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.

A Beer in Hand is Better than Two Birds in the Bush Leagues

ONEOK Field
201 N. Elgin Ave.
Tulsa, OK




You’ve got to love minor league baseball.

Nothing exudes those wholesome middle-American values like a hot summer night at the local ballpark.

Who needs diversity training when you have bush league baseball?

On any given weeknight at any given minor league park in America, you can find the full spectrum of mid-major America.

Little kids smearing themselves in cotton candy.

Bigger kids screaming at fuzzy blue mascots for a free t-shirt.

Old time baseball traditionalists keeping score behind home plate.

Yuppies networking with coworkers in the group party boxes.

Fat guys gorging themselves on hot dogs in the all-you-can eat section.

Drunks chugging cheap beer in the bleachers while incoherently heckling the umpires.

Busty small town girls in tube tops looking for love.

Where does Suit757 fit into all this, you might wonder?

I consider myself to be something of a Renaissance Man who can appreciate all of the above.

That’s why on those rare nights in summertime when my flight lands before 6pm, you can find me here.

At the ballpark.

Making note of the prospects, chugging beer, gorging on hot dogs and admiring the view of America at its best from the aluminum bleachers.

Tonight, I just happened to be in Tulsa, home of the AA Texas League Tulsa Drillers who were taking on the Springfield Cardinals in a game featuring Rockies prospect Kyle Parker.

The Tulsa first baseman from Jacksonville, Florida was last seen by most sports fans throwing touchdowns for the Clemson football team in 2010 before being relieved by current Heisman candidate Tajh Boyd.

But any ole ballpark will do. From AAA all the way down to the Independent Leagues.

Heck, I’ve even endured the Appalachian League in forgotten hollows like Princeton and Bluefield where the Pentecostals have managed to ban the sale of beer.

Here in Oklahoma, it’s not so much the Pentecostals you have to worry about, but the Southern Baptists.

Different flavor, but the same joy-killing agenda.

By law, virtually all mass-produced American beer sold in Oklahoma must be no more than 3.2% alcohol.

The last game I attended in Oklahoma City a few years ago featured nothing but 3.2 beer.

I know. Why bother, right?

The thought of nothing but a steady stream of watered-down, low alcohol American puke beer almost resulted in my staying in my Comfort Inn room tonight.

I probably would have if the Reds - Cardinals game wasn’t blacked out by ESPN here in Cardinals territory.

As it turns out, I’m glad I came out for what was the last regular season game of the year here at ONEOK Field. (The Drillers will have a few more games to play in the Texas League playoffs.)

Much to my pleasant surprise, there seems to be a loophole in Oklahoma’s 3.2 beer law.

Imports and local craft beers are exempt.

Yeah. Like I need any more incentive to avoid the yellow mass-produced pisswater brewed by Miller and Anheuser-Busch.

So my choice was watered down, low alcohol Bud Light (even more so than normal) or Tulsa’s own Marshall Brewing’s offerings.

Hmmm.

So who would you rather be stuck between in the middle seat on a trans-continental flight?

Kate Upton and Scarlett Johansson?

Or Chris Christie and Anthony Weiner?

Tough decision, I know.

Believe it or not, there was a steady line of misguided Tulsa beer drinkers opting for the Weineresque 3.2 Budweiser all night long.

See Suit757’s rant about America’s love affair with mediocrity.

My Marshall IPA was dark, hoppy and strong.

Definitely NOT 3.2.

And generously poured into a 24 ounce plastic cup for just $7.50.

Bargain!

I also tried a 16 ounce can of Native Amber from Coop Ale Works in Oklahoma City for $6.50. It was a flavorful balance of sweet malt and spicy hops. Not bad at all.

This is just the third season for ONEOK Field (pronounced “one oak”, after the Oklahoma natural gas conglomerate). And a big improvement over the old ancient ballpark near the Fairgrounds where I saw Drillers play a decade ago.

Wide aisles, cup holders at every seat, a fantastic view of the Tulsa skyline and a fun variety of ballpark junk food.

