A tribute to some of the greats in music

Posted below are two incredible videos - one from the late 80's, the other the mid 90's. Both are must see TV for DC sports fans, as well as connoisseurs of ridiculous sports-driven music worldwide.

Those mid 90's Bullets teams were stocked with talent, by the way. Its a shame they could never do anything.

You the Man

Thanks to the 12th Man

Hungary? I'm Starving!

It is a basic rule of Barbeque that race and class play a big part in the quality of the Q. Barbeque as we know it is basically the result of poor folks doing the best they could with what they had. The pig (suggested slogan: "Frowned upon by 2 out of 3 major world religions") was generally viewed as a beast fit for consumption only by the lower class. In his excellent book Smokestack Lightning, Lolis Eric Elie notes that, "barbecue was long hard dirty work. The white people who could afford it often hired black people to barbecue for them. Poor white people had to cook for themselves."

Cultural attitudes have shifted, and BBQ has become franchised, dressed up, and monetized. But it remains an incontrovertible truth that your chances of getting a perfectly spiced heaping of velvety hog shoulder are much higher if the person serving it up has roots in the poor American south. It simply stands to reason that folks who grew up tending pits at their uncles' knees, people whose fingers are perpetually pruned from second-hand hickory smoke, are gonna have your best gustatory interests at heart. So obviously the odds of getting a great meal are much higher if your actually in the south. For those of us who aren't, though, I've developed a general rule of thumb: look for black people. The basic migration patterns of American history mean that today the majority of northerners with roots in the American south are black. I don't think I'm telling anyone anything they don't know, or saying something offensive. I hope this isn't a Jimmy the Greek moment.

Anyway, this is a basic rule I've used, and for the most part its been a pretty good guide. If you're in DC, hit the Rib Pit rather than Urban BBQ. (Located, ironically in Rockville, MD, perhaps the most mind-numbingly suburban town in America) In Philly, The Rib Crib is most likely gonna son anything you'll find at Phoebe's. (Extra bonus basic rule - if you must get BBQ from white folks in the north, it should be cooked by an older, stouter man. A beard definitely helps. The kids at Phoebe's look like they're about my age, and can clearly fit into a pair of hipster jeans. I think I saw a lip ring on one of them. These are all bad signs.) But the most important race-related basic rule is that if you ever see BBQ being served up by someone who is neither black nor American white, run, do not walk, into that restaurant and order something. If someone can overcome the firmly ingrained cultural expectations about where good Q comes from, and develop a loyal clientele in the discerning, demanding world of pork eaters, he or she is doing something very, very, right.*

I was reminded of this truism last night as I wolfed down forkfuls of luscious, finely shredded pork shoulder from Ron's Ribs on South St. Heaped to the brim of the Styrofoam container, doused in a tangy, thick, tomato sauce, this is good chopped pork that definitely passes the morning-after test. (Yes, Mom, I had pulled pork for breakfast today. I promise I'll have a salad at dinner.) Accompanied by a crusty mac & cheese and perfectly seasoned greens, it was a great combination of textures and flavors. I also got a couple of paperback sized slabs of cornbread, which had acquired a wonderful smoky accent from sitting around in the haze that sits heavily in Ron's tiny storefront. The most amazing part of this meal, though, is who it was prepared and served by. Ron's still proudly proclaims itself Black Owned, and there's definitely a black man on the premises occasionally, but this is undeniably the province of a blond haired BBQ vixen from Hungary named Petra. With her lilting accent and her endearing habit of rounding the cost of your meal down to the nearest dollar - even if it comes out to $12.91, as mine always seems to regardless of what I order - she's a very welcoming presence and I imagine she smells quite nice. I have yet to really delve into the story behind her unlikely career path, but I have created a detailed back-story for her, involving an affair with an American serviceman in Hungary; the promise of a green card; and upon her arrival in the States, unwilling servitude in the BBQ mines, with only the occasional break allowed for a manicure and to get her hair did. But she seems pretty happy, and appears to have a wide range of motion that would dispel any theories about her being chained behind the counter, so the actual story is probably a lot less cinematic. Hey, I've got a BBQ blog now, I guess I should just ask her.



* See the landmark case study, performed by the Wind-Huron consortium over the years 1987 to 1997, of Kenny's BBQ in Washington, DC. Located on Mt. Pleasant St, in the heart of a neighborhood that was almost precisely split among blacks, whites, and Latinos, this Vietnamese owned and operated carryout served up ribs and chicken of incomparable succulence. Meaty and moist with just the right amount of char, this BBQ was good, plentiful, and economical (one noted researcher was heard to comment, more than once, that you just couldn't get a better deal anywhere in DC.) And though the quality went downhill once the Vietnamese family sold the store to some Salvadorans who made the sauce too salty and started to add papusas to the menu, the memories of many a perfect Mt. Pleasant meal linger in the mind like sauce under fingernails.

Gilbert Arenas Trampoline Dunk in All Star Game

While Eddie Jordan and Abe Pollin most likely choked on their half-smokes at the site of Gil coming off the bench as a ringer for the Ballin' Elvises, this is why DC loves Agent Zero. Yes he's a shamless self promoter, and yes he ocasionally writes checks his jump shot can't cash, but he doesn't take the game, or himself, too seriously, and boy is that a breath of fresh air.

