Some day I’m going to learn to pay attention to obvious signs. I always tell my kids (and co-workers and anyone that asks) that a parking lot full of pickups is a sign that a place has good food. The laws of logic insist that the adverse must also be true.
Sign one: When I arrived at Dillard’s Barbecue and Biscuits at 11:50 am on a Tuesday there was not a single truck, much less a car, in the parking lot. Then I went inside. This picture is from the back corner of the restaurant – you could have fired a shotgun and not hit a soul (the waitress was in the back getting me a Diet Coke at the time). The entire time that I was there (about 25 minutes), not another person came in.
Sign two: When the waitress came to the table, she had both cheeks pierced (like little silver dimples), was wearing lace leggings under a ruffle skirt and had a large number of tattoos. She would have fit in well in the Highlands or Little Five Points, but a barbecue joint in Suwanee?
Sign three: When I asked her what was good, she said “everything”. At no place is “everything” good. So my next question: “How is the stew? Is it thick? Or thin?”
She hems and haws. “It’s real full of stuff. So it’s thick.”
“Thick like tomato soup?, I say, “Or thin like vegetable soup?”
chopped pork that looks like an elementary school cafeteria’s interpretation of barbecue, two ribs covered in ridiculously thick sauce and french fries that, for lack of a better term, sucked. The roll was good. In fact, it was the only thing that was good.