Spoiled By Fame

Virgie’s BBQ
5535 Gessner Dr.
Houston, TX




Sometimes too much success can be a bad thing.

Really? Did Suit757 really just say that?

Yes.

Now, before you go all Sean Hannity on me for turning into some Obama-loving pinko Commie, hear me out here.

Good barbeque is almost always smoked at small family-run roadside joints like Virgie’s in Houston.

Brisket and ribs slow smoked over mesquite for hours out back, one batch at a time.

That’s how great barbeque is done.

This isn’t McDonalds or Cracker Barrel. These places aren’t equipped for busloads of tourists pulling off the interstate for preheated, ready-to-serve fast food.

That’s why I always get suspicious of any mom and pop restaurant that advertises its catering business, as Virgie’s does on the sign out front.

You can either serve top notch home-cooked food to a small loyal clientele or you can serve the masses.

Few can do both well.

Unfortunately the day I happened to stumble into Virgie’s, this little barbeque joint in a black neighborhood on the northwest side of Houston was facing just such a trial by fire.

Unbeknownst to me, Texas Monthly Magazine just released its twice-per-decade list of the top 50 Lone Star State barbeque places just a couple days before I got there.

And, yes, Virgie’s made this list.

Now, to truly understand the implications of such an accomplishment, you have to understand that the publication of this list is anticipated in Texas about as much as Sports Illustrated’s Swim Suit Issue.

Maybe more so.

Understand, to a Texan, a list of the top 50 barbeque joints in Texas might as well be titled The Top 50 Barbeque Joints on Planet Earth.

It’s the same thing.

Texas Monthly takes its responsibility seriously, utilizing 16 barbeque-palette refined experts to spread out across the Lone Star State’s 268,000 square miles to sample the smoked meats at over 650 restaurants.

I mean, this is serious as a sausage-induced heart attack.

The freshly laminated article touting Virgie’s best-in-Texas brisket was proudly displayed on the front door.

Turns out I had plenty of time to read it because the line at 11am on a Friday was already out the door.

The gravel parking lot was packed, requiring me to illegally park my Ford Focus rental car.

The family running Virgie’s seemed to be a bit overwhelmed by their newfound fame -- and the hordes of white people piling into their suddenly famous little joint.

The line moved fairly quickly but there was a general sense of disorganization once I got to the friendly, but frenzied ladies taking down all the rapid-fire lunch orders.

The next challenge was finding a place to sit in this cozy little lunch room.

Fortunately, I spied one lonely dirty table in the back next to a ten top of suit-wearing office dwellers all commenting and critiquing Virgie’s suddenly on-the-spot smoked meat.

I could picture them 45 minutes earlier all sitting around their high rise cube farm excitedly perusing the new Texas Monthly issue like a pack of Cub Scouts who discovered a clandestine stash of Play Boys.

“Ohh, wow! There’s a place here in Houston that made the list! We have to check this place out -- right now.”

Then they all piled into their SUVs, plugged the address into their GPSs and ventured out to a part of town most of them never knew existed.

Clearly, Virgie’s wasn’t prepared for the fame.

After wiping down my table, I waited for my order.

And waited.

And waited.

After a half an hour, I started to worry that I was going to miss my flight home out of Houston Intercontinental.

Finally, some guy came out of the kitchen, cut through the chaos in the lunch room and delivered a Styrofoam box to my table.

He mumbled something about sauce and then disappeared. Assuming he would reappear momentarily with the aforementioned sauce, I waited.

And waited.

After another five minutes, I got up, worked my way through the crowd back to the ladies at the order counter and managed to retrieve some sauce.

Unfortunately, the meat needed that sauce, which is considered something of a badge of dishonor in the Lone Star State.

The best brisket in Texas needs no sauce.

Virgie’s brisket had as much fat as meat, yet still managed to be dry and lacking in flavor. Hence the necessity of that good tomato-based sauce.

The sausage was better but not spectacular.

My sides of baked beans and green beans were as uninspiring as any you’d get out of a can.

As I wolfed down my lunch in five minutes, I couldn’t help but feel a bit let down.

Maybe success has spoiled the mojo that made Virgie’s famous.

Maybe my expectations were just too high after learning about Virgie’s Texas Monthly accolades.

Maybe I should just come back another day when the glow from barbeque fame has faded a bit.

