A Muss of Ribs
When I was fresh out of college, I lived just outside of Atlanta, in a quaint town called Vinings. Finally free of cafeteria food, I embarked on a wonderful culinary adventure and amassed knowledge and techniques that could fill volumes. For a time, I even dated a talented young chef. Perhaps it was my love of food that ruined the relationship – when she wanted to get cooking, I literally started pulling out the pots and pans.
I credit Georgia with introducing me to a lot of things, including the Vidalia Onion and the barbecue culture.
Later, I moved to NYC from Atlanta, and in order to convert what used to be a darkroom into an apartment, my landlord hired two guys we both knew from Georgia. When it came time to eat, they wanted barbecue. They had absolutely no interest in eating New York “Eye-talian” food. I thought this was pretty endearing, so I figured, what the heck? Let’s cook ‘em up.
Together, we walked up Bleecker Street to the world famous Ottamanelli and Sons where one of the men ordered “a muss of ribs.” (We bought three slabs if I recall.) He then asked the butcher if they sold any “Hick-ree” (hickory).
The butcher laughed. “You’re not going to find any hickory in New York, guy.”
Well, this guy had just spent about $60 bucks on ribs…there was no way he wasn’t going to do this right. We went to other butchers and area gourmet stores — nothing. We even went to a hardware store — no dice. Then, he spied one of the few barbecue joints in New York, which just happened to be across the street from my soon-to-be apartment, on 7th Avenue. We walked over and he told me he could smell the hickory. Once there, we asked if we could buy some hickory from them. Naturally, they told us to go take a hike. That’s Northern hospitality for ya.
At that, my barbecue friend becomes incensed. So he marches on down Carmine Street to Washington Square Park, scouting the trees. He comes back to the apartment and grabs a saw. I recognized right away that this guy was clearly nuts. Worried for the safety of New York, I convinced him to give the restaurant one more shot. So we walked back across the street, and I’m in full senatorial mode…ready to negotiate. I had him wait outside while I went inside to find the manager and work it all out.
“Look,” I said to the manager. “You really don’t understand. I know you sell your own ribs, but these guys are real rednecks from Georgia. They just bought a ‘muss’ of ribs from Ottamanelli, and I’m telling you…if that guy doesn’t get a hold of some hickory…he’s going to cut down a [flipping] tree in Washington Square Park,” I said, pointing to him out on the street.
On cue, the guy lifted up the saw and nodded…a near maniacal look on his face.
“Holy [Moses],” the manager said. “Why didn’t you say so?” So he gave us a few logs, and we cooked our ribs all day in the adjoining courtyard, then we bought a case of American beer and sat down to eat. It was my first full day in NYC, and we’re eating ribs, go figure. Men being men, we started getting loud, the music playing and what not. When we were through, there were 24 empty bottles of beer and a foot-high pile of picked over bones. We sat there laughing and one of the more classic lounger moments of all-time happened.
One of the guys, sat back, put his hands on his bloated stomach, looked over the pile with considerable satisfaction and remarked, “We could kick ANYBODY’S ass right now.”
At that moment, the nasty woman that would become my nemesis over the years, flew into the courtyard on her broomstick.
“Who are you?” she demanded, welcoming me to the neighborhood at perhaps the most inopportune moment imaginable — the carcass of a dead animal strewn on my table, no doubt seconds away from doing a ritual caveman fire dance. The guy who just said he could kick anyone’s posterior, points at me, suddenly afraid.
“He’s the Senator.”
I smiled and waved, barbecue sauce smeared across my face.
“I was told that nobody would use this courtyard!,” she growled.
“Well…why wouldn’t we use it?,” I reasoned. “We’re holding court, baby.”
Looking back, I’m thinking that she didn’t like being called “baby.”
“I thought they stopped making men like you in the 60s!!” she screeched, storming off, probably putting some Salem inspired curse on our souls and actually kicking one of the empty chairs over.
That did it. You don’t kick over chairs. I just couldn’t let that stand. After all, I owed it to the men of the 60s.
“Yeah, well we’re BACK BAY-BEE! AND WE’RE LIVING IN YOUR COURTYARD!!”
And that’s when the stories really began.