Burned by the Burn in Tulsa

Burn Co Barbeque
1738 S. Boston Ave.
Tulsa, OK






I don't usually give negative reviews, but this is a warning to all the other suits out there -- ignore the hype you will find about Tulsa's Burn Barbeque.

I was really looking forward to visiting The Burn while I was in Tulsa this weekend.  The Yelp reviews were outstanding, great atmosphere, lines of people...everything looked promising.

But this was the most utterly tasteless, fat filled crap I have eaten.  I was about ready to puke on the walk out.

It was that bad.

Literally just no flavor in the pulled pork.  It was like flavorless lard.  There was little flavor in the sausage and none in coleslaw.

Avoid the Burn!  (Why I am repeating myself?  Because repetition is the key to learning).

This says it all...

I have no idea why Tulsa voted this the best BBQ place, but food wise, I saw nothing to redeem it.

One of my rules for great BBQ is "if you don't feel safe at the restaurant at night, then the BBQ is gong to be great." This place is on S Boston Ave, a gentrified part of town, with expensive coffee shops.

Strike one.

That should have been a dead give away there was something wrong.

Strike two was the bar menu...some solid beer choices, but too many craft beers for great BBQ and mixed drinks with Red Bulls were on the menu -- strike three.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Bar-B-Que Authenticity Reaches its Limits in the Exurbs of Nashville

Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint
7238 Nolensville Rd.
Nolensville, TN





The name of this place is Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint.

So what do we know about this place right off the bat?

Right. It’s not going to be an authentic bar-b-que joint.

Because authentic bar-b-que joints don’t call themselves “joints”.

It’s kind of like the difference between my authentic redneck friends and the ones that call themselves rednecks.

My authentic redneck friends don’t even know that they are rednecks. In fact, they might even be mildly insulted if I referred to them as such.

So I don’t.

Of course my nouveau redneck friends would take it as a compliment.

Another reason I walked through the front door of Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint with a mind full of suspicion was the address.

Nolensville, Tennessee.

This is Exurban Hell, USA.

Twenty-five miles south of Nashville, Nolensville is one of those quiet rural towns that have the misfortune of being within commuting distance of a big city.

Exurbs like Nolensville are where white Republicans flee to when they tire of the indignities of urban and suburban life.

Or when they have kids. And they’ve convinced themselves that the government schools in the exurbs have vastly superior ability to shape their children’s’ young minds of mush, ignoring the fact that higher test scores are nothing more than a reflection of the demographics of the kids being tested, not any competence on the part of the government.

Yep. Southern exurbs like Nolensville are the types of places where the 22% of the registered voters who actually voted for Obama won’t admit it to the other 78%.

Where Republicans move to when they want the simplicity of rural living but can’t bear to give up Home Depot or Starbucks.

Drive in a circle 30 miles around any major Southern city and you will notice the trend too.

Cookie-cutter brick McMansions on three-quarter acre lots. Minivans and SUVs. Applebee’s and Panera Bread.

In my opinion, exurban living is the worst trend since heterosexual men started wearing jeans with those faggity ass swirls on the pockets.

My problem with the exurbs is they lack authenticity.

The whole point of rural living is to slow down and immerse yourself is a culture that is genuine and timeless.

Where everyone knows everyone.

Where the old man at the mom and pop hardware store speaks with such a thick drawl you can only comprehend every third word – but you nod your head anyway.

Where the local pitmaster runs a bar-b-que joint that really is a joint, has been a joint for decades, and he would be somewhat offended if you told him so.

But in exurban towns like Nolensville such remnants of genuine rural living quickly become displaced by urban refugees and relocated Yankees willing to commute two hours per day to get a taste of country living, no matter how inauthentic.

I mean it’s fun to claim you’ve moved out to the country as long as you don’t have to smell cow manure, ride behind a slow moving tractor or get your Range Rover repaired by some toothless yokel.

Situated in a modern suburban strip mall, Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint is a perfect metaphor for the town in which it resides.

Or so I thought.

Sometimes you have to let the bar-b-que speak for itself.

The first thing I noticed is that there is nothing inauthentic about the smoke billowing out of the big black smoke pit smack dab in the middle of the restaurant.

That’s a smell, my friends, that can’t be faked.

Martin’s slowly smokes its pork and beef over hard wood for hours.

