I have incredible affection for any place that sells meat by the pound and beer by the gallon. From that description alone it sounds like it should be so industrial and mechanized, at yet it's the very opposite. Pork belly, beans with burnt ends of brisket. Last night they had short ribs, which weren't remarkable for taste or texture so much as a deep primal rush that accompanied gnawing on the bones. Having gone through large quantities of beer beforehand was probably somehow key to that experience.
I ate with friends -- between the lot of us we had a relationship on the rocks, a marriage in crisis, one who just got dumped and one who just broke a heart. After several gallons of bear and pounds of barbeque we shambled into the night, ending up in a park with paper bagged forties watching a softball team's fielding drills under tall bright lights while discussing relationships and love and obscenity and sex and hope and dammit, we were too old to be drinking so much on a work night and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for we are alive again; we were lost, and are found.
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