BBQ Corruption in Texas?

 

Bartley's BBQ
413 E. Northwest Hwy.
Grapevine, TX



Texas is no stranger to scandal, corruption and bribery.

Lyndon Johnson’s national political career was launched thanks to the infamous “Box 13 Scandal” in 1948.

Six days after seemingly losing his bid for the U.S. Senate by just a handful of votes, a ballot box from the 13th precinct in what is now Jim Wells County was “discovered.”

Miraculously, all the newly discovered ballots were written in the same ink and all the voters somehow managed to cast their ballots in alphabetical order.

How’s that for Texas creativity?

The vote total from Box 13?

200 for LBJ. 2 for his opponent.

LBJ was declared the new United States Senator from Texas by 87 votes.

Thus began LBJ’s path to the White House where he created the modern American welfare state that has set America on a steady glide-path to economic and social ruin.

Rigged elections have consequences.

But it’s one thing to rig a political election in Texas.

Apparently, that, Texans will tolerate.

Just don’t go messing with their barbeque.

So what I am about to allege will rock the Lone Star State to its core.

Texas Monthly’s revered “The List” of “Top 50 BBQ Joints” is rigged.

How else to explain the inclusion of Bartley’s BBQ in Grapevine?

The twice per decade list just came out to much fanfare a few months ago. And I’ve already been to eight of them.

That’s a pretty good sample size considering I live 1000 miles away from here and Texas is only one out of 50 states Suit757 travels to.

So far, the barbeque I’ve sampled at these now world-renowned smoke shacks has ranged from exquisite to mediocre.

But the inclusion of Bartley’s, a small joint in a run-down strip mall just north of DFW Airport, throws the integrity of the entire “List” into question.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

You’re thinking, “Suit757, isn’t judging Texas barbeque somewhat subjective?”

Somewhat, yes.

But no barbeque eater worth his rub would conclude that the food served by Bartley’s is good barbeque. Certainly not a blue ribbon panel of supposed barbeque experts assembled by Texas Monthly.

Corruption is the only explanation.

That was my conclusion as soon as I picked up my first piece of brisket.

It was so hard and stiff, I thought this cow might be suffering from rigamortis.

I took a picture and planned to submit it to one of those on-line “planking” contests.

Folks, Texas barbeque brisket is supposed to be slow smoked for hours, yielding a fall-apart tender texture that you can just pick up piece by piece with your fingers.

It’s not supposed to be hard like a piece of cold salami.

Like a tough slice of cold roast beef, Bartley’s brisket was a room temperature mouthful of chewy, bland tastelessness.

A thin red smoke ring and a pile of hickory logs out back by the chimney prove that this cow has seen at least a bit of smoke, but I couldn’t taste any of it.

Even the dark bark on the edges had no flavor.

The only way I could even choke it down was to douse the brisket in Bartley’s sweet tomatoey sauce.

The sausage was better, but far from inspiring.

It was basically the same processed pre-cooked smoked link sausage you can buy at your grocery store.

The sides were even less inspiring.

The options in the do-it-yourself cafeteria line were so unappetizing, I opted for some boring baked beans and macaroni salad.

Macaroni salad?

At a Texas BBQ joint?

Yeah. Like I said, uninspiring and unappetizing.

So who did Bartley’s bribe to get included on a list of the best BBQ joints on earth?

Is there a “Box 13” of paper ballots with “Bartley’s” written in the same hand writing stashed somewhere in the bowels of Texas Monthly’s headquarters?

I want to know.

When I fly into a state, I usually have time for exactly one meal. That’s it.

It better be good.

I trusted this “List” to make my decision today.

So I wasn’t just disappointed. I was ticked off.

Like I said, corruption has dire consequences.

A stuffed ballot box in Jim Wells County 65 years ago eventually led to the swearing in of the worst President in the second half of the Twentieth Century.

And a stuffed ballot box at Texas Monthly ruined my trip to North Texas.

I’ll let you decide which is worse.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Who’s Hungry for a Garbage Plate?

Nick Tahou’s
320 W. Main St.
Rochester, NY







I sure hope New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg never runs for Governor.

For the sake of the loud f-bomb-dropping black guys manning the griddle at Nick Tahou’s.

For the sake of generations of hung-over University of Rochester frat boys.

And for the sake of suit-wearing junk food addict business travelers like me.

That’s because the Nanny State Dictator-In-Chief down state who actually passed a law banning soft drinks over pint size would surely shut down Nick Tahou’s by executive order on his first day in Albany.

In The People’s Republic of Bloomberg, if a Seven Eleven Big Gulp is a dire threat to the health and safety of New Yorkers, than a Nick Tahou’s Garbage Plate is a weapon of culinary mass destruction.

That’s why I was excited as Anthony Weiner at a sorority slumber party when the counterman slid me my Styrofoam plate of kaleidoscopic greasy goodness.

Ah, the moment I’d been waiting for all day.

It had been 24 hours since I’d eaten. Nearly twelve hours since my alarm woke me at 4:30am for my flight to New York.

One TSA groping, two flights, several meetings later, I was ready to tackle Rochester’s most celebrated contribution to humanity -- the infamous Garbage Plate.

Invented for drunk and/or hung over partiers, the Garbage Plate is one of those epicurean items from which most sober people would recoil.

A base of fried potatoes and macaroni salad topped with skillet fried hot dogs, chili and onions, Nick Tahou’s has been serving its infamous Garbage Plate at morning, noon and night since 1918.

As a child, I would have refused to touch such a monstrosity.

Young Suit757 had one of those food mixing phobias -- no one food item could possibly come in contact with another.

Somehow, over the years, I’ve managed to get over that.

As it turns out, macaroni salad, potatoes, onions, chili and hot dogs all mixed together taste pretty darn good -- even stone cold sober on a Monday afternoon.

Work with me on this one.

You cannot minimize the role the law of gravity plays in this dish.

Grease from the chili sinks to the bottom of the Styrofoam, saturating the fried potatoes. Add a little salt and ketchup and you’ve got yourself a tasty, greasy pile of fried potatoes.

The sting of raw onions and spicy chili perfectly compliment the skillet-blackened hot dogs -- known here in Rochester as Texas Hots.

This is no ordinary Oscar Meyer microwaved dog, either. A little kick of spice buried in the meat tube, split open and grilled brown on the flattop, this is a high end processed meat.

Just when the spices start to tingle my palette, the cool refreshing tang of macaroni salad helps to counter-balance the heat.

Of course once I started to dig down into the bowels of my Garbage Plate, all the various elements began to mix -- much to the horror of any staunch segregationist -- or picky seven year old eater.

As it turns out, the dreaded “mixing of the ingredients” isn’t so bad after all. Chili, grease, ketchup and onions mixed into macaroni salad tastes pretty good all mashed up.

Even sober.

Like its signature dish, Nick Tahou’s isn’t much to look at.

Situated in a mostly boarded up long-abandoned old brick building on the not-so-good outskirts of downtown Rochester, the folks here put about as much thought into the naked white-washed décor as I do to the latest innovations in vegan cuisine.

Noticing that I polished off every last morsel of my Garbage Plate, the gruff counterman asked me how I liked it -- knowing the answer full well.
I happily obliged his compliment-fishing endeavor.

“Outstanding!”

Just don’t tip off Mayor Nanny State. Or you will surely be out of a job.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.