Capitalizing on America’s latest culinary fad, a gourmet hot dog stand was serving up a wide assortment of dog-condiment combos on pretzel buns.

I opted for the Fritos Chili Dog -- like a hot dog topped with a Frito Pie.

A Frito Pie is a Texas/Oklahoma specialty.

It’s not really a pie. There’s no crust involved.

At its simplest, a Frito Pie is a bag of Fritos split open with chili, cheese and diced raw onion poured on top.

On my Fritos Chili Dog, the chili and cheese added the flavor while the Fritos contributed the crunch.

It may be a bit faddish, but the pretzel hot dog bun was perfect as a sturdy yet tasty delivery vehicle for all this messy goodness.

Much preferred to the more traditional approach of just eating it out of the plastic Fritos bag.

My evening of minor league baseball was going great until I checked my smart phone between innings.

I felt a surge of panic course through my body.

Lo and behold, I discovered that one of my music heroes, Hank Williams, III, was playing at the legendary Cain’s Ballroom tonight -- just a couple blocks from ONEOK Field!

Here I was enjoying my evening of America’s favorite pastime, but I might be missing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the greatest outlaw in Outlaw Country Music at one of America’s most famous music venues.

Do I leave the game I paid for -- and was enjoying immensely -- early?

Suit757 NEVER EVER leaves a game early.

Ever.

No matter the sport.

Friends who go to games with me start looking at me out of the corner of their eyes in the fourth quarter.

When the home team is up by four touchdowns. And the sky opens into a deluge of rain. And every other fan in the stadium has fled to the parking lot.

But they don’t say a word.

They know.

Suit757 NEVER EVER leaves a game early.

As the hour approached 9pm, I did the unthinkable.

I walked out of ONEOK Field in the top of the 7th Inning in a tie game and dashed down the street to Cain’s.

Out of breath and sweating in the 95 degree Oklahoma heat, I slung open the front door of Cain’s and there he was -- in all his sweaty, tattooed, vulgar, strung-out glory.

The son of Hank Jr. The grandson of Hank Sr.

Only one problem. Hank seemed to be fully lathered into his set of Outlaw classics like “Straight to Hell”, “Whiskey, Weed and Women” and “Cocaine Blues”.

I turned to the ticket seller by the front door and asked, “Did he just go on?”

“Nope. He went on about an hour and a half ago,” the Cain’s ticket dude yelled over the din of the pedal steel and screaming vocals.

What? I missed it?

What self-respecting coke addict goes on stage before 8pm???

I couldn’t believe it.

I’m not paying $22 to get in now.

Now look what I’d done -- standing in the Tulsa heat with no baseball AND no Hank III.

And I walked out of the Drillers game in the 7th inning!

Every baseball fan knows what that means.

No. Not the signing of “Take Me out to the Ball Game.”

I mean last call.

Get a clue, man.

Crap! No way am I missing Hank III AND last call.

I literally ran back to ONEOK Field in my flip-flops.

By some miracle -- and a few strategic pitching changes -- I got back with two outs in the bottom of the 7th. And ran straight toward my lifesaving microbrew lady who served me the last Marshall IPA of the night.

Whew! What a relief.

There was some saying about birds in a bush that would have been appropriate here that I couldn’t recall in my sudsy state of mind.

As I settled in behind the visitors’ dugout with my 24 ounces of hoppy bliss and watched the Drillers mount an exciting late inning comeback victory, I made a solemn vow to myself.

I am NEVER leaving a game early again.

Ever.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Resisting the Feminization of America -- One Burger at a Time

Harden’s
432 S. Sheridan Rd.
Tulsa, Oklahoma


We’ve become a nation of pansies.

The feminization of America is now complete.

The fickle whims and desires of women now dominate every aspect of our lives.

Like how you can’t get a glass of water with your lunch any more without a piece of lemon thrown in.

DID I ASK FOR A STINKING LEMON IN MY WATER???

NO!

But that’s what you get.

The feminization of America.

