Froo Froo Barbecue

This past week has been a real stinker of a challenge. And while I'm keeping the details close to the vest, let's just say "wow" didn't see that coming. I think it's a pretty good call that I'm in a major testing zone, and someone keeps giving me more tests than I have pencils for!   Sometimes life just keeps kicking you right square in the face, and you just keep getting back up. And sometimes you have so much negative going on that you just have to get back to the humor....or you might just lose your mind for good.

I had to go all the way to Ann Arbor to see my neurologist today.  On the way back we decided to try out a barbecue place, only because my doc was talking about how they had this nitrogen-processed custard we just had to try sometime. He wouldn't stop talking about barbecue and I hadn't had my lunch yet. Sneaky Chuck.  So, we were lured into this place mostly by the intoxicating smell that only barbecued foods emit, and we decided to forget our issues for awhile and pork out. Pun intended. Side thought, why do places always smell better than they taste? Exception: Burger King-Yuck and yuck.

We looked over the menu. Hmmm...This "barbecue" seemed a little "weird", I thought. I started looking at hubs kind of funny. I mean, this guy knows his barbecue. He's the best griller, smoker, and meat flipper in our family, so I already know this place has no hope with me at all. But I started looking at the menu items, and there was nothing basic. No "pulled pork" sandwich. No smoked chicken. No brisket. Nothing plain at all. I'm reading things like "topped with arugula, deep fried pickles, and chipotle mayo", "goat cheese topping, radishes, and some weird freakin' aioli", and on and on. I gave him my "this is a secret conversation" look, and he bent over to hear me say, "This is froo froo barbecue".

Yep. It's much like the last barbecue place we visited in a downtown area. It's jumping with loud music, I mean, really loud, but it's stuff you don't recognize if you're over 30, because it's somewhere on the satellite channel of "froo froo barbecue on the 2's".  And yeah, it had the weird ice cream/custard thing, but it tasted like that icy cheap stuff we bought at Aldi that we left in the freezer too long. I mean, I'm not against loud or new music, but it's gotta be good. This music made me want to grow a man bun, and none of the sandwiches even seemed to come with just regular ole buns. After seeing all of the strange and scary smoky things they put in macaroni and cheese, and the smoked croutons in the caesar salad,  I lost it. I mean, I'm somewhat of a foodie, but you messed with barbecue. BARBECUE. Stop smoking EVERYTHING! Stop trying to put pine nuts and lettuce on my brisket. STOP IT!

I wanted to cry out, "Just bring me a bun. on a plate. put some smoked meat on the bun. Put a bun on top. Bring me the plate. No sweet potato fry. Real potato fry.  No froo froo."  But instead, we ordered soup. Mexican SOUP. At a barbecue place!

We ate that mexican soup and that italian bread that came with it, and that really weird icy and not creamy ice cream, tipped our sweet server finely, and we high-tailed our 40 and 50 something butts out of there. Obviously we were not froo froo enough for that barbecue place at all.
There really is no place like home for the best barbecue anyway. Lesson learned. My doc should stick to taking care of my brain, not my belly.