And so Adam gave his rib
Perhaps it was the latent Jewish tendencies coursing through my half-heeb, little-boy body—but with a single exception I avoided pork like the Rhineland growing up. That single exception was bacon. Bacon was crispy and delicious, and I ate it by the salty little boy handful every time my dad took me to the old Azar’s, home of the Big Boy. Azar's had silver serving drums full of the stuff at the breakfast bar, and you could take as much as you wanted. Sometimes I would smuggle pieces of it out of the restaurant in my pockets, and cut it into tiny strips when I got home. Then I would line my little-boy lower gums with it like it was chaw, and I’d pretend I was a big leaguer spitting salty gobs of brown phlegm onto the sidewalk, trembling and cross-eyed in some bacon-induced delirium. But that was as far as I was willing to take it. The rest of the pork could go fuck itself. That went for pork chops, pork tenderloin, and especially ham. Ham was for suburbanites.
And then at some point during college a switch flipped. It may have been catalyzed by carnitas tacos, which are almost spiritually delicious—so much so that I often look for the face of Jesus in my tortilla when I’m eating them. But I can't be sure. All I can say is this: Suddenly pork became a whole new delicious world for me. It was like I discovered a new best friend, one that had existed alongside me my entire life, gone to the same schools, played on the same teams, and yet a friend that I had somehow never really sat down and had a conversation with. Except pork was better than any friend because he never asked to borrow money or drank all the beer in the fridge. He just let me eat him. And, yes, it does sound gay when you talk about pork as if it were a man like I am right now. But it wasn’t gay it all. It was just delicious.
Not gay.
Pork ribs were a particularly savory revelation. It was 2001; the Avalanche were poised to win the Stanley Cup, and my buddy wanted to watch the final. I’ve never given a particular shit about hockey, but he was psyched about it. So we headed to the nearest outlet of the Denver-based chain Brothers BBQ to get some grub for the game. Brothers had some ridiculous, gut-busting special—a hot tub full of ribs, I think it was—so we ordered it.
“Beef or pork?” the barbecue man at the Brothers counter inquired.
“Pork,” my friend said.
I was apprehensive, but I followed my friend's lead. Back at his house I tried the first pork rib of my life. Delicious. Way better than the beef ribs on which I’d been raised. The meat was juicier, more tender. Eating it was like sucking off your new porky best friend. But again, not gay.
My friend and I convinced ourselves that the only way the Avalanche would win is if the two of us devoured the mammoth meal from Brothers in its entirety. We vacuumed up the impossible Jacuzzi of ribs, rinsed it down with too much beer, and patted our pregnant bellies as the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup. Then walked down Colfax drunkenly hugging strangers and cheering on the honking car horns. Later we puked beer-and-rib abortions into the gutter. But it wasn’t the ribs' fault. It was our gluttony. The ribs were just fine.
And so the ribs remain. Fortunately for me, Brothers has discovered a brand-new way to shotgun pork ribs down my gullet, an opportunity that comes along far more often than the Avalanche winning the Stanley Cup: RibFest Fridays! The name says it all. Last Friday was the kickoff to rib season, and the Brothers on 6th and Washington assembled the outdoor smoker, the mint juleps, and a new $20 special: a toddler-sized rack of ribs that comes with two ears of corn on the cob and two drinks. I dutifully attended the event with some buddies, ordered pork ribs, and got that sauce all up in my Hollywood stubble as I went to town. And it was delicious.
Now I realize I’m sounding like a shill monkey for Brothers here, but I assure you I’m not. I’ve never even had a brother. In fact, I distrust the entire concept. Fraternity—what bullshit. But last Friday's RibFest made me glad that these particular brothers at Brothers have decided to create this a new pork-rib-devouring tradition. I'm also glad that the same place where I lost my pork virginity continues to churn out the same salty, savory, and succulent slabs of meat for me to suck on.
Okay, that might be kind of gay.
