You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Memphis ribs. Dripping off the bone, succulent, juicy ribs.
The competition for bragging rights is fierce.
Recently, I went to Charles Vergo’s Rendezvous charcoal ribs since 1948. It’s a world famous rib joint in a seedy little alley behind the Holiday Inn in downtown Memphis.
As I cross Union Street, the smell of smoky bones floats through the air.
I enter the restaurant, and the sensory overload of pulled pork and succulent ribs overwhelms you.
The wait staff consists of mostly old black men, many of whom have been slinging ribs for decades.
“I want the ribs that fall off the bone,” I tell my server.
“That’s the Rendezvous way” the man says.
“You want a beer with that half slab?” he says unconcerned.
“Yeah. A Michelob.”
“Jimmy. Pour me a Michelob” he screams at the top of his lungs to someone somewhere presumably named Jimmy.
The ribs come and they are delicious. They are dry and covered with a spicy rub that brings water to the eyes and a little run of the nose.
I stack the meatless bones on a nearby plate and wish I could just pick my teeth out in the open.
An hour later, I am on world famous Beale Street.
Neon and music rip down the street.
We bounce into a snappy blues bar called Rum Boogie.
There are thousands of dollar bills taped to every single square inch of wall.
There are 200 plus guitars hanging from the ceiling.
On the stage, a performer with a harmonica is belting out a tune.
I sit at the bar and order a local beer.
“You hungry?” the bar tender asks.
“Just ate,” I respond.
“Where?” he says curiously.
“Rendezvous,” I say.
“They’re no good,” he says with an air of contempt, his eye brows furling.
I laugh out loud, not sure what to make of this. He hastily disappears into the kitchen.
He returns moments later with a plate of ribs. He puts them down in front of me.
“Try these.”
I look at his face. He is serious. He is truly perturbed that I would dare mention the word Rendezvous in his restaurant.
I take a bite and let the succulent juice roll down my throat. I taste the bar b que flavor and the unique spices that have come together on this delicious bone like a Benneton commercial of tangy togetherness.
“It’s good,” I say.
“better than the Rendezvous?,” He demands.
I think about it for a moment. I let the salty sweet spicy hot juice dance on my tongue.
“Yeah.” I say feeling liberated.
“This is a better rib. It’s juicier. It’s tastier. It’s better than the Rendezvous,” I say. “So why is everyone telling us to go there for the quintessential Memphis Ribs?”
“It’s a rip off,” he says as if the ribs I ate were counterfeit Rolex watches. “They crank em out. They cook em fast. We smoke ours. They slip off the bone.”
“Bring me a half slab,” i say.
He smiles, knowing that he has made his point.
And so it goes in Memphis. I eat a full dinner or ribs. I am challenged, almost ridiculed because of where I chose to eat those ribs. And to make amends, I order another rack of ribs, even though I am more stuffed than a Christmas Goose.
I eat the ribs and trade stories with this Memphis rib man. We talk about his city and the ghosts of New Orleans.
But ultimately this night is brought together by Memphis Ribs. Not only finger licking good. They are thought provoking.
Rib-a-licious.
and that is crazy.™