So, can too much success really be a bad thing?

All I know is they say success has a thousand fathers and defeat is an orphan.

Too bad all those hungry fathers had to show up on the same day.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt.

Damn Goode for Big City Barbeque

Goode Company Barbeque
5109 Kirby Dr.
Houston, TX



Houston is a big city. I mean, a really, REALLY BIG city.

It takes at least an hour to drive from one side to the other – without traffic. And there is ALWAYS traffic in Houston.

It’s so big, I once caught a flight from Houston Hobby Airport to…

…Houston.

Yep. Flew out of Hobby and landed at George Bush Intercontinental where I caught my connecting flight home.

Now THAT is big!

But that’s okay. Texans like big things.

And no matter how fast-paced and cosmopolitan of a city you find yourself within the borders of the Lone Star state, Texans always make sure to let you know you’re still in Texas.

That fact always comes to mind whenever I find myself at Goode Company Barbeque.

Authentic barbeque comes from smoky shacks on the sides of lonely bluebonnet emblazoned farm-to-highway two lane roads. Nestled in the Hill Country. Or in the center of barbeque crazed small towns like Driftwood, Elgin, Luling and Lockhart.

But part of what makes Texas such a great nation is that you can find it here too.

Smack dab in the urban hell of sprawling Houston.

This is Big City Barbeque.

If sitting in the horrendous traffic on Kirby Drive makes you forget you are in Texas, you’re reminded as soon as you park your car.

Emblazoned on the side of the barn-like barbeque shack is Goode Company’s mantra:

“You might give some serious thought to thanking your lucky stars you’re in Texas!”

You can also get that timeless bit of wisdom emblazoned on Goode’s T-shirts, coffee mugs and to go boxes of whole pecan pies.

The set-up is classic Texas.

The smell of meat slowly smoldering over mesquite. Guns, beer signs and other rustic décor inside. Beers iced down in an old fashioned tub.

And a long line of hungry customers slowly making their way toward the scary looking dudes with the meat and knives.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you were in La Grange.

That is, except for all the dresses, suit skirts, ties and Cole Haan dress shoes in line with you.

A trio of indecisive suit-wearing high-rise office dwellers on their lunch break in line behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if the jalapeño sausage was too spicy.

You know you’re in the big city when the locals turn to Suit757 – dressed in a suit – to ask for advice on what’s good here.

They’re asking me?

In reality, I’m always the best person to ask – I mean, that’s why I write this blog. I’m been everywhere, tried it all and lived to tell about it.

But I don’t get asked for advice by locals anywhere else I go.

More like stared at suspiciously.

I’m always subject of the ubiquitous, “You ain’t from around here are ya?”

The perpetual out-of-place out-of-towner. The object of the collective head swivel. The guy at Cheers whose name nobody knows. The suit at the pool party.

But here in the Big City, dressed in a suit, like everyone else, I actually -- dare I say -- fit in! I look like a local barbeque connoisseur.

Suit757, we’re not in Lockhart anymore.

“Naw, the jalapeño sausage isn’t too spicy. You’ll love it,” I confidently declared. “And don’t forget your pecan pie. It’s legendary!”

“Great. Thanks,” my fellow suit-wearer said.

After a brief pause, “This is our first time.”

I can’t tell you how hard it was to resist the urge to smugly reply, “Yeah, I can tell.”

“Well, you’ll love it”, I politely said instead, as I thrust my hand into the ice chest to retrieve my drink.

Frosty Shiner Bocks, Lone Stars and Coors Lights all looked tantalizing laying there snugly in their icy beds.

But alas, Suit757 was working today, like everyone else in line.

So I opted for what I thought was a good compromise – a St. Arnold’s beer.

Root. Beer.

Houston-based St. Arnold’s is my favorite microbrewery in all of Texas. Unlike most Texas brewers, St. Arnold’s isn’t afraid to make brews with real taste.

While a St. Arnold Root Beer can’t compare to an Elissa IPA, I liked the idea I was supporting the folks who do such a good job putting a smile on my face once my Suit757 workday is done.

By the time I toted my tray of Texas barbeque to a vacant end of one of Goode’s picnic tables, I only had ten minutes to enjoy my lunch before I had to snap back to reality and negotiate Houston traffic for my 2pm meeting.

