Singing the Deep Fried Beale Street Burger Blues

Dyer’s Burgers
205 Beale St.
Memphis, TN




“Memphis is not what it used to be.”
      -- Texas songwriter Owen Temple from his song “Memphis”


No, Memphis is not.

I suppose most folks think that’s a good thing, especially when you hear Will Shade, leader of the legendary Memphis Jug Band describe Memphis’ infamous Beale Street about a century ago:

"You could walk down the street in the days of 1900 and like that and you could find a man wit’ throat cut from ear to ear.

"Also you could find people lyin’ dead wit’ not their throat cut, money took and everything in their pockets, took out of their pockets and thrown outside the house.

"Sometimes you find them with no clothes on, throwed out of winders here on Beale Street. Sportin’ class o’ women runnin’ up and down the street all night long."

After reading that, I suppose I grudgingly agree it’s a good thing too.

I’m not all that keen on having my throat cut.

But there is something sad about such an iconic part of America existing now as nothing but a memory -- and a 21st Century Disneyesque mockery of the blues.

At least that is what Beale Street has become.

And if you don’t think that is an indictment of all of Memphis, consider the words of the great B.B. King, whose B.B. King’s Blues Club now stands as the flagship Disneyesque attraction on Beale Street:

"I don’t think of Memphis as Memphis. I thought of Beale Street as Memphis."

Before the days of urban renewal, Beale Street was the place black people from all over the mid-South and Mississippi Delta came to live, work, party and die.

All of it to the soundtrack of the blues -- the soulful, haunting sound that gave birth to almost every form of modern popular music from rock n’ roll to R&B to hip hop.

Beale Street was a bustling, bubbling gumbo of sweaty fun.

Beale Street entertainer Rufus Thomas once said, “If you were black for one Saturday night and on Beale Street, never would you want to be white again.”

But just about all of THAT Beale Street is long gone, plowed under by progress, so called.

The black juke joints were replaced with Coyote Ugly and the Hard Rock Café.

Drunken black revelers from the Delta replaced with drunken white tourists from Des Moines and Buffalo.

Authentic, gritty, gut bucket blues replaced with what I derisively call “tourist blues” -- countless repetitions of “Mustang Sally” and “She’s a Brick…

…House”.

Gag.

But I’m happy to say there is one piece of old Memphis that survives to this day.

The grease at Dyer’s Burgers.

Yes. Dyers’ has been deep frying burgers in a cauldron of hot grease that has not been changed in over a century.

You read that right.

Dyer’s deep fries its burgers.

And Dyer’s has never changed the grease. Not once in 101 years.

Oh sure, at 4am last call, one of Dyer’s employees will strain out all the burger and fry remainders and occasionally add some fresh oil to the mix, but change the grease?

No way. It’s never been done.

In fact, the Memphis police gave Dyer’s skillet of precious grease an armed police escort across town when Dyer’s relocated to 205 Beale Street years ago.

Awesome!

And you know what makes it even more awesome?

Sticking it to nanny state Communist dictators like New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg telling me how many ounces of Coke I can buy.

I feel like I’m giving the fascists trying to run my life a giant middle finger when I sink my teeth into such an unhealthy grease-laden indulgence as a Dyer’s burger.

The beef patty and cheese are submerged in Dyer’s gurgling heirloom grease for a few moments and then placed on a soft squooshy bun.

The result is hot, gooey burger bliss.

Especially at midnight after an evening of too many renditions of “Mustang Sally” and Beale Street Big Ass Beers.

Admittedly, my Suit757 palate was a bit numbed by the time it got to be Dyer’s time.

But one thing I have no doubt about -- the decadence of a Dyer’s burger standing in the middle of Beale Street at midnight is one of life’s great sinful pleasures.

Granted, no one other than Michael Bloomberg would compare this sort of sinfulness to that displayed on Beale Street in the time of Will Shade and Rufus Thomas.

But at least I won’t get my throat cut for it.

Rating: Bought the 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!