Along with thousands of other Boston-area omnivores, two weeks ago I bought a Groupon for Blue Ribbon BBQ, a famed local establishment that serves heaping portions of pit-smoked fatty, salty, sweet meat. In fact, since Blue Ribbon BBQ is less than a mile from my house, I bought 3 Groupons (the per-person limit), with each $7 Groupon redeemable for $15 worth of food. It wound up being the most popular Groupon ever, selling a whooping 16,571 (here). That’s nearly a quarter million dollars worth of BBQ — the mind boggles, the health care system buckles.
I had never tried Blue Ribbon BBQ. In fact, I’m admittedly leery of overcooked, greasy meat basted in sugar and served in between two doughy slabs of enriched white flour. Up until I started my current job, I can’t remember ever having BBQ, but as there’s a small BBQ joint in sleepy Concord near my work, I find myself going to lunch with co-workers for pulled pork and brisket on a monthly basis. Surprisingly, most people I know are very enthusiastic about BBQ. Perhaps it’s something New Englanders must enthuse over to prove that they’re not straight-laced chowder-quaffing elitists who are fear spice and grease. “Oh, you must go to Blue Ribbon BBQ!” my co-workers rave, amazed that I’m not there on, like, a nightly basis… perhaps suspecting that I’m one of those uptight chowder-quaffers. Perhaps I am.
I arrived at Blue Ribbon BBQ on Friday night at 7:45pm, my Groupon in hand. It’s a small place with just a few tables; its coziness was accentuated by a slew of kitschy decorations (posters, license plates, antique bar taps), not to mention the crowd of obese men waiting for take-out. I immediately perceived that I was one of few females in the restaurant. I got in the ordering line and was soon motioned to the register by a large older man with watery eyes and a pronounced limp.
“Hi!” I said, smiling too brightly.
He glanced at me. “You look tired,” he drawled with cloying sympathy. “And hungry.” Dear lord. This man looks like he’s had three heart attacks, and he thinks I look tired?
“Yes, I am hungry!” Laugh. Hillbilly hospitality unnerves me. I’d last about a week in the South. “I’d like a…”
“Hold on a second dear, I gotta change the tape,” he murmured as he fussed with the register. He talked to himself, or maybe me, as he fed a new roll of paper into the slot. Behind him, I could see 4 or 5 large men bustling about in the kitchen as they prepared huge orders of food from various vats and pots. Beyond that, a sea of flesh marinated in anxiety as they waited expectantly for their orders.
“Okay, dear,” he said. “What will it be?”
I squashed the sudden urge to ask for salad. “A pint of pulled pork and a pint of coleslaw please.” The order came to $17, so with the Groupon, I paid a grand total of $9. It’s a good deal until I see the hospital bill.
I joined the crowd in the takeout area. Out of about 12 people, 10 were men. What is it about BBQ that’s so manly, anyway? Is it because it’s one of the few cuisines whose preparation requires a formidable array of tools? As I waited, I filled multiple little plastic ramekins with various BBQ sauces (and pickles!) and snagged a seat next to two total old-school Boston guidos who made insipid observations about the wall of license plates.
“Look at that skinny one,” the older one growled, pointing to what appeared to be an antique orange license plate from Europe.
“Look at that Chinese one,” the younger one said, pointing to what appeared to be a license plate from Korea.
“North Dakota, huh,” the older one said.
“Yeah, and Mississippi,” added the younger one.
Pause. “Texas,” said the older one.
“Yeah, and North Carolina,” added the younger one.
I was on the verge of tossing XXX Hot BBQ sauce in their faces when their number was called and they left with two large bags of food. Had I known that I would wait for 25 minutes, I would have brought a book, but as it was, I simply gazed at the license plates. Very soon, my mental activity was akin to “Huh, Oregon. And, Nevada.”
I arrived home at 8:30 with the takeout, and even though I was famished, I couldn’t bring myself to fully dig into a huge mound of pulled pork, as taste-pleasing as it was. My mind was swimming with all of the bulging bellies at Blue Ribbon BBQ, the sad sacks of loose flesh clinging to their overstuffed takeout containers, eager to go home so that they can eat everything, but taste nothing.
We finished about half the pint of pulled pork. “Taste everything, but eat nothing.” That night Mr. P stumbled into bed, gripping his stomach and complaining about his digestion. To a French person, poor digestion is an absolute fucking tragedy; I usually shrug it off, but as my own stomach churned with fatty sweet meat, I could empathize. The next morning I examined the leftovers in the refrigerator, and to my horror, a solid inch of congealed sauce-tinged lard had pooled on the bootom of the container. Hm. That would never happen with chowder.
