Once, while traveling through central Illinois, I stopped at a little mom and pop restaurant run by an elderly couple. Among the items on their a la carte menu was “taco.”
Well, I am from Texas, and appreciate fine Mexican cuisine, and I ordered the taco.
The little old lady looked at me funny, and then looked at her elderly partner with an “uh oh” look on her face. However, she took the order, and the two of them vanished into the kitchen.
About fifteen minutes later, they brought me a thing on a little plate. It was not a taco, as I understand the term. I wouldn’t have thought a taco was particularly difficult or obscure; hell, Safeway sells Taco Bell Taco Kits, just add shredded lettuce and cooked ground beef. How hard could it BE?
The thing they served me was … peculiar. It appeared to be a corn tortilla, fried in a particular manner… if I had to guess, I’d say they nested the thing between two muffin tins and fried it in such a way as to make it into a crispy little cup, similar to a taco salad bowl, except that this one was about the size of a cupcake. It seemed to be full of shredded lettuce.
With my fork, I carefully lifted the lettuce to peer beneath. The bottom of the cup seemed to be full of pulled pork in barbecue sauce. Oh, and there were a few chunks of diced tomato on it, as well.
My elderly waitress seemed worried. “Would you like diced onion with it?”
“Um… no, this is good. Thank you.”
I ate it. It was perfectly good pulled pork in barbecue sauce. It was not a taco. I didn’t have the heart to explain to these poor people that what they had served me wasn’t quite a taco. I left a hefty tip and went on my way.
On the same trip, I found myself in southern Michigan, where they seem to have a similar attitude about “barbecue.” That is to say, they might have heard of it, and sometimes they have a grip on the theory, but they haven’t a clue about the execution.
One place’s “barbecue” consisted of a hamburger patty with what looked and tasted like spaghetti sauce on it. Another place served me a very nicely grilled steak smothered in what looked and tasted like generic grocery store barbecue sauce.
But the topper was a motel I stayed in that had an attached restaurant that offered a BBQ BUFFET SPECIAL. All you can eat! I decided to try it. When I approached the steam table, I was served a hefty serving of … well… they looked and tasted like the kind of Swedish meatballs you can buy in a bag at your grocery’s frozen case… only, someone had added … um… some kind of reddish brown sauce with a flavor somewhere between ketchup and maple syrup. It was not barbecue sauce. I don’t know WHAT it was. It had plainly never known fire, though, as it was served like some kind of thick soup with meatballs floating in it, ladled from a steam table. The fact that the meatballs were FLOATING told me a whole lot right there.
I ate three meatballs, and realized I could eat no more of the BBQ BUFFET SPECIAL. I paid my bill and went to a Wendy’s down the street for some real food.
If it was a con to save money, it was a good one. It was the worst barbecue I’ve ever had.
