Leftover barbecue ribs? How is that even possible?!

Short answer: I blame Shirley.

Shirley is my next-door-neighbor. She's widowed, I'd guess somewhere in her 70s-going-on-30. Throughout the spring and fall and on pleasant summer days, her usual pastime is sitting on the porch and watching the world go by, and if you wander by, feel free to stop and sit a spell, she's quick to offer a glass of tea or mug of coffee. She's an excellent neighbor. We get together fairly often.

It all began when I was out getting sunburned yesterday. I'd just bolted a new stereo into Squeaky (which may turn out to be worth another blog post), and decided to go for a drive to test it out and quest for some lunch. So I slapped on some sunscreen (apparently not enough), put the top down, and headed out to points unknown. After lunch, I wandered back to this neck of the woods-- usually my 'put the top down and go for a drive' drives leave Prince George's county quickly--  we have speed cameras here. I'm not going all that fast, but spending half my drive looking at the speedometer rather than the world around me is somewhat contrary to the purpose of the drive. 

But I digress.

I had a few things on my grocery list and my path was going to take me by the Giant on the way home, so I stopped off for some groceries. As I crested the hill before I turned to go toward the parking lot, I could see smoke come up from over near the gas station, and I was reminded that there's a barbecue truck there I'd been meaning to try. But really, lunch was only about an hour ago.

The grocery run took longer than expected. Well, one part was completely expected: the coupons I had wouldn't scan. They'd only come out of the very same register, after all. As I was standing there waiting for the checkstand operator to finish giving a tutorial to the person in the lane next to me so I could finish up my transaction, I got a text message from Amy: If there's a convenient place to stop, can I get her some clothespins?

Now, this is something of a running gag between us, or it would be, if it actually were intended. She is spectacular at asking me to pick things up when I'm in the middle of checking out of a store that would sell what she wants. I don't know how she does it, but if she were five minutes faster in deciding what she needed, I'd make many fewer trips through grocery checkstands.

So I took my first round of groceries back to the car and went back for her clothespins. As we all know, one cannot make a grocery store visit in less than thirty minutes, even if it's simply, "walk in, go to the laundry section, identify clothespins, decide on plastic or wood, check out." I mean, that's five minutes, tops, right? I'd just been through the check-out. There weren't more than a single person in each line. This will be quick.

Right.

So two half-hour grocery trips later, I'm getting back in the car, and as I come down that hill, I see the smoke is still billowing out of the trailer. I'm gonna stop in for a snack. Maybe he does a small sandwich. Who knows?

The menu is a jumble of printouts posted in the truck's window, but from the chaotic mass of paper, some partly obscured by others, I determine that the smallest option, not counting side dishes like pico de gallo, is a half a rack of ribs. And I'm thinking that the fact that there's a line at the window at 3:30 in the afternoon may well be a good sign. It gives me time to wonder just what a Hispanic take on barbecue ribs would be. It also gives me time to notice that my timing may well have been good: his mobile food vending permit expires today. He might not be there next weekend.

I decide on just a half rack and no sides. As the guy in the truck is slicing my ribs apart, I ask, "Is that hickory you're working with?" It looked like it, but honestly, even barbecue themed botany is not my strong suit. In a fairly thick accent, he told me that it was hickory, then launched into a diatribe where he assured me he only ever cooks over real wood. No charcoal-- "Chemicals," he says. Same about the gas. "Chemicals." I didn't point out that, natural or otherwise, everything is made of chemicals. Partly that was because while his English was better than my Spanish, I wasn't sure between the two languages that I could get the point across. But mostly it's because I didn't want to be That Guy. Nobody likes That Guy.

A spare-cut rib. Note the "knuckle" on the left side, where
the rib bone is sliced through on the right. The other
common rib cut,"St. Louis" style, omits the knuckle and
doesn't slice through the rib. I'm not sure why they call
that a St. Louis style rib-- in St. Louis, if you ask for a St.
Louis style rib, they look at you funny. If you just order
ribs, you get spare ribs.

The ribs were spectacular. He uses a spare cut instead of the more popular St. Louis cut, which is fine by me-- there's some excellent meat up in that knuckle. It's tougher to get at, but it's tasty stuff.

Anyhow, I wasn't up for an entire half a rack, so I took them back home, and as I drove by, I saw Shirley out on the porch. I took the groceries in and offered Amy some ribs. Not surprisingly, she passed-- she's not a rib person. So I took the ribs next door. Shirley's son Scott was over, but he'd just eaten lunch and was not interested (so maybe I should blame Scott...), but Shirley dug in with me.

They were excellent ribs. People make a huge deal over a pork rib rub, but this was anything beyond simple salt and pepper, I'd be surprised-- and I'm just fine with that, as it was well executed. He'd done an good job trimming the ribs before cooking, they were cooked perfectly-- the meat came easily from the bone but you still could bite through it. Plenty of good hickory flavor, and a smoke ring that didn't come out well in the picture at all. I'd gone all the way to Pennsylvania for a decent rib last weekend, but it turns out they were right here all along.

I asked for the sauce on the side (as it should be), and I'm glad I got some. I've not had a sauce quite like it, and I'm guessing this is what I meant earlier by the "hispanic take on barbecue ribs"-- the ribs were simple, but if you wanted spice, there was plenty in the sauce. It's kinda what would happen if a traditional ketchupy barbecue sauce hooked up with a pepper-laden bowl of taco sauce and had a love child. It was very good. And yet, the ribs were so good I didn't want the sauce on my ribs.

Shirley and I each had three or four ribs, leaving two leftovers. I didn't want to ruin my dinner (I was making Larb in a few hours), and she was full. I offered Shirley the leftovers (I usually do when we get together, since I know she hates cooking for one), but she declined. So I blame her for leftovers.

As it turns out, that's not a horrendous felony or anything. Turns out there are things one can do with leftover ribs. Some went in my omelet this morning. And it was quite tasty. As was the barbecue sauce on top of it...