Growing up in the Pacific Northwest of America, a barbeque was sometimes Salmon on the grill. I've eaten BBQ all over the world. Barbeque is like the Confederate Flag. It means many things to many people.
In Slovenia, I've had it served to me on actual swords. In Greece, with lemons and fresh herbs. I've tasted the whole pigs roasting in the Mountains of Puerto Rico. Bo-Bo's in San Juan is Island heaven. I always grab a plate after leaving the Airport. There's no way I'm driving by that place. Texas is always off the charts coming fresh off the pit to the plate; BBQ prime rib is one of my favorites. In Tennessee, nothing beats Jack's BBQ on Trinity Lane. The pork ribs are to die for. The downtown location is good also. Watching NHL refs gobbling it down before the Predator Games is always fun.
So today, we got our fix on our way home from Norfolk, Virginia. Driving south into North Carolina, waiting for that smell and smoke rising from a building. It hit us like an old familiar friend. I think I need that pork-flavored Narcan and a double dose of Lipitor. Because I ate too much of this good stuff.