Rib Ranch: I'll Have a Half Rack of Human

I have at last emerged from a pollen-induced haze after four days of misery that the strongest antihistamines could not relieve. It has not been the best of spring breaks so far. Today I was able to get out and do my part for plant procreation by stirring up billions of particles of pollen with my lawnmower. The family came out afterwards and frolicked in the fog. My wife took some pictures and the children ran from bees (everything that moves is a bee to my three-year old girl).

At some point we realized that dinnertime was rapidly approaching and the subject of barbecue came up. This is something of sore point with us. Our favorite barbecue joint of all time went hogbelly-up about three and half years ago. Its name was Bucky's. It had become our Christmas Eve-Eve tradition to dine at Bucky's. A plate of chopped BBQ beef in a fine red sauce with a side of fries, a slab of butter-soaked Texas toast, and a tall glass of sweet tea was a delicious treat for us and our cardiologist. I understand that some people are of the strong opinion that beef is not true barbecue and that, "If it doesn't squeal it ain't real." I can't really argue the point, but my BBQ choices have always been limited by the gastronomical demands of my tender stomach. I shall leave it at that.

My wife suggested trying The Rib Ranch, a place just down the road from us that has been around since 1983. Some odd premonition had been keeping us from trying it out for the seven years that we have lived at our present address. The inclusion of "rib" in their name also put us off in that neither of us care for ribs. Part of it was, no doubt, the fear of being burned again. We had tried out a place called PorkBellies or something like that, a year or so after Bucky's closed and were sorely disappointed. Indeed, it went out of business last year. It was just too soon.

Today our period of mourning must have been over, and we went to the The Rib Ranch. T-shirts worn by the servers let us know that the servers who work there are called "ranch hands." Kat, our very own ranch hand, was very good and was not stingy with the sweat tea. The BBQ beef was excellent and the sweet tea was perfect. We have found our new Bucky's.

The decor is typical BBQ kitsch...rustic signs, tools, animal heads, stuffed fish, maps of Texas, etc. Bucky's never had that; it only had a huge wall painted with a mountain scene mural. My five-year-old boy was intrigued to find us under the stuffed head of a moose (it was a bull).

He took this opportunity to pick up a conversation he'd had with his mother at the supermarket deli counter. He had asked what meat was. His mother had told him that meat came from animals. He then asked if we eat human meat. His mother told him no, he was quiet, and his mother assumed that he would bring it up again in couple days or a couple of months.

After I explained that the moose was a bull and was real but dead, the children insisted upon an explanation of taxidermy. As the meal went on, my son continued to point out the other dead animals, "I see a dead rabbit", "I see a dead fish", "I see a dead chicken". This last one prompted a debate between my wife and me over whether it was a pheasant or a chicken. My wife won the debate and explained to the kids that her family used to keep chickens and eat them. My son wondered if chickens bit and if she has chickens in her stomach. We avoided an in-depth discussion of the workings of the digestive system when he asked if his chicken fingers were real chicken. Told that they were indeed real chicken, he said, "Cool" and tore into his tenders with the new found relish of a carnivore.

Now we were halfway through our meal and were getting intellectually exhausted. We had to explain that the flying pig was a model and not a real pig. I prayed that he wouldn't notice the Jack-a-lope or the armadillo drinking the beer. Then he pointed out something disturbing in its implications, "I see a dead human!" He said this a bit too loud for comfort, but we patiently explained that the life-size cowgirl mannequin was neither dead nor human. I think we have him convinced that we don't eat human even though we eat just about everything else hanging off of the walls.

The check came; we handed over our well-worn Visa and gathered up our copious leftovers (another plus). He took a last look at the bull. To no one in particular he said softly, "They must have cut its head off."

Peace

Fiorinda helped in recreating the details of our evening and with the writing of this post. Any errors are my own.