After the guys had eaten their meat (and every crumb of the kernel-filled cornbread, and even a few bites of the sissy-sweet apple-cherry coleslaw, if you can believe it), they wanted to put their eyes on the joint's actual cooker. It obviously isn't out front like Satchel's and old Mr. Rib's, may he rest in peace. The guys are not happy when a polite request to our blond server comes back with, "Sorry, kitchen says we're just too busy to show you our smoker now, but thanks for asking, blah-da blah." What can we do but take matters into our own hands? Or feet and noses, as it were ...
By the time we pay our bill it's nearly dark. All casual-like we slip out the front door, past a couple of drunks, and catch the bewitching smoky meat scent in the air. We follow it down the street, past the Tap Room, around the corner, and into the alley out back. We're real quiet, just planning to take a peek. There's a big, square, shiny metal contraption that might be what we're looking for, but it's locked down, so we can't be sure. We're standing right beside it when a clean-cut fella comes out the back door and sees us on the prowl.