A cross between an Edward Hopper painting and a David Lynch movie.

Such was the Hickory House Barbecue described to me. Since it's only open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I never seem to get there because I'm always working on Friday and Saturday and not really thinking about it on Thursday.

And just because I guess can't make them doesn't mean I don't know a thing or two about them. So, here's a rib primer. The only thing that differentiates a "baby back" rib from a "spare rib" is a cut from a band saw. The spare ribs are a tougher, and hence cheaper cut. Don't fret about that, though! See, collagen is part of what makes a meat tough, right? And does this cut not have a tendency to break down over the course of a long and luxurious low temperature heat bath? It sure does! It breaks down into gelatin, which is delicious. I was thinking about making a distasteful analogy about eating in KY, if you know what I mean, but I decided against it. Oh, what could have been. Anyway, this is part of what the smoker is doing. After all, you can't really have true argue-about-it barbecue without smoke. Also, as an interesting fact, meat wasn't originally smoked because it tastes good to humans but because it tastes bad to flies. After all, the word comes from barbacoa which has something to do with a hole in the ground. Nice. So, what I'm saying is, the back ribs are more expensive because they're easier to do, I think. Spare ribs require more time for more payoff. Or so they say. I wouldn't know. All my last batch of ribs did was contribute a few more pieces to my piggy bone collection.

Anyway, the Hickory House is not fooling around with their smoker. Check this shit out:



While it does technically have wheels I do believe that they have that shit on lock down. While I'm at it, here's a shot of the place from the other side.



This place is tiny. And generally empty. Actually, that's part of what I like so much about it. Not much in there has changed since 1980. This is one of my favorite things about the neighborhood, actually. The Pic Pac is the same way. It's like a little piece of Americana that forgot to die or get killed. It's got a moderately creepy vibe, it's on a little island between Preston and Shelby. It's kinda hard to walk to. There's a reason it took me this long to get there. Half of their dining room is taken up by refrigerators. I really wanted to open one. But I was too terrified.

Anyway, this time I wanted to get the ribs. You know, I kinda had to. A full slab is fifteen bucks. Okay, the prices have likely changed since 1980. But nothing else. And I don't think fifteen bucks is too outrageous. I mean, they did weigh over three pounds and whereas raw ribs run about $2.50 a pound at the Pic Pac. Of course, that's fifteen just for the meat, no sides. Not that you really need anything else, but I did want to try the German potato salad on account of all the Germanality of the neighborhood. But I couldn't, because I had already spent the rest of my dough on beer. Next Thursday, I will. They also have a smoked baked potato. I know that doesn't make any sense but that doesn't mean it's not a great idea. Oh, and the ribs came with two slices of white bread. I'm not sure why. I think they're to wipe your fingers on when you're finished.

I was a little confused when I got home, though. The rib tips were still totally attached to the spare rib. In case you didn't know, the tips are the part under the bone in a spare rib. It's mostly fat and cartilidge but there's some good meat in there, too. I'm not sure why they were still attached, actually. I guess a lot about this place has confused me. Much like a David Lynch movie it has managed to penetrate my brain but is now unsure what to do now that he's in there. Confusion was enough. Also, I like that the sauce isn't too sweet.