This place might be as polished as the granite counter tops in the custom homes popping up down the street, but the bar-b-que is strictly old school.

I ordered the “Redneck Taco” -- which in reality is neither.

While no authentic redneck would ever order it, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t delicious.

The “Redneck Taco” is a slab of corn bread with pulled pork, cole slaw and tangy bar-b-que sauce piled on top.

While Martin’s offers a variety of sauce, it chooses to ladle its thin vinegary tomato-based sauce on top of the cole slaw. The result is a tangy, crunchy condiment for the pulled pork below.

Meanwhile the base of this “taco”, the corn bread, soaks up the drippy tasty remnants from the pork, slaw and sauce.

The pork itself benefits well from all these complimentary flavors and textures. It was a bit dry and bland by itself.

The baked beans were top notch, spiked with green pepper and lots of brown sugar.

The walls of this exurban “joint” are decorated with Southern kitsch -- rebel flags, license plates, trucker caps and portraits of pigs and Hank Williams, all carefully staged in a deliberately haphazard arraignment.

A steady stream of kick-ass Outlaw Country poured from the restaurant’s sound system. You just don’t hear the authentic sounds of Merle Haggard, David Allen Coe and Loretta Lynn on the radio anymore.

This is the brand of music the Music Row suits 25 miles north of here banished from the light of day. These are the people responsible for shoving unartistic pop country crap down our throats and out across America’s airwaves.

And I’m quite sure many of these are the same people responsible for turning the dairy farms around Nolensville into house farms -- and after their long commute home from Music Row come to Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint where they can get themselves some authentic bar-b-que while listening to authentic country music.

For some people this is as authentic as they want to get.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Chili Slaw Dogs Prove West Virginia is Worth Fighting For

Morrison’s Drive Inn
126 Stollings Ave.
Logan, WV




Socialists like Barack Obama hate people who work for a living.

I mean, if you are one of those folks who has a job and can afford to make a living, provide three meals a day for your kids, scrape together the rent or mortgage every month and pay your own cell phone bill…

…who the hell needs Obama?

And that is a problem…

…if you are Barack Obama.

Which is about the best conspiracy theory I can come up with to explain Obama’s War on Coal.

West Virginia is the only state in the union that can be utterly destroyed by killing just one industry.

Come down here to the hills and hollows of Logan County West Virginia and you will understand what I’m talking about.

Except for the car hops at Morrison’s Drive Inn and a few McDonald’s burger flippers and Wal-Mart grocery baggers out by the four-lane, coal is far and away the one source of cold hard cash -- and liberty from government dependence -- the hard working folks in Logan County have.

So naturally Obama wants to destroy coal -- and the people of West Virginia -- who gave him barely one third of the vote last year.

His EPA regulations have already shut down 411 American coal fired electrical plants in America and are estimated to result in the closure of hundreds more over the next few years, which currently produce 40% of America’s electricity.

Through rules, regulations and carbon taxes, Obama aims to reduce that percentage to as close to zero as possible, putting thousands of West Virginians out of work -- and onto the welfare rolls.

Which is exactly where Obama wants them.

After all, these West Virginians are the same hard working folks Obama derisively claimed were shunning Democrats because they were “clinging to their guns and their religion” -- despite all the free goodies Obama was offering them.

This is Obama’s final strategy to win them over. Destroy their livelihood and make them dependent upon food stamps, Obama phones and welfare checks signed by Obama and his minions in Washington DC.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

You are thinking, “Okay, Suit757, enough with the Sean Hannity anti-Obama rant and get on with telling me about those famous West Virginia chili slaw dogs. Besides, all Obama is trying to do is save the world from global warming.”

But if you really believe that, I have one thing to tell you…

…as they might say down here in Logan County…

…“bless your heart.”

Dude, get a clue.

Do the math.

The United States of America has roughly 300 million people. That is just 4% of the population of the world.

If Barack Obama could shuttle every last one of us off into a FEMA extermination camp and wipe America off the face of the earth, it would hardly put a dent into global carbon emissions.

China and India alone account for over a third of the entire world’s carbon emissions.

China burns five times as much coal as the U.S.

And guess what?

They ain’t going to comply with the same rules and regulations Obama is imposing on his own country.

Oh, and by the way, even with a glut of domestic natural gas and rock bottom prices, coal is still far and away the cheapest way to boil water and churn the massive turbines that create the electricity to power the lights in your house -- and in the White House.

