A Place For Ribs??

One night I was out with some of the boys and we went to our favorite ribs joint across town. At that time there were not that many places for ribs in New York City so, we had to make do with what there was.

The mood was festive, the pitchers of beer and bourbon flowing, and stacks of ribs coming out of the kitchen in a seemingly endless stream. Baby backs, beef ribs, St. Louis ribs, all slathered in their signature sauce. As the bones began to pile up, we all became pensive. How could these ribs be so good? How could they be so fresh?? This is New York City, not Texas???

I posed a question to the table, “So, these ribs are fabulous. How do you suppose they get them?”

Everyone was quiet.

My buddy George thought for a moment and said, “Did you notice that tall parking garage behind this building?”

My friend Harry said, “Yeah, I live across the street. I see it every day.”

George went on, “I bet that’s how they do it.”

“I’m lost. What are you talking about?”, I said.

George wiped the barbecue sauce off of his chin and said, “Vertical Farming.”

Tony looked at him like he had three heads and said, “You’ve had too much Bourbon. Farming on the Upper East Side???”

George went on, “Think about it. A parking garage is perfect. You put the young, small, immature cows on the top level. As they get bigger and fatter you move them down a ramp to the next level. So, by the time they reach the bottom they are perfect. When an order goes to the kitchen, a cow is pushed down a chute, through the knives, and into the oven.”

The table was silent as George went for another rack of ribs.

This conversation took place in 1983.

Nearly thirty years later I come across this -

A Birthday Wish

This is for Sue Baby.

She and I have been through way too much over the years; and I wish that there was more that I could do for her.

So, on her Birthday, she needs a trip.

Camarão do Bahìa

Tonight's Meal

So, I was talking with a friend of mine this afternoon. He was in a rut. Was bored with all of his recipes and all of the things that he likes to make; he’s a good cook on top of it, too.

It was a Monday afternoon, after all, at the bar.

He said, “I really don’t feel like doing anything for supper and I’m bored. I’m tired of all of the same ingredients.”

After taking a medicinal slurp of his Guinness he said, “I’m only going to Zabar’s. I’m not going shopping. I need advice.”

I looked up from my crossword puzzle, and took a slug of my whiskey, “Well, here are some options.” And thought for a moment.

“Coconut Shrimp?” I said.

“I made Thai last night.”

“Butterflied barbecue chicken?”, I countered.

“Too much work.”

“Chicken thighs?”

“Do they even sell them there? I know they have whole birds”

“There’s always the pre-made stuff, you know, like chicken cutlets Milanese which you can toss over a baby arugula salad?”

“They’re too salty.”

“True.” I said, “But, in a pinch, they’re good for a picnic.”

I took another taste of Old Thought Provoker and said, “Salsa Verde?”

“Don’t you need Tomatillos for that?”

“Nope. Chimichurri style with some simple roasted potatoes and whatever type of chicken parts you are in the mood for. Thirty minutes soup to nuts.”

“Done.” he said.

“Personally I would butterfly the chicken, but that’s just me”

“Time to polish this off, and get out of here. I’ve got Salsa to make.” he said as he downed his pint.

I returned to 35 Down, what's a five letter Yiddish word for bed-bug??


Recipe after the jump...