Like how you can’t buy a pair of ordinary blue jeans without some faggity-ass design on the pockets.

Can’t I just get a $10 pair of Wranglers?

Like how you can’t smoke anywhere. Even outside. Might discomfort some hyper sensitive chick down the street.

Like how my Rebel flag hanging in my garage might offend some homely girl from Maryland or Maine.

You know what?

I’m offended that you are offended!

Like how movies about gay cowboys are somehow considered heartwarming Hollywood entertainment.

Heartwarming? How about stomach churning and upchuck educing?

Don’t even get me started about men marrying men. What is this world coming to?

Of course I’m looked at like some kind of Neanderthal just for questioning this absurdity. Like there is something wrong with ME!

Me?!?

Yo! Wake up. We’re talking about dudes getting married to other dudes!

John Wayne has got to be rolling over in his grave.

Pretty soon we’ll be like those emasculated wussies north of the border where the feminization of society is so complete, bathrooms are going unisex and men are being banned from taking a leak standing up.

Are you kidding me?!?!

You’re now telling me how to take a piss?!?

So I have to say a small part of my manly inner soul soared the moment I took a look at the menu board at Harden’s Hamburgers in the hamburger crazy city of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

You see, at Harden’s you don’t just order a quarter pound single or a half pound double.

You have to choose between the “Women’s Burger” or the “Men’s Burger”.

God bless Oklahoma. Where men are still men.

And are still allowed to eat slabs of ground up red meat. (And piss standing up.)

Of course it all makes perfect sense.

What right-thinking heterosexual male would ever order a “single” when a double slab of meat is offered as the alternative?

None. At least none I hang out with.

So, quite content, I told the little lady at the counter I wanted “The Men’s Burger” with cheese. And onion rings.

And a water. No lemon!

She asked me if I wanted mustard, pickles or onions. I thought that was a strange list of options. No lettuce, tomato, ketchup?

I told her onions, yes. No on the mustard and pickles.

Unfortunately after a good 20 minute wait, my “Men’s Burger” finally was delivered to my table. With nothing on it but mustard.

Oh well.

A man’s world is never perfect.

Like a man, I took my Men’s Burger the way it was delivered to me.

Besides, I didn’t have another 20 minutes to wait for another one.

I wish I could give a better review to my Men’s Burger. The meat was very flavorful, packing a significant garlicky punch. But it was just a bit dry.

I understand the desire not to camouflage the flavor of the meat that has been infused by the top secret mixture of Harden’s spices, but the burger could really have used one or two condiments.

The onion rings on the other hand were top notch.

Crispy to the point that when you took a bite, the onion and batter would conveniently break off clean, avoiding the tragedy of onion or batter slippage.

I mean, is there anything worse than having the entire ring of onion and/or batter slide out of your fingers on that first bite?

Well, yes. There are lots of things worse.

Like gay cowboys and lemon in my water.

But at least you don’t have to worry about stuff like that in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

Discovered! The Official Hangout of all Suits in Strange Places

Republic Gastropub
5830 N. Classen Blvd.
Oklahoma City, OK



I know this may come as a shock to you, but Suit757 is no slave to trendiness.

Nope.

Tivo, Snookie, Twitter. Don’t have a clue.

I may have yet to send my first text message, but I’ll gladly embrace a trend that makes sense.

Like the latest craze sweeping America.

No. Not some new reality TV show.

I’m talking about “the gastropub”.

Let me tell you, I LOVE gastropubs!

The term “gastropub” was coined exactly 20 years ago at the Eagle Pub in London when a couple of uncharacteristically inventive Brits decided that it would be a real novelty to serve something other than pretzels and warm beer.

The idea has evolved over the past decade into what can only be described as the absolute definition of heaven for Suit757. A pub with extraordinarily good beer selection that serves over the top delicious gourmet bar food.

If the official motto of this blog is “Life is too short for lame food and drink,” then the “gastropub” has got to be the official hangout of all “Suits in Strange Places.”

Of course, here in America, all fads and trends start on the coasts.