And it always will be -- if Obama would just let the miners, truckers and engineers of southern West Virginia do their jobs.

But it’s not all work and no play in Coal Country.

A highlight of any trip to West Virginia is a tray full of chili slaw dogs.

Yes. Slaw.

As in cole slaw.

I know it sounds weird. I thought so the first time I ventured into West Virginia coal country down in Mercer County as a naïve suit in his early 20s.

You are going to put cole slaw on my hot dog?

Yes.

I haven’t regretted the decision yet.

Morrison’s Drive Inn here just outside of Logan has been serving them to hard working locals since 1948.

Morrison’s still offers up efficient old fashioned carside service.

From the moment I put my rental Dodge Hemi pick-up into park, to the moment I honked my horn and the friendly car hop hauled away my empty tray, was a grand total of eleven minutes.

Which was good because that’s about all I had to spare to make my flight out of Charleston Airport over an hour away.

But it was the best eleven minutes of my day.

Wrapped in clear cellophane, the hot dog buns are steamy soft stuffed with a nice wiener topped with mustard, chopped onion, spicy chili and creamy slaw.

Morrison’s dogs are a perfect kaleidoscope of flavors and textures. Crunchy, creamy, sweet and savory. In every bite.

You get the feeling that the exact ratio of ingredients and condiments is a carefully followed formula -- and a closely guarded Logan County secret.

The homemade onion rings were crunchy with the ideal fried-breading-to-onion ratio.

As one of the only non-chain restaurants around, Morrison’s looks like it has a loyal clientele of hard working locals.

These are the folks who are going to save West Virginia from a man who has never held a real job in his life.

The folks who come to Morrison’s Drive Inn and munch on chili slaw dogs, fried chicken and onion rings want work -- not welfare.

In fact, workers in Logan County have died for the right to work. Literally.

Just ask the family of Eddie York.

When the United Mine Workers forced their members out on strike here in Logan County in the 1990s, Eddie York wasn’t even a member of the union.

He was just doing his job. Driving a truck. Making a delivery into a mine just a few miles from here. Providing for his family.

For that, he was shot in the head by a UMW militant and slumped over his steering wheel.

The union thugs pelted the rescue workers with rocks when they rushed to Eddie York’s aid.

But it didn’t matter.

Eddie York was killed instantly.

Murdered in cold blood in front of hundreds of UMW witnesses -- for the crime of working for a living.

Thanks to an exemption in federal law for prosecution of union violence, the only charges brought against the murderer were for “Incapacitating a Driver.”

What did the United Mine Workers leadership have to say about the role their thugs had in taking Eddie York’s life?

When asked about the incident, the president of the UMW was quoted in the Virginian Pilot newspaper stating, “If you light a fire and stick your finger in the flame, common sense says you are going to get burned.”

So who was this unsympathetic union boss condoning murder?

His name is Richard Trumka.

He is now head of the AFL-CIO and is Barack Obama’s largest benefactor. He has visited the White House more than any other American.

In the last election, Trumka funneled $1.7 billion (yes, billion) in union dues from the paychecks of workers in places like Logan County to help elect none other than Barack Obama -- the man who is trying to put all those workers out of a job.

And to add insult to injury?

Because West Virginia is not a Right to Work state, all those union mine workers are required by law to pay those dues as a condition of employment.

What a freaking racket.

As Travis Tritt once eloquently sang, “They’re billing me for killing me.”

As you can tell, I get pretty fired up about this stuff.

If we lose our cheap domestic energy powered by coal, we lose the whole state of West Virginia.

And while my personal feeling is West Virginia never should have yielded to the threat of federal firepower and split from the Commonwealth of Virginia in the first place, I still respect folks who are willing to work hard for a living.

And I love West Virginia chili slaw dogs.

So I think West Virginia is worth fighting for.

What do you think?

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Soft Shell Crabs -- Get Them While You Can!!

Lowery’s
528 N. Church Lane
Tappahanock, VA




I’m a marketer’s dream.

Tell me something is “scarce”, “in limited supply” or “available for a short time ONLY”, I’m a sucker every time.

That probably explains why I spend so much time in the “Seasonal Beer” aisle of my local Total Wine.