But it was the best ten minutes of my day.

When in Texas, you get brisket.

Goode’s brisket was thin sliced and fall-apart tender. Like beef transfigured into butter. Delicious under a thin coating of Goode’s famous sweet tomato-based sauce.

That sauce also covered the jalapeño sausage which was sliced diagonally into big bite sized ovals of smoked meat.

It tasted great, but I was disappointed in the lack of spice. Either the cleaver guy gave me the wrong kind of sausage or my link just didn’t have much jalapeño.

Believe it or not, the spiciest item on my plate was the bread – jalapeño cheese bread impaled into the meat with a plastic spike. Soft Texas toast infused with bits of cheese and peppers, my jalapeño cheese bread was perfect for lapping up that extra sauce and grease.

But man can not live on bread and meat alone.

You can’t come to Goode’s without getting some of their famous over-the-top sides.

Like Texas jambalaya.

Houston shares a lot in common gastronomically with its neighbor to the east, Louisiana.

It’s not hard to find Cajun specialties like gumbo and jambalaya here in “The Bayou City”.

Goode’s Texas version of jambalaya is mostly rice with some peppers, onions and smoky ham mixed in. Trust me, you won’t find that on the menu in Lockhart.

You won’t find anything resembling Goode’s baked beans either.

These beans have no relation to any other you’ve ever tried. In fact, the beans are a mere afterthought compared to the peppers, onion, bacon and stewed apples that make up this incredible recipe.

The spice of the peppers, the savory smokiness of the bacon and the sweetness of the apples create a Mardi Gras of flavor in every bite. Absolutely delicious!

Like all traditional Lone Star State BBQ joints, dining at Goode’s is on long communal picnic tables outside in the Texas heat.

You sit shoulder to shoulder with your fellow diners and make small talk about how good the food is.

When I finally sat down to eat at 1:41pm I thought about how I didn’t have much time for conversation today.

At 1:45 a couple blue collar black guys joined me across the picnic table.

Fearing that my frantic chewing and gastrological grunts might be taken for rudeness, I explained that I had a 2pm meeting I had to get to.

“I don’t think you’re going to make it,” the older gentleman said.

“Well, being late isn’t an option. But leaving any of this great food behind isn’t an option either,” I said as I further accelerated my food shoveling.

I think they were impressed with the eating capacity of this white boy in a suit as we made conversion about baseball and the hapless Astros between chews and swallows.

Sure enough, at 1:50 on the button, I stuffed the last bite of sausage in my mouth, garbled my fellow BBQ eaters a good day and headed off to the rental car in the parking lot to race back into Houston traffic.

As I miraculously arrived at my meeting at exactly 2:00, popped a breath mint in my mouth and checked my teeth in the rear view mirror for jalapeño remnants, I thought to myself, “Suit757, you need to slow down and relax.”

Some day.

Some day I’ll be able to leisurely mingle under the Texas live oaks out in some wildflower-lined Lone Star countryside, food slowly digesting -- and even go back for seconds of that legendary pecan pie.

But not now. Not in Houston. Not with my Suit757 schedule.

As long as I’m still working to pay “the man”, Big City Barbeque will have to do.

Rating: Bought the Shirt! (Or at least I would have, if I had time)

Greeting A New Day With Graffiti, Grease And Neck Tattoos

Frank’s Grill
1915 Mangum Road
Houston, TX





Diner. Hash house. Greasy spoon.

I just call this uniquely American roadside genre the “dive breakfast joint”.

Frank’s Grill up here in this decidedly blue collar corner of northwest Houston fits the genre to a tee.

The popularity of dive breakfast joints has always amused me.

Normally prissy folks who wouldn’t so much as drive by a redneck bar with their windows rolled down on Saturday night happily pile into the local hash house Sunday morning.

Waffle House and Huddle House have turned the concept into billion dollar national chains.

Hard as it is to believe, even lowly old Frank’s has managed to transform into a small constellation of four or five locations in and around Houston.

But fame and fortune aren’t about to go to old Frank’s head.

This particular Frank’s wears its divey credentials proudly.

It’s almost as if the management has decided that if they pick up the trash and empty cartons littering the parking lot, fix the broken front door and paint over the numerous scratches and graffiti, the good folks of Houston will stop flocking here for biscuits, gravy and nine buck New York strips.