Whether it is oxygen bars, butterfly tattoos or carbon footprint guilt, you know it had to start in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York or Boston. Thankfully, most of these trends crumble under the weight of their own stupidity and never make it to flyover country.

That’s why I was so excited when a fellow suit of mine recommended Republic Gastropub in Oklahoma City.

Folks, if a trend makes it all the way to Oklahoma, it’s no longer a trend.

When you can find a gastropub pub smack dab in the middle of the North American continent, you can be confident that good food and drink are here to stay.

Sell your stock in Applebees now!

I knew this was going to be a different experience the moment I pulled up to the Republic Gastropub.

I thought I was lost in some modern architecture Frank Lloyd Wright strip mall. Like I was transported into some futuristic science fiction artist’s rendition of a colony on Mars.

I am in Oklahoma, aren’t I?

Weird.

But you know what? The place was packed. On a Wednesday night.

I grabbed the last seat at the huge wrap-around bar between some rich retiree and another dude scamming on a brunette who mysteriously had the flawless face of a 30 year old and the bony, wrinkled hands of a 60 year old.

Kinda weird.

The crowd was made up of mostly older guys who looked like they could afford ten dollar gourmet burgers and six dollar microbrews, interspersed with a nice contingent of former Oklahoma beauty queens looking for love.

From the looks of these ladies, plastic surgeons, hair dressers and Merle Norman Cosmetic Studio owners do very well in Oklahoma City.

Hey, I’ve always said Oklahoma’s considerably pleasing aesthetics is one of the reasons to look forward to a trip to the Sooner State.

Now I have one more.

Republic Gastropub has a mind-boggling beer selection.

You’ve heard of “99 bottles of beer on the wall?”

Try 999! Or something close to it.

From floor to ceiling, row after row of exotic microbrews from every corner of the world.

Even better yet, over 100 taps of fresh microbrewed beer from all over Mid-America and beyond.

So many choices! How do you even begin to make a decision?

Well, call it dumb luck, but I hit the jackpot on my very first draft, Tallgrass Oasis ESB, brewed in Manhattan, Kansas.

“ESB” is a British term that stands for “Extra Special Bitter”, which supposedly means it is slightly less lame than a typical British bitter.

Let me tell you, there was nothing lame (or British) about this Kansas microbrew. Hoppy, powerful, flavorful, this is one manly brew for true beer lovers!

Lots of hops. Lots of malt. Lots of alcohol. And lots to like about this beer.

Always in search of something just a bit different, my next brew was a “Black IPA” called Laughing Dog Dogzilla out of Sand Point, Idaho.

Black IPAs are a novelty. Kind of like black Republicans.

Most IPAs are pale in color – that’s what the “P” in IPA stands for. Duh.

But this one uses dark roasted malt to give it a strong balance to all the hops.

About halfway through my Dogzilla, I got my “Republic Burger”.

Now pay attention.

If you are still not sure what a gastropub is (other than good beer selection), you are about to find out.

Gastropubs serve fairly typical bar food (think burgers, fish & chips and nachos) but with a spectacular, gourmet, high-end flair.

For example, my Republic Burger came topped with a relish of apple wood smoked bacon and carmalized onions, a cheese blend of bleu and gruyere, a garnish of arugula, a zesty remoulade spread and a fried egg all served on a gourmet pretzel roll.

How’s that for over the top?

It’s absolutely delicious. That’s how it is.

Of course the fried egg is the pièce de résistance. If you’ve never tried a big juicy burger topped with a fried egg, you haven’t lived yet.

The egg adds luxurious richness and decadence to man’s greatest invention – the hamburger.

Somewhat surprisingly, all those competing flavors worked well together on the Republic Burger. While over the top to be sure, it all held together surprisingly – and deliciously well.

On the side I ordered a macaroni and cheese dish studded with pieces of bratwurst and covered in bread crumbs. Good, but it needed to come out of the kitchen above room temperature.

To wash down the last few bites of my gourmet pub food, I ordered a local beer, Coop Gran Sport Porter, brewed right here in OKC.