I’ve just got to stock up now for summer on that “limited edition” Harpoon Summer Ale. (Note to local beer distributor: you better replenish your supply, because I just cleaned you out.)

While brewers will always entice me with their seasonal offerings that go down perfectly with a hot backyard barbeque in summer or a cozy fire at Christmas, I’m a sucker for seasonal foods too.

That must explain my obsession with soft shell crabs.

Soft shells are fleeting creatures, available for only a few hours during a few months of the year.

Now that’s what I call limited edition!

Traditional holds that you can only get fresh soft shell crabs for a few weeks after the first full moon of May. That is certainly when they are most prevalent on the menu boards of Chesapeake Bay restaurants.

In reality, you can still get them throughout the summer. (Just don’t tell the soft shells’ V.P. of Marketing.)

All crabs go through a few moltings during their lifespan, where they plump up and slip out of their hard shell and immediately begin growing a new shell.

And that’s all a soft shell crab is -- just a regular ol’ blue crab found so prevalent in southern coastal waters -- going through change of life.

Waterman around the Chesapeake Bay quickly figured out that if you time it just right, before the new hard shell forms, you can fry up and eat a soft crab whole.

Whole?

Yep. Belly, back, legs and all. Just bite right into him.

That’s a hell of a lot less work than all that cracking, hammering, pounding, poking and picking required to extract the meat from a hard crab.

A soft shell crab sandwich is a lazy man’s crab feast.

Maybe that’s the real reason I love them so much.

Delicious, luscious fresh blue crab -- without all the work.

Passing through the small eastern Virginia town of Tappahanock in late May, I knew Lowery’s would be the perfect place to find soft shells.

Lowery’s has been serving up the bounty of the Virginia coast since 1938 just a stone’s throw from the mighty Rappahannock River which empties into the Chesapeake Bay 30 miles southeast of here.

Dark, cozy and old school with nautical knickknacks and paintings of watermen on the wall, the average age of the customer base rivals the age of the restaurant itself.

If you want hip and young, well, Lowery’s isn’t going to be your kind of place.

However, rumor has it that there is a tiki bar around back that can get somewhat lively (or as lively as anything gets in Tappahanock) during happy hour.

As usual, it was a work day for Suit757, so I’ll probably never know for sure.

I knew I came to the right place as soon as I walked through the front door when I read the hand written sheet of paper tacked up next to the hostess stand reading “fresh local soft shells available.”

Yes!!!

I was so excited.

Lowery’s version didn’t disappoint.

One of the largest soft shells I’ve ever seen, perfectly fried in a nice tasty batter, placed on a toasted bun with lettuce, tomato and a slather of tartar sauce.

Eating a soft shell crab sandwich is just fun -- like eating a big delicious bug.

Crispy fried legs dangling out of the bun on all sides, I felt a sense of jubilation just picking the crustacean up and holding the sucker in front my face.

Of course the best part of all is biting into that bad boy. No shells or bones to worry about -- just pure fresh crab meat.

Just before the still alive soft crab goes into the fryer, the cook slices off the crab’s face and scrapes out the lungs and hind quarters so you don’t have to worry about consuming anything you shouldn’t.

Just bite into it.

Which is exactly what I did.

The legs were crispy. The body soft and moist.

Of course there was that slight tug from the soft skin that serves as a molting crab’s only protection against the dangers of being a soft, delicious maritime creature alone in the wilds of the Chesapeake Bay.

It is that yin and yang of textures of a soft shell crab that can be somewhat off putting to land lubbers, Yankees, Obama voters and other such joy killers.

But I try not to hang out with people like that.

Lowery’s other food items were just as delicious, if not quite as seasonally exclusive.

The crab dip was almost pure crab meat, with the cheeses and seasonings serving strictly as background music.

The rolls were warm, fresh out of the oven.

Sweet candied yams and crunchy, creamy cole slaw rounded out a fantastic meal.

Lowery’s isn’t cheap.

The Soft shell sandwich was $12. The crab dip was $15. The crab cake sandwich was $14.

But all of it was good.

I don’t get as irritated by the big bill at the end when I enjoy a meal this much.

After all, dining at Lowery’s is once-n-a-lifetime opportunity available to an exclusive but discerning subset of diners who just happened to be passing by during the extremely limited soft shell crab season.

Yep. I fall for it every time.

And this time, I’m glad I did.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying Shirt.

