gonna soak up every drop of sauce with it when you're done. Waste nothing. Be thankful for it all and waste nothing.
Silence prevails. The meal is given its proper respects. Somewhere in there, you remembered to order a drink and although it's not more bar-b-q sauce, it's a perfect blend with the rest of the meal.
I give you a scene from my forthcoming novel, Charlie Honda. This part is delicious. Hope you enjoy it and, yes, there's a reason it's included.
***********
It's a long drive back to Tivoli and the sky's getting grayer. A front's moving in. Probably why the wind shifted. Shouldn't be too bad.
Goliad passes, then Cuero. It starts raining in Cuero, then Gonzales, then Luling, then it stops raining when you get to Lockhart... Lockhart smells wonderful because it's around lunchtime and there are bar-b-q places everywhere. There's a sign up ahead for Seale's Bobbyque. Sounds good. "Anja, how about that Seale's place. The spelling's perfect for a good bar-b-q joint."
"Yeah. Car? Manual driving."
The car shifts to manual and Anja pulls over to the right and follows the signs to Seale's. The smell is overpowering. Hypnotic. Powerful. An offering to the gods, the sweet smoke carrying offerings up to the heavens. Hickory chips soaked in a marinade of centuries-old family secrets. Rolls of paper towels and sacks of white bread on the tables, tables covered in butcher paper or plastic coverings, folding chairs to sit on... oh, mercy, the perfume of the fire-pit!
The tendrils of smoke, amplified by the cool, damp air, set their hooks in your nose and draw you inside. Inside, you're in a warm, close environment as the line meets you there at the door. You can't even see the menu, yet you can smell it. You step forward whenever possible and then more people extend the line behind you, their pilgrimage to the temple of meat arriving at its climax.
Turn a corner in line and behold! The vegetables! Corn, slaw, pickles, onions, potato salad, green beans cooked with bacon, ranch beans, sweet potatoes, collard greens, they're all there. You don't like all of them, but their being there is a sign of good bar-b-q. The spirits of the Taino from the Bahamas chant "Ba ba coa" as you select corn and sweet potatoes and get your roll and cornbread.
Next is the meat. This will be good right down to the bone. You see into the fire pit, with big, black chefs grabbing racks of meat off the flames and plunging them into boiling pots of fragrant bastes, then shoving them back into the fires. You see the smokers where descendants of coastal African tribesmen turn skewers of meat over delicious woods and coals.
Choirs of warriors and maidens from ancient Benin join their voices to the Taino chant while Charlie must make his order and realizes why the line is so slow. How do you choose from among the pleasures of the cooked flesh? There they are, luscious and tender before your eyes, pleasing to your nose and tongue, even causing your skin to tingle with the warm drafts of scented air that brush past.
The words barely squeak past your lips. "Quarter pound of ribs, quarter pound of brisket."
The smiling matron nearly dances as she hollers to the crew to produce sufficient ribs and brisket to satisfy your order. She slices them up with precision, weighs them before your eyes and then tosses a little extra brisket in with a bigger smile on her face. With all the bounty from the earth, how can she be stingy? In this righteous place, how can she deal wickedly? Those scraps need eatin', too.
Then... the crockpot of sauce up by the register. You pay and then ladle out several plastic mini-bowls of the reddish-brown delight. That it has tomatoes, garlic, onions, and aged vinegars, there is no doubt. What else is in there is a secret known only to the priests of this temple. All you must do is participate in their rites and make the proper donation to enjoy the fruits of their day-long worshiping.
Charlie and Anja make it to the table. They nearly faint with anticipatory delirium. They sit. They pour the sauce on the meat, a sacrament of marriage in the significance of this step. They taste.
Oh, they taste!
The chill of the rainy world outside vanishes as the down-home bobbyque from Seale's melts on the tongues of the communicants. All power to the tastebuds right now. The meat's cooked all the way through and... is that a hint of plum in the sauce? The sauce is even good on the corn and mixed in with the sweet potatoes.
Save the cornbread, Charlie. You're gonna soak up every drop of sauce with it when you're done. Waste nothing. Be thankful for it all and waste nothing.
Silence prevails. The meal is given its proper respects. Somewhere in there, you remembered to order a drink and although it's not more bar-b-q sauce, it's a perfect blend with the rest of the meal.
