Burnt ends and loose ends

I was twelve when I learned that my grandfather was the Godfather of the KC mafia. I’d seen him on the news the night before getting arrested, murder the news anchor had said. A couple of days later though, here I was, sitting across from him in our favorite local joint, called Snead’s, celebrating my birthday with some delicious kc-style BBQ. The family sat along a row of tables that the owner had pushed together, trying to accommodate everyone.

It was a quaint little place, at least as I remember it. There was a huge stone fireplace behind me with a roaring fire, throughout the dining area on the walls was an eclectic assortment of taxidermy game ranging from deer, ducks, to a jackalope which my uncles assured me was a very real creature, though I had my doubts.

They all drank Boulevard Beer, a local favorite, while I had a Roy Rogers. The menus came around, which felt a bit unnecessary because we all came here often enough and already knew what we wanted. My uncles and I always ordered pretty much the same thing: burnt-ends, brisket, ribs, smoked turkey, sausage, cole-slaw, and baked beans.

My grandfather sat across from me, as usual, he’d given me a thick stack of cash, a little more this time though since I was a teenager now. They all razzed me asking me when I’d get my first hairs on my face, or how they were going to take me to the strip club; which evidently, they owned. I tried to smile and act cool because they didn’t know that I knew about the family business. To be honest with you, it was pretty uncomfortable, and I tried to act normal. My fathers and uncles were all laughing, I guess they were feeling pretty comfortable about everything. Little did I understand exactly how untouchable my grandfather was, those murder charges never did wind up sticking.

The owner of Snead’s BBQ came around the corner, my family cheered him as he and a couple of his servers entered all carrying multiple trays of steaming meats. I could smell the food already, as he planted it in front of his guests. He placed the burnt ends and brisket in front of me. I lowered my face closer to the steam, letting the deep smells of hickory, paprika, and cayenne waft in the air. I reached for the bottles of BBQ sauce, there were always two, not-spicy and spicy, I always went for the spicy, but my dad slapped my hand away gently. “We say grace first!” He told me sternly, my family was very catholic. As usual, we bowed our heads, and my grandpa led the prayer. He always kept it succinct, which we all appreciated especially with the delicious smoked meats before us. “….Amen”

The conversation did not resume after his prayer, just the sounds of ravenous animals tearing away at the food on their plates. I grabbed the spicy sauce, and made long streaks along the side of my plate, just outside of the pile of burnt ends at its center. I put my fork into the first thick square cute piece at the top of the pile. The outer charred crust crackled as my fork pierced it, I brought it close to my face and noted the half-melted fat just inside the charred exterior and distinct pink ring on the inside that gave way to the rest of the juicy tender meat. This I knew came from a perfectly smoked brisket, the owner had explained to us once, that he got up every day around 2 am to start smoking the meats, so that they’d be ready by the afternoon. He made everything from scratch, and that what makes KC-BBQ the best, because care and time were put into it. The Snead family were the unheralded kingpins of BBQ. I think the best fucking place in the world, hands down, and the proof was on my fork.

I dipped the burnt end in their spicy sauce, then lowered it into my mouth. The granular spicy sauce kicked in, then the slight crush of the charred exterior released the bold flavors of hickory smoke, cayenne, paprika, and something else but which gave way to the buttery fat melting in my mouth followed through with that distinctive unworldly tender, juicy and savory meat that tasted better than an orgasm felt.

I’m not even exaggerating these fucking things are unbelievable, you have to try them. I looked around the table and saw everyone’s heads were down, devouring their meats. The dining room area was filled with the smells of barbecue, and the sounds of forks scraping every last morsel of food from their plates and bowls. We were happy, and here at Snead’s, we came together for many years, able to put aside and forget about our heinous crimes, and sit down as a family and eat the world’s best food.

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In the years since, I’d often reminisced about Snead’s BBQ, the taxidermy, neon signs, fireplace, even the old sign with a pig on it that probably hadn’t been changed in fifty years. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, years, exactly how many I’m not sure, and that saddens me.

It was around the time that we stopped going to Snead’s that my life fell apart. We went there after my grandpa had died, and had what felt like a pretty normal family gathering. My great uncle took over the family business and was the mob boss for a bit, but he kept making us go to one of the Italian restaurants he owned, I think the rest of us (Italian only in name) would’ve gathered have kept going to Snead’s. One thing led to another, he got whacked and so did a bunch of others in my family, it blew up into a turf war and I got wrapped up with murder charges.

Now I sit on a cold metal bed, in a lonely cordoned-off cage, writing down on a piece of paper my final meal. Though I’m unsure of what will happen to me, whether or not my death will be painful, if I will die with any shred of honor or dignity left, one thing is for certain. I want to go back to that rustic little restaurant next to the highway and that crappy gas station. I want some peace and tranquility, I want some burnt ends and boulevard beer. I want to go to Snead’s BBQ just one more time, I write down my order:

SNEAD’s BBQ restaurant, two portions of meat: Burnt ends and Ribs, Cole-slaw, baked beans, and a Boulevard pale ale.

I handed the slip of paper, back through the slot to the guard on the other side. Choosing my last meal was oddly the easiest choice that I had ever made.