A Memphis Barbeque Brush with Danger

Payne’s Bar-B-Q
1762 Lamar Ave.
Memphis, TN



Good barbeque often involves a bit of danger.

No. Not the danger that you’ll be making a middle of the night trip to the local Urgent Care with a bad case of food poisoning.

(Smoking meat for a dozen hours over hickory usually compensates for bacteria-laden lapses in FDA regulations.)

The danger I’m talking about is physical danger.

You know. Like getting shot or mugged.

Stuff like that.

Like every other big Southern city, Memphis has its share of shady neighborhoods -- places where white guys in suits just don’t go.

But that’s why we call this website “Suits in Strange Places.”

Any Suit worth his brief case knows that the best barbeque can always be found in the worst ‘hoods.

So in a city as inextricably linked to good barbeque as any other in the world (with apologies to Lexington, Lockhart and Kansas City), it was no surprise to me that my research led me to a run-down cinder block joint in the “bad” part of Memphis.

Just to reassure myself, I met up with a couple Suit757 cousins from Memphis who happen to be in the restaurant business.

If anyone is going to be intimately aware of both the smoky virtues and dangers of Payne’s, it’s got to be my culinary expert local kin folk, right?

“So, have you ever been to Payne’s?”

Cousin 757 #1: “Never heard of it. Have you ever heard of it,” she asked turning to her boyfriend.

“Nope. Where is it?”

Suit757: “On Lamar.”

Knowing glances all around.

“Oh, well, yeah. We don’t go to that part of town.”

Well that wasn’t helpful.

I had more confidence in cousin 757 #2, who tends to be a bit more adventurous.

“Have you ever heard of Payne’s?”

Cousin 757 #2: “Oh, sure. It’s on Lamar.”

“Ever been there?”

Cousin 757 #2: “Heck no!”

Not the reassurance I was looking for.

“But someone did bring me a carry out sandwich from there once. It was good.”

My cuz wasn’t kidding.

Payne’s serves up one of the greatest ‘que sandwiches that has ever slid past my taste buds.

Having wrapped up a meeting across the river in Arkansas, stomach growling, I raced my rental car with anticipation to this smoky former auto repair shop.

I’m not saying I’d return at midnight to hang with the locals, but Payne’s neighborhood didn’t seem too dangerous at lunch hour.

Sure there were a few sketchy dudes loitering around the empty lots across the street, but once I opened Payne’s front door and entered the heavenly smoke-filled confines, any lingering concerns about personal safety melted away like the fat on a slow smoked pork shoulder.

The atmosphere at Payne’s can be summed up with one word: smoke.

There are no decorations on the walls -- unless you count the 1970s-era window-mounted air conditioner puncturing the cinder blocks.

Even if there were decorative touches, you couldn’t see them anyway through the fog of sweet smelling hickory smoke.

A few bare bulbs hang haphazardly from a ceiling consisting of a quilt-work of water-stained tiles and ply wood.

Mismatched chairs and benches are pushed up under red checkerboard vinyl table coverings.

Each table is topped with nothing more than a dispenser of those cheap tiny napkins that are too small to stay put on your lap.

The mid-day southern sun barely penetrates the stained window coverings and hazy interior darkness.

There is no sound track except for the hack of the cleaver on the cutting board.

Five anticipation-filled minutes after I placed my order and handed the friendly lady at the counter my cash, she slid me a monstrosity of a sandwich on a Styrofoam plate barely big enough.

Between the oversized buns was a mountain of chopped pig meat drenched in a rich red BBQ sauce.

But that’s not all.

On top of the meat and on top of the sauce was a glob of neon yellow cole slaw.

That’s the way a classic pig sandwich is done here in barbeque capital of America. In Memphis, slaw is a barbeque condiment -- not a side dish.

That’s just fine with Suit757.

Cole slaw on the sandwich is how they roll in Virginia and North Carolina too, where Suit757 has spent many a happy afternoon unwrapping the wax paper off of various ‘que sandwiches and chowing down.

But as I stared at the colorful pile of pork, cabbage and sauce before me, I knew it would be challenge just to pick the darn thing up off the plate, let alone keep the various components off of my suit and tie.

By the time I finished half the sandwich, it was reduced to something out of an overly gory horror movie -- slaw, sauce and pork drippings scattered across the plate and table cloth.

