In the country of Texas as is required, the two Jasons and his Lar embark upon our mission from God in search of barbequed swine… because not doing so would automatically revoke our American citizenship which applies even for a resident Canuck like Dunda. Luckily and per the father of Pun Intended alumna Ali Landers, said three amigos via Skobbler arrived in the parking lot just inside downtown Houston at Luling City Market in anticipation, in hunger, and suffice to say, in love.
Like the many convicts incarcerated in the Lone Star State awaiting their conjugal visit, it was truly love at first sight soon to be consummated. And why not as the picture (bride) below of our sauced and saucy dreams prove.
Outside this dude ranch straight out of City Slickers (or at least, a suburbanized version of Giant with Jimmy the Dean and Rock the Hudson), the waft of smoked meatage in the hot eighty degree air bitch‐slapped us like a leopard chasing down a marmoset and ripping into its flesh making you say, “If that thing came by my house, I’d kill it!” kind of good.
Inside among the good ole boys and preppy business folk out to satiate their meatlust is, quite simply put, hog (and beef brisket and chicken) heaven behind a greasy windowed lunch counter. Glorious slabs, pulchritudinous chunks, glistening carcasses lay out luxuriously as if a “rat‐lookin’ thing all ate up”. We queue while espying the menu above our plastic‐shower‐capped‐under‐a‐baseball‐cap hosts selling the individual animal flesh strictly by the pound and agree on family style for maximum sampling. Dunda goes first and orders a pound of brisket which he supplements with a mini pecan pie for dessert. I follow with a whole succulent chicken. Jozwiak at first asks for a pound of ribs but when the server cuts off only five individual bones quickly doubles the amount.
Then finally we sat us down with our sweet iced tea and selected side of cole slaw on an indoor picnic table to properly apportion and chow down. Each of us divvied up our paper plate with three fall‐off‐the‐bone ribs, three slices or so of brisket and preferred section of white or dark meat bird slathered in a tangy orangy sauce so finger‐licking good that Jozwiak committed the rookie error of buying a bottle of— forgetting the 3‐1‐1 travel liquid rule.
That first collective bite sounded obscene, if not outright pornographic with the three of us cooing, moaning and groaning in orgiastic harmony. Every bite after, the same salacious tune. As Hawk Harrelson would have said, “MMMMMMMmmmmm, boy! Good eating! Some just as good, none better.” Or imagine Snuffles the Dog from the Quick Draw McGraw cartoon pointing to his mouth for a snack going “AH, ah, ah, ah, ah!”. And he would wolf it down and fly into the air going "MMMMM!, MMMMM!!, MMMMMMM!!!” while holding his fat tummy and then float down like a feather going “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
That described the three of us exactly.