The main thing to know about this year’s Texas Monthly BBQ festival is that I threw up.
That puts thePoeLog household at two-for-two on throwing up after the BBQ festival. They should probably hire us as spokespeople.
Last year was my meat-lover-for-life XFE’s shot at toilet glory. This year was all me.
(*Disclaimers: Neither of us threw up while we were actually AT the festivals. What kind of uncouth people do you think we are? Also: Our propensity to gorge and purge has nothing to do with the quality of festival meat products. Er, well, it does, actually, but it has more to do with the exceedingly high quality of the food, not because it’s bad or tainted. It’s not a repeat of the Great Salami Food Poisoning of Northern Italy 2011 [GSFPNI2011 for short]. Also2: The newby festival goers we brought, our friends Matt and Melissa, did just great. No reported vomiting.)
We had a good strategy. After last year’s debacle of eating our own tastings at every single place (there were 21 restaurants in all), we decided this year to share tastings (there were 23 restaurants this year). We slipped up a couple of times and ate our own tastings, but overall, we did pretty well. We also stopped at Franklin’s booth twice for brisket, but it was really, really amazing brisket. Totally justified. And, by the way, they did win for People’s Choice for best brisket, so obviously, we were correct.
Our strategy also included skipping any sides (I did have some potato salad from Country Tavern). I also succumbed to some fried pies from the originally named The Original Fried Pie Shop. And we stopped eating anything that we didn’t deem just wonderful, and yes, there were a couple of places that weren’t very good. We left the festival quite full, but declared ourselves not stuffed.
We followed up with a visit to Ginny’s Little Longhorn for some chicken shit bingo and more beers. So far, so good. (Oh, do you not know about chicken shit bingo? It’s exactly what it sounds like: You put a chicken in a cage with numbers on a board. You buy a ticket for $2. You watch the chicken walk around. You drink $2 Lone Stars. You listen to Hank Williams’ songs on the bar’s sound system. Perhaps you avail yourself of the free hot dog and garnishes Ginny provides on a side table. Finally, the chicken poops. If the chicken poops on your number, you win the pot.)
Eventually, after not winning the pot, we finagled a cab back to the downtown area and decided to go to a bar. And that’s when things started to go downhill for this little Poe. There was queso and spinach dip. And unfortunately, an ill-advised shot made with mango puree, cilantro, and tequila.
Tequila is no friend of mine. It makes me ornery. I must have argued/shouted at Melissa about whether Michael Vick had sufficiently paid his debt to society for ages. For the record: I said [quite loudly] no. The much-more-forgiving-Melissa says yes. She’s wrong, by the way.)
Needless to say, I woke up in bed at 4 in the morning full of embarrassment over fighting with my friend and a queasy, sloshy stomach. I fought it, but eventually I had to succumb, knowing that XFE–who has been the subject of my relentless teasing for the past year–was about to tie this one up.
He was quite gracious in victory, only mentioning his pleasure in the situation once that morning.
(Final note: Can I just remind everybody that I did get up and run a race the morning of the BBQ festival. Sympathy? Anyone? No? Tough crowd.)