It was mess, no doubt.

But a gloriously delicious mess.

A kaleidoscope of textures, flavor and color, the pork was smoky and sweet with the kiss of hickory, some parts soft and white and some crunchy and dark.

The yellow slaw added crunch too in addition to a mustardy/vinegary tang that perfectly complimented the meat.

The tomato-based peppery sauce was advertised as “hot”, but as the counter lady told me, “most folks don’t find it too crazy hot.”

All three flavors together added up to one of the best barbeque experiences of my life.

In fact, I would risk my life to eat here.

Even if I didn’t REALLY feel like I was risking my life, maybe the anticipation of a brush with danger added to the whole Memphis barbeque experience.

Just think, now I can brag to my friends and cousins about how I ventured into the part of town they won’t go to get the best barbeque sandwich in Memphis.

In fact…I think I just did.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

You Won’t Get Burnt at the Roast Grill

The Roast Grill
7 S. West St.
Raleigh, NC





Sometimes “choice” is overrated.

If we’re talking about some “nanny state” politician telling me what size Big Gulp I can buy or whether or not I have to pay union dues, you better not infringe on my freedom to choose.

But at the same time, I can appreciate a certain amount of decisiveness – especially at a good place to eat.

When a restaurant owner presents a grocery store shelf worth of condiments to his customers, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in his food.

I mean, if a guy spends a life-time perfecting some basic culinary delight like a hot dog, he knows exactly how it should be eaten.

If you can manage to attain that elusive state of perfection, why deviate?

I guess that’s why I like this world famous hole-in-the-wall in Downtown Raleigh.

Decisive. Confident. Perfect.

NO cheese. NO mayo. NO kraut. NO relish. NO fries. NO chips. NO coffee. NO hot tea. NO iced tea. NO sweet tea. NO credit cards.

And absolutely NO KETCHUP!

That’s how the Roast Grill markets itself on its basic one-page web site.

How’s that for customer service?

Screw “have it your way.” If you don’t like it, go to Burger King.

But judging by the line to get into this place on a Thursday at 2pm, plenty of folks do like it.

Since 1940, the Charles family has been grilling modest-sized hot dogs at this tiny joint under a sign that says “HOT WEINERS.”

Apparently folks had much shorter legs 72 years ago.

About ten little bar stools with six inches of legroom and two tiny two-top tables crammed against the wall are the only accommodations in this six foot wide lunch room.

I’ve been more comfortable in the middle seat of an American Airlines 757.

But unlike a five hour transcontinental flight of torture, nobody minds the accommodations for the few minutes they spend downing hot dogs at the Roast Grill.

The service is a lot friendlier too.

Mr. Charles (the original owners’ son) and his grill man, George, offer up plenty of Southern hospitality.

They just want to keep their little enterprise simple and efficient.

Here are your limited choices: burnt, medium or light. (That’s doneness of your hot dogs.) And chili, slaw, onions or mustard.

To drink, you can have a Miller Lite. Or, if you are working -- like Suit757 -- an old-fashioned 8 oz glass bottle of Coke.

Cash only. 9% sales tax already included.

Simple. Efficient.

And delicious.

At the risk of getting too complicated, I decided to try three different combinations: burnt with chili, burnt with slaw and burnt with chili and slaw.

I wanted to sample the full spectrum of Roast Grill options.

The chili is from Mr. Charles parents’ 70 year old recipe.

Tangy and zesty, it is an excellent hot dog topper. The burnt skin of the dog adds a flavorful snap to each bite.

The slaw dog left something to be desired. The cole slaw just didn’t have much flavor. No sweetness. No vinegary tanginess. No mayonnaisey creaminess.

Just cabbagey crunch. Probably would have been better with some mustard.

But put the slaw and the chili together on top of the grill-darkened dog?

Now you’re talkin’!

The savory chili gets a nice textural crunch from the slaw. Hot dog, chili and cabbagey crunch in every bite. That’s Roast Grill perfection there!

It was so good, I ordered a fourth dog done exactly that way.

In fact, I left the Roast Grill wondering why they bother giving the customers any options at all.

Clearly, my configuration is the height of Roast Grill hot dog perfection.

And as a compulsive perfectionist, Suit757’s mantra is, “don’t mess with perfection.”

But don’t worry. I’m not going to make a federal issue out of it.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.