The smell of barbeque wafted through the air. From where I was sitting I could see the huge slabs of meat lying on the huge grill, the size of a mattress. The grill was placed on the opening of an unused stone well, the gaping hole filled with flaming coals. The tender meat sizzled as the flames licked its underside, the rich oils, colored with various spices dripped off the mean t and into the fire pit beneath. I watched the cook dip what looked like a huge paintbrush into a vat of thick barbeque sauce and paint the meant, letting the sauce ooze down its sides. Various other meats and sausages hung from the pole where a bucket once hung, now draped over its edges, smoking in the fires rich fumes. I turned back to the plate in front of me as my mouth began to water, and focused on eating my meal. A huge slab of brisket lay before me, drenched in the restaurant’s secret sauce. My teeth cut through the meat as if it was butter, the rich tangy barbeque sauce dripping from the inside of the meat. I reached for a pile of steaming rolls, smothered in butter and fresh honey. I could hear my parents talking beside me, their voices barely audible over the sizzling of cooking meat, clinking utensils, and the other customers shouted conversations. I watched as a band of farmhands burst through the door and waved to the kitchen staff. “Back again Son?” I heard the cook yell to one.
“Yes Sir” he replied in a thick accent, smiling as he tipped his hat to him and began to talk to the hostess. I looked around the room to view a sea of cowboy hats clothing the heads of the men coming straight from the farm, beer clutched in their hands and sauce running down their worn shirts. The frothy alcohol sloshed over the edges of their cups as they called over waiters and engaged in boisterous conversations, smiles plastered to their burned faces. Wooden chairs were pulled up to tables meant for two, though seven or more people were sitting there, all family members and friends there for a shared meal. Imprints from muddy cowboy boots were stamped all across the restaurants dirt and stone floor. Outside the netted mosquito screen that was the window, were thick clumps of lush trees, strung with glowing lights. Past the trees I could barely see the rows and rows of trees parked in the makeshift parking lot, a dusty patch of unclaimed field. It was my favorite restaurant, the smell, the people, the service, and especially the food made it the best. It was definitely worth the annual two hour drive.