It was a tough act to follow all that extraordinary beer and food, but the local porter didn’t disappoint. Nutty and smoky, it packed more a flavorful punch than a typical porter.

You know what? I’ve finally found a trend I can embrace.

Smoky porters from Oklahoma. Black IPAs from Idaho. Egg topped burgers.

And I don’t have to fly to LA to get them. I’ll drink to that.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

BBQ Kumbaya in OKC

Leo’s BBQ
3631 N. Kelley Ave.
Oklahoma City, OK



“People, I just want to say, can we get along?” – Rodney King, May 1, 1992.

Well, sure. If you open up a BBQ pit, Rodney.

Good smoked meat is the one surefire way to get good ‘ol boys, suburban soccer moms and suits like me to venture to an old dilapidated ex-gas station a block or two from Martin Luther King Boulevard.

In this case, we’re talking Oklahoma City, but as Chris Rock once explained, it doesn’t really matter which city you’re in.

You know the kind of neighborhood we’re talking here.

Rodney no doubt would be pleased to see the diverse lunch crowd harmoniously gnawing on succulent smoky ribs slathered in lip-smackin’ barbeque sauce at Leo’s.

Kumbaya in mid-America.

The assault on the senses hits you as soon as you pry open the well-worn front door.

Dark, smoky and smelling like barbeque heaven, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust from 100 degree blazing noon high plains sunshine to the air conditioned shadows of this bustling BBQ pit.

Between four meetings per day, hundreds of miles of rental car driving, multiple airline flights and at least a couple TSA sponsored testicle-gropings, Suit757 doesn’t have much time to eat.

So when I get 30 minutes, I’m going to make the most of my only meal of the day. That’s why I ordered the “Leo’s Special” – a heaping plate of ribs, sausage, brisket, smoked bologna, baked beans, potato salad – and dessert.

I resisted the urge to order the Jumbo version – an even bigger plate that comes with the warning “Designated Driver Not Included”.

Trust me. Leo’s Special was plenty. I needed a 300 MG caffeine Rock Star Energy Drink afterward just to get through my last two meetings and OKC Airport government body cavity search.

Like most good BBQ, Leo’s hickory smoked meat would be five star without any sauce at all. But if you insist on going that BBQ purist route you really would be missing out.

Leo’s is famous for its incendiary hot tomato-based sauce. Perfect on the big meaty ribs and fire-engine red sausage, the spice had me reaching frequently for my plastic cup of Oklahoma City tap water.

The brisket was chopped into tender morsels, some soft and tender as buttermilk pie, others crispy and charred from the fire-kissed outskirts. I squirted a bit of the zesty but sweet mild sauce on that. BBQ heaven.

Obviously, the most unusual item on my plate was the smoked bologna.

Trust me, this stuff is no relation to the nasty cold cut sandwich your mommy packed in the little zip lock bag inside your aluminum Smurfs lunchbox when you were in third grade. Not even on the same family tree.

This was thick meaty hunks of pig with a crisp dark flavor-packed skin. Like really tender, smoky ham. Good enough on its own, it was even better with a quick squirt of sweet sauce.

The baked beans were some of the best you’ll ever eat. Sweet, hearty and chock full of bits of smoked meat, these babies put Bush’s to shame.

Just when I was about to sprawl out on my booth to take a much needed nap, my cheerful waitress brought out a slice of Leo’s world famous strawberry-banana cake. Moist cake. Sweet icing. Fresh strawberries and bananas.

Need I say more?

Despite the fact that there was literally not a square inch of vacancy in my over-extended stomach, I somehow managed to polish off the whole thing. Didn’t leave a crumb.

As I stood in line with a wide assortment of satisfied customers to pay my tab, I couldn’t help but contemplate how good BBQ could be the answer to world peace.

Cowboys and hippies. Obama supporters and Ron Paul revolutionaries. Rednecks and suits. We’ll all cross the railroad tracks (literally) for quality smoked meat.

Kumbaya, indeed!

Rating: Bought the shirt!