Friday, September 29, 2006

BBQ And The Corn Liquor Fairy

“Searching For BBQ”

Somewhere in Northport, Alabama.

The road has turned to dirt. The forest has become a real forest (not just the outcropping between neighborhoods that it is in a lot of Tuscaloosa). And we are clearly in demilitarized territory—i.e. the kudzu is making its presence known (unlike in the city where it is tame, captive, and trimmed for ornament); but we are not yet in the true wilderness (where that house-shaped kudzu plant over there is just that—a house that has been ingested by the dreaded kudzu vines).

In other words, we’ve sort of left civilization and we’re beginning to worry.

There are houses out here: a little outcropping. They are old, but well-maintained. And they are close together, almost huddled, sharing a common front yard. But beyond them? To our right the dirt road is single-track. It goes from “my car can make it,” to “my jeep might make it.”
From one of the houses come two women and some kittens. “Y’all need somethin’?”

We stare. “Um…BBQ?” We want to say.

It’s apparent that MapQuest has failed us (not an entirely new predicament). Though I want to believe that down that little road, which seems to go straight into the unknown—the true Alabama—the one that I imagined before I moved out here, when I was in still in Colorado humming “Dueling Banjos” (yes, that scene from Deliverance)—though I want to believe that down that road, there really is a BBQ restaurant called Archibalds, where some crazy old magician cooks up ribs, I know, in my heart of hearts, that we’re lost.

We take the plunge: “Do you know a BBQ restaurant called Archibald’s?”

“Archibalds?” The woman looks as if she’s swallowed something, sucking sourly at her lips. Or maybe she’s just thinking—that would be the optimist’s point of view anyway. “ARchibalds? Y’all lookin’ for ARchibalds? Chile—you done gone way past ARchibalds.”

I stop listening. I’m not driving so I don’t really need to absorb the directions she’s now giving—though I do hear something about the bridge, and I wonder if she’s giving us (accidentally or on purpose) directions to Dreamland—the tourist Dreamland no less—which is exactly the kind of place we don’t want to go.

As she talks, it’s as if the kudzu (which is known to grow over a foot a day) covers the entrance to the little road—which is the entrance into the real Alabama. It’s as if the portal to the land of War Drobe, where there is a little Alabama goat man, playing the banjo, drinking corn liquor, and ready to lead us to the real BBQ, is vanishing. All we had to do was keep driving—just go—and we would have come upon the Shangri La of BBQ.

But no. I’m not the only one in the car. And besides that, it’s kind of scary (I’m not above admitting that Deliverance had a real, lasting effect on me). So I make no argument that we should just go for it, and I watch as the entrance is covered. War Drobe is lost. Goodbye Spare Oom. And we are forced into that situation that no one likes—turn around.

We discus the particulars with one of the women. She gives an intricate set of directions, with every landmark being either a convenience store, a supermarket, or a fast-food joint, and with our new directions in hand, we head back. Back to civilization. But I still have my doubts as to whether or not we’ve been led astray. The corn-liquor fairy may not exist, but I’ll be damned if I go to Dreamland (1). So, when we stop for gas, I double-check with a toothless old man inside and he confirms: “Y’all go on pass the Piggly-Wiggly….”

I ask him, “Is it any good?”

And he says, “It’s the bess.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure we’re going to make it to Archibald’s. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be really good. And, when we do find it, and it’s just this little shack-like structure, with the brick smoker being at least as big as the actual restaurant, and we walk inside to see nothing but a counter with five stools, the BBQ pit, two big men who look as if they love BBQ, a soda-cooler with a hodge-podge of sodas (different sizes; one of one brand, six of another; some juice thrown in for good measure), and a sign that says:

Rib Plate
Small: 6.95
Large: 7.90
Pork Plate
Small: 6.95
Large: 7.90
Pound of Ribs: 8.95
Slab of Ribs: 12.95

I know it’s going to be good.

How do I know? Because of the small menu on the wall: two items, four different sizes. Because the difference in 95¢ (between the small plate and large plate) is not 95¢ worth of food—it just means that, by ordering the large, you are entering into an agreement whereby you agree to pay the 95¢ and they agree to place a small mountain of food before you. Because there are no sides—just meat. Because once you order they place a paper towel and two toothpicks in front of you, and when you’re done they put another paper towel down along with a bottle of hand-sanitizer. Because these two men obviously love ribs.

And it is good. Really good. The outside is crispy—almost like pork skins or chicharones (2). The smoke flavor comes through. And, (though my plate doesn’t quite measure up to the others), most of the ribs are the big, thick ones (3). They are dowsed with a mildly spicy, vinegar-based sauce (pretty good), and topped with the ubiquitous slices of generic white-bread.

But, after finishing my small plate of ribs (I’m accustomed to an Alabama portion at this point), and I am picking my teeth clean, I wonder about that other BBQ. The one in War Drobe, Spare Oom, Shangri La. I’m wondering how good ribs can get. Is there a limit? What is it? What is that one restaurant to which everyone else strikes a comparison? The one over which people remark: “This is good, but you should try…” Because Archibald’s is good. I’d recommend it to anyone. Our group reached the consensus that it was the best so far.

But I still wonder about the best. The best.

I still believe in the corn-liquor fairy.

(to be continued)

(1) Not that I have anything particular against Dreamland. It’s just that, well, I’m on a mission from God when it comes to ribs. And God doesn’t need to advertise on a big, yellow billboard. Nor does God need a themesong.
(2) Crispy fat has come to mean the sign of true masterwork when it comes to ribs. I’d say it is almost the mark, moreso than good sauce, because it is all about technique (whereas BBQ sauce is merely recipe work).
(3) I have, since moving to Alabama, come to understand why the big, meaty, inexpensive pork-ribs are far superior to the smaller, expensive baby-back ribs—when (of course) handled by a master.