I mean, as soon as you pull into the litter strewn driveway, you can’t help but notice this place gives about as much thought to ambiance as I do to Snooki, whatever the hell that is.

The rusted, wind battered sign teeters precariously over head. A half demolished, half rusted drive-through menu board betrays Frank’s prior life as some abandoned fast food joint.

But the real divey credentials can be found once you manage to get through the broken set of double front doors.

As I sat at the counter two feet behind the well-worn griddle, I couldn’t help but notice the decade old black clumps of grease that have settled under the grill and caked every nook and crevasse in the kitchen.

That grill hasn’t seen the business end of a scrub brush in years, let me tell you.

But that’s okay.

Most people think an egg is an egg is an egg. But there’s a reason they taste better in a dive like this. Health scores are overrated. It’s decade old grease that gives scrambled eggs their flavor.

As I looked around at the late breakfast crowd I began to wonder if I was the first guy in a suit to ever sit at this counter.

As if a sign from above, a jolly suit-clad local sat down two stools next to me.

“Man, I love this place,” he said as he grabbed a fistful of napkins and did his own sanitary cleansing of his corner of the counter.

“Look at that!”

Mesmerized by the sausage patties, rows of good thick bacon and mountain of shredded hash browns piled up in front of us on the griddle, we both agreed the skilled dude with the Mexican flag neck tattoo in front of us was the Michelangelo of cheap breakfast fare.

“I need to bring my kids here to see this,” he said. “Those guys are working hard!”

He said you can’t get more good food for less money anywhere else in Houston.

I certainly wasn’t going to doubt him.

My scrambled eggs came on a plate with enough hash browns to have staved off the entirety of the Irish potato famine and two giant biscuits I couldn’t even think of finishing.

I know what you’re thinking.

What about the meat?

While my view of the sausage and bacon sizzling on the griddle gave me a bit of meat envy, my meat choice was decided for me before I even sat down.

I’m in Texas. At a dive breakfast joint.

Is there any question?

Chicken. Fried. Steak.

The cool kids call it CFS.

CFS. Absolutely buried in an avalanche of white cream gravy.

For you naive Yankees -- no, chicken fried steak has nothing to do with poultry. It is a tender piece of steak (this is cattle country, after all), breaded and deep fried like a piece of Southern fried chicken.

Chicken fried steak is one of those dishes you have to be careful with. Unlike scrambled eggs, CFS can have a lot a variation in style and quality depending on where you get it.

First of all, I wouldn’t recommend ordering chicken fried steak outside of the great Nation of Texas. (Unless you are in Virginia Beach at Mary’s, where it is called “Country Fried Steak”.)

The meat itself can be tender or tough. The crust thick and well seasoned or thin and bland. The gravy can be white or brown, creamy or clumpy, studded with sausage or not.

Great or godawful.

See what I mean?

You can’t be too careful with CFS.

But I was confident Frank wouldn’t let me down.

Maybe over-confident.

Don’t get me wrong, my breakfast was good. And a downright steal for seven bucks.

But not great.

The hash browns had that nice crispy brown texture on top thanks to Frank’s special griddle grease. But with no seasoning, onions or other accompaniment, the bite after bite of shredded potato got a bit monotonous.

The biscuits also were huge, but tedious. These are the dry, yeasty, roll-type biscuits, not the soft, buttermilk with much higher grease-to-carb ratio varieties I prefer.

The chicken fried steak was tender and tasty, but the crust was emasculated by the overflowing river of gravy. And with no seasoning or sausage to liven it up, even the cream gravy was a bit of a let down.

Look. I realize no one comes to a place like Frank’s for culinary experimentation.

But the claim to fame here is decidedly about the quantity, not the quality. You know what they say about big and Texas?

My neighboring suit certainly wasn’t disappointed. Polishing off a mountain of a breakfast in nine minutes, he pushed back from the counter and exclaimed, “Wow. That’s takes care of breakfast AND lunch. I won’t have to eat again for another four hours.”

Geez. I won’t be able to even think about food again for another 24 hours, I thought to myself.

But therein lies the popularity of the dive breakfast joint.

Whether a suit facing a long day of meetings, a third shifter recovering from a night at the refinery or some hung over “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt wearing hippy, everyone can appreciate a decent hearty breakfast consisting of decade-old grease.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.