Pulled Pork and BBQ

Exiting the station at 23rd I kept waiting for the wafts of bbq and smoked and charred meats to hit my nostrils. If this really was as big of an event as I always heard it to be, then why wouldn't those scents make their way into the littered stalls of the underground transit authority? But, no, no hint of honey or tomato or cinnamon. Only the smell of sweat from the gentleman slowly and huffingly making his way up the stairs above me. Coming up streetside, the passing buses and trees of Madison Square Park hid the tents from my view making me wonder, "if I don't smell it, if I don't see it, and I'm not tasting it, does this event really exist? And then I saw it, the music stage and beyond that billows of smoke coming up from the stands in the distance along Madison Avenue. And the crowds. Not many at that hour. It seemed like more of those in the area were interested in Shake Shack than the promised heavenly offerings of some of the South's best bbq masters. A troubling sign of our culture when good, down home American Cuisine was being completely ignored for a mediocre burger and overpriced shake from a shack?

Keith and I idled for a moment. Letting the smells tug at our bellies, building up the desire, seeing the passing disposable cartoned containers of ribs, pulled pork, beans, and coleslaw. Finally we made our way to Madison Avenue. A quick look at the map. A quick look at the lines and the vendors. A quick punch from my belly when my eyes hit "Pulled Pork and Coleslaw." That's what it wanted. A pulled pork sandwich. And that is what I indulged in. After passing the horrendously long line for the on-site celebrity (my stomach lurched my legs forward toward a smaller lined stall) we stopped and waited for a group that was more famous for their sauce than the pork. Sitting along a building window's ledge with my sandwich slathered and swimming in the infamous sauce I resisted temptation and dipped my fork into the coleslaw at first. It was heavy on the vinegar but the pieces of pickles sliced and diced definitely caught my attention and made my stomach produce the first smile of the afternoon. Next the pork. Heavy on the salt but still a good season blend that made me think more of my father's pernil than anything I would ever imagine coming from a grill (his is slow roasted and swims in garlic). The bbq sauce was a great addition and welcome with the soft bun. The sandwich melted in my mouth and came apart in my hands and I happily licked every piece of scrap of pork and sauce and bread from my hands and the carton it was delivered in.

Coriander. You devil. How could I forget you. A greasy-aproned gent holding an aluminum tray stood by yelling his free offerings of bbq ribs. I grabbed one. Took a bite. The meat was dry. And, well, tasteless. All of the tastes concentrated on the rub that either hadn't had enough time to soak through or that was put on at the end and sent to the grill in that unfortunate condition. Coriander is what I got a mouthful of. Don't misunderstand, I love it. And use it. Quite frequently in a cocoa-spiced rub both my father and I are obsessed with. But there is a hint of it. Not a helping. Unfortunate blip on an otherwise perfect outing.

My stomach is still smiling. Perhaps aided by the later indulgence of a brownie from Blue Smoke's stand and a cup of coffee.