The Secret Door From Alabama

I'll admit it -- I'm kind of particular and demanding when it comes to boyfriends. One of my primary requirements for any boyfriend, if he wants to stick around, is versatility. If you enjoy wearing a tuxedo, attending the opera and drinking champagne, but find yourself at a loss when I ask you to live in a dirty tent with me for a couple weeks while I climb some big crumbly rock wall, I'll probably give you the boot. If you charm the pants off my parents but fall flat with the friends, you'll likely have to go. I inhabit a lot of different -- and sometimes dichotomous -- worlds, and I need someone who can thrive in any of them. One-trick ponies need not apply.

So I *guess* I should have been thrilled last night when boyfriend (whom for blogging purposes I will from now on refer to as "Clark Kent," for reasons I shall for the moment gloss over) showed some versatility in choosing a restaraunt. Normally we have lovely dinners of oysters or steaks or sushi or try out a recently reviewed place or order from an old-school standby like Lombardi's (unless I cook, of course). So I was a little taken aback when I arrived last night and, exhibiting some previously-hidden taste for lowbrow, chain-style knockoff barbecue, Clark said to me: "Why don't we go across the street to the barbecue place and drink some massive margaritas, and get dinner later?" To which of course I said, "Um, isn't DALLAS BARBECUE the place across the street?" Clark says, "Yeah, so what?" And I say, "You do realize we're WHITE, yes?"

He accused me of racial profiling, I laughed, and figured if nothing else I was in for a new experience and could drown the lousy 'cue in a bucketful of tequila if necessary. We crossed the street.

Upon entering DBBQ I was surprised to learn that Clark had special knowledge of a "back room" -- meaning, this was a place he FREQUENTED! Clark said to me: "If you ever tell anyone I took you here on a date, I'll kill you," thus ensuring I would immediately publish a short essay about the experience for all the world to see.

Secretly vowing to someday take him on a roadtrip of the South so he could experience barbecue as it was meant to be, I peeked around the room after we were seated. The man to my left -- and I am not making this up -- was MISSING HIS TWO FRONT TEETH. The woman to my right, weighing in at a solid 250 pounds, wearing frosted jeans, and sporting a permed mullet, was drinking beer out of a glass the size of a fishbowl WITH A STRAW.

These were not your typical East Village patrons. I posited a theory that the reason you never see these folks on the street is because there's a secret door that opens directly into Dallas Barbecue, and on the other side of that door is a Wal-Mart in Alabama. Clark wasn't done with the surprises yet: after he told me he thought that someday he'd like to name his daughter "Amber," I