maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets. -arthur miller


Finger-Lickin' Good

I am always extolling the virtues of my fair city, but I'm man enough to admit that New York's got a few shortcomings too. One signifant problem is this city's lack of good barbecue.

This weekend I had my first experience with the Big Apple BBQ, and I am thrilled that over 50,000 New Yorkers agree with me, and at least a few of them are doing something about it.

So Saturday I headed down to Madison Square with Nanno and Steve to check this whole thing out. We spent a while perusing the guide to which barbecuer what making what, including a healthy debate over the merits of eating something called "Pig Snoot". In the plus column, "snoot" is really fun to to say. In the minus column, Steve and I were afraid it would look like the nose of the fetal pig we dissected together in AP Bio a few years back. In the end, we all agreed that we could say "snoooooooooot!" at inappropriate volumes without ever actually eating it, so we went for more traditional pig parts.

And then there was the strawberry rhubarb cobbler. Ohhhhh, the cobbler.

Of course, the company was as good as the food. At one point we were trying to figure out what night we might go to Steve's favorite gay club this week.
nanno: we should go Thursday-- isn't that student night? Half-price cover.
bex: sounds good.
Steve: But Tuesday is showtune night!
bex: That's really....gay.
Steve: I love showtunes. And once you two get some cocktails in you, you will too.
Well argued, Steve.

there's a great entry on the same event over at This Fish. Check it out and be jealous you weren't there too.


  • At 6/13/2005 3:17 PM, Blogger Sarah said…

    I've never been to New York. And yeah, I'm a little jealous. But I don't think you Yankees could possibly have a BBQ as good as the one my grandpa has every year on his pig farm in rural Ontario, Canada.

  • At 6/13/2005 10:02 PM, Blogger Marz said…

    You have not fully lived until you have at least licked a BBQed pork rib of my Papa's making. (Papa is my grandfather not Dad, mistakes have been and are being made.)


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