The Truest Cue of Them All

My wife, our daughter Alice, and I left the Lowcountry around noon with a bag of ham biscuits, some fruit and a box of the to-die-for homemade Heath bars that my sister-in-law Ginger makes for us every Christmas. The bag was empty before we got to Orangeburg and by the time we crossed the North Carolina line, we were all mighty hungry — but not for the same thing. Of course we got lost trying to get to Honey Monk’s by the back roads in the fog, and my daughter kept pointing out that she really doesn’t care for barbecue. And, no, she’d didn’t remember trying the cue at Lexington No. 1 as a wee child, or any of the times I’d brought it home on business trips to Charlotte. Yes, she allowed she would eat with us, but she was making no further promises; in fact, she’d probably get a hamburger.
Friends, perhaps you may have children who don’t share your passion for certain foods. Mind you, I’m not complaining. A couple of summers ago Alice went to Berkeley and became a full-fleged foodie. We flew out to visit, and in three days of eating nonstop, we were hardly able to begin to try all the incredible eats she’d scouted out. We even got a last minute seating at Chez Panisse — unheard of good fortune– where they didn’t have barbecue on the menu, but they did have sand dabs and quail, which certainly worked just fine. In addition to her lukewarm feeling for barbecue, Alice inexplicably, given her parentage, doesn’t like anchovies or crabs or shrimp or eggplant, though she loves calimari and grilled meats. No family is perfect, after all. I’m slowly gaining acceptance for these things that I can’t change in life, and I was resigned to my daughter eating a hamburger in what I consider the restaurant with North Carolina’s finest barbecue. But I did consider wearing a disguise.
When we pulled into the parking lot at 6:30 on a Saturday, there was a line out the door, and I thought about just getting take out. But I heard Alice tell her mother, “That does smell incredibly good.” I pointed out the smokestacks and the plate glass window through which you can watch the behind-the-scenes chopping of succulent browned pork shoulders. We decided to eat at the counter and I was amazed after I’d ordered a sandwich of outside meat to hear Alice say, “Bring me the same.” Minutes later, the toasted bun came to the counter, spilling its chopped contents onto the plate and filling the air with the fragrant mix of seared pork, piquant pepper and pungent smoke. As I tucked into my sandwich ravenously, I noted that when you get barbecue this good, it’s flavor maxes out your taste buds and permeates your nostrils with smoky overtones. After the first few bites, some barbecue loses its definition and character and you might as well be eating roast pork. The smidgens of barbecue at Lexington No. 1 that I picked up off of my plate after I’d inhaled my sandwich were just as flavorful as the first bites. “Order another one and let’s split it,” Alice said. “I thought you didn’t really like barbecue,” I said offhandedly. And then, giving her dad one of the best Christmas presents he’s been given in years, she said, “This is not just barbecue; this is what barbecue ought to be.” That’s my daughter.