Big Apple Sauce

About a week ago my lady friend and I were in New York. Knowing we had recently spent ten days scouring the mid-south for great BBQ, some friends suggested we visit Blue Smoke and compare notes. Blue Smoke is Manhattan's hot barbeque joint, founded by upscale restaurateur (is there any other kind in Manhattan?) Danny Meyer. The spot has been around a little over 3 years and has developed a something of a following among those poor sauce deprived rat-racers stuck on the Big Island. The reviews from the press have been mixed, and my own experience mirrors those of the experts. I wasn't in full review mode (i.e. I can't tell you whether the beef ribs were supple as opposed to hearty) but here are some general impressions:

I'm working on some Basic Rules of BBQ, which I'll post here at some point, but I think number 1 would be, "Restaurant May Not Have A Pastry Chef." If you wanna offer some of Gramma's homemade pies, that's one thing, but come on now. Number two would be, "One Should Never Have to Spend More Than $20." On this count, Blue Smoke fails pretty miserably. Even accounting for the ridiculous cost of living in Manhattan, this was an expensive meal. Money is no object, however - really, I have no physical money - so let's proceed. We split a rib sampler among four people, along with a pulled pork platter and a few sides. Being in New York, which has no definitive style of its own, Blue Smoke's shtick is to offer visitors BBQ based on a variety of regional styles. The rib platter, then, consists of Memphis style baby back ribs, "Salt and Pepper" Texas beef ribs, Kansas City pork ribs, and "St. Louis Style" pork spare ribs. I've never seen a reference to St. Louis style before, but Meyer is from the Lou, so I guess he's entitled to give his hometown some shine. Anyway, they were all fine - the Salt and Pepper ribs were especially intriguing, and I'm not usually partial to beef ribs. The pulled pork was a little mushy, a little bland. There is, of course, no such thing as bad pulled pork, but there are many variations of good and great. And this was merely good. We were warned by our dinner companions that the mac and cheese lacked any crust, which turned out to be true. The rest of the sides were certainly enjoyable, with the golf ball sized hush puppies a real standout. (Though they can't touch those from every one's favorite Family Style Restaurant, the Cock of the Walk.)

The atmosphere was, well, lacking. I just can't take a place that pipes classic soft rock through the speakers seriously. On one side of us a herd of expense account management types guffawed, while on the other side a man broke up with his mistress. That was the story we made up, at least. Also, like all other Manhattan spots, our servers looked like casting couch rejects - gaunt and hollow eyed from a lifestyle that demands late-night frolicking at the expense of, well, sleep and food. This works fine for places like this, and this, but I want my barbeque servers to have some ruddiness in their cheeks and a waddle in their step. Oh, and we had to wait an hour on a Sunday night for a seat. That's another BBQ no-no.

Don't get me wrong, dinner was an incredibly enjoyable experience. Any time I'm eating smoked pork, I'm doing so with a smile on my face. And the company, it goes without saying, was witty, well-read, and in at least two cases, extremely beautiful. Still, for more than $50 a head, I better be getting a dub sack of some Green Smoke with my ribs.

Time to Start Smoking

With all due respect to the Colbert Report, the Robb Report, and of course, the Dalembert Report, this is the only report you're gonna need from here on out. Why the Rib Report? Because everything of any cultural significance in America, be it politics, sports, music, race, literature, class, even interpretive dance, has roots in the American south. (Actually, upon further research, it turns out interpretive dance is neither culturally significant nor rooted in the south.) But for all the rest, the liquid that has nourished these roots oh so many years has been barbeque sauce. Be it the tart vinegar of the Carolinas, the tomato tang of Memphis and the Midwest, even the mustard hybrid of Georgia and the elusive white sauce of northern Alabama, barbeque sauce is the fluid that hydrates our cultural body. And what's more important to the composition of our body than the rib? It is the center, the core. Hell, the Bible tells us that without the rib Adam would still be posting up in the garden all by his lonesome.

A little hyperbolic? Perhaps. Well, definitely. But I do think there's something to say for using barbeque, and the various iterations thereof, as a cultural touchstone. Some days I'll give you guys restaurant reviews and recipes; others I'll veer off into more tangential BBQ territory, maybe talking about Barack Obama's trip to Orangeburg S.C., where in 1968 three black students were murdered trying to integrate a bowling alley, and where today "reformed" segregationist and Confederate apologist Maurice Bessinger has an outpost of his BBQ chain. But many a day I'll completely abandon any pretense of pork prose, choosing instead to link to this Mike Wise column on Caron Butler, just because Wise and Butler are two up and comers really finding their footing in their respective professions, and because it's the All-Star break and the Wizards are still relevant, and for a boy like me that's big news.

So read, comment, enjoy. I hope to learn tricks along the way that'll make this a more engaging, technically advanced site. If you have any tips or ideas, let me know. And to my boys at the Dalembert Report, I apologize for the name-jacking, but maybe all this free publicity will send 2 or 3 more sets of eyeballs over your way. And yo, Sammy, I need you to hook my readers up with a bangin BBQ goat recipe. I'll be looking out for that.