Tennessee Sucks... In the Summer- Pig on Beale

A few years ago, my main man Dave and I went to Nashville, Tennessee so David could present some paper about something (sorry Dave, I don't remember). We were totally psyched. We could see Sun Studios and Graceland and hang out on Beale Street and totally live it up in Tennessee. But when we arrived, we realized that all of the things we were looking forward to were actually in Memphis- a three hour drive west. We were disappointed, but had a blast anyway (props to the Full Moon Saloon).

Fast forward two years later and Memphis still stood out in my mind as a place I was very eager to visit. The gist is this: David was packing up all of his things in a Uhaul and moving to Austin and I was going with him. First stop on our trip: Memphis, Tennessee.

Richmond to Memphis is not an easy drive in ideal conditions (i.e. clear weather, a vehicle that can accelerate, a vehicle that has a rear-view mirror), and our conditions en route to Memphis were not ideal. Heavy rain and rush-hour traffic racked our nerves, but after close to 14 hours we made it to our motel. I was exhausted, and could have easily fallen asleep upon check-in, but one thing kept me going- the promise of Memphis barbecue.

After an unnerving cab ride into downtown Memphis (including an admittedly awesome first-time look at the Mississippi River), David and I found ourselves, at last, on Beale Street.

I don't know what I expected from Beale Street, but it wasn't the sight that greeted me. A few blocks of closed-off street that was virtually deserted  and bathed in hazy neon lights stretched lazily before us, like a poor man's Times Square. We walked up and down Beale a couple of times, trying to make sense of it all, passing empty bars and restaurants full with the sound of bands playing to empty rooms. It was depressing- the Hard Rock Cafe', the B. B. King gift shop. Like I said, I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this.

I took solace, however, in the fact that numerous barbecue joints lined Beale. David and I took our pick of the one that proclaimed it's propensity to garner the most local barbecue accolades- Pig On Beale.

Pig on Beale, as you can see, loudly proclaimed it's "pork with an attitude."

What a fucking joke.

Obviously, being on Beale Street, Pig must play host to a large number of tourists. David and I walked in, naturally ignorant of Pig's seating policy. After standing around awkwardly for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time (in an almost empty restaurant), a stout blonde waitress begrudgingly trudged over to seat us. Seemingly ignorant of the fact that she was working for a tip, the waitress annoyedly took our orders and took her spot back at the bar. All of this would have been easily overlooked if the food was even halfway decent.

The ribs I ordered were flavorless, save for a slight, out of place hint of paprika. The corn on the cob had obviously been heated up in a microwave and was soggy and unappetizing. I was excited, however, for the side of chips I ordered, being a fan of home made potato chips. Imagine my dismay at the receipt of a small bag of plain Lays chips instead. As for the service, well, we definitely got our pork "with an attitude."

The one good thing about Pig on Beale is that it prompted David and I to get mercilessly drunk at a bar across the street, on a night before we faced a long drive, and in turn made our experience in Memphis slightly more bearable.

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An Ode to 4th Street

Oh, 4th Street, how I miss you. Here you are as I never saw you, in the daylight, where all of your many flaws could surely be seen.

Honestly, I think this picture is the first time I've seen 4th Street in the daylight.

I don't remember the first time I went to 4th Street. In the days before 4th Street there was 3rd Street. These were dark and naive times. But, sometime after graduating from high school, my friends and I found 4th Street. 4th Street always seemed to be open. Midnight on Friday night, 3 a.m. Saturday night (Sunday morning?) and 7 p.m. Tuesday night, it didn't matter. If the sun was down, and I was hungry, I was craving 4th Street, where the cigarette smoke hung in the air as the waitstaff blared Guided By Voices out of an iPod hooked up to the speakers. On daring nights we ordered beer, but more often than not settled for soda. We smoked cigarettes and coughed and talked about things like they really mattered. And we ate. Were the swiss cheeseburgers really that good, or has nostalgia clouded my mind? Could the cheese fries really have disappeared from the communal plate as quick as they always seemed to? (I'd wax poetic about other dishes, but honestly I don't think I ordered anything else)

But alas, my poor 4th Street, now you are gone. Now you are Tony's 4th Street Grill, and you're closed by the end of lunch time(!), and I don't know what to do. I have not since filled the void your absence has left in the night. You are but a memory now, and there you shall remain; dirty and smoky and greasy and pure.

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Welcome

Welcome to The Hambloggerlar.

My goal with this blog is to document my passionate love affair with hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pulled pork barbecue sandwiches, bacon, ribs, steak, mac and cheese, hush puppies, dinner rolls, micro brews, macro brews, etc., etc. around the Richmond metro area and beyond.

I hope to bring a certain pretension to foods normally not considered "fine dining," and I hope to do it with more profane language than would typically be found on the Food Network.

I am Brandon, the Hambloggerlar, and I don't save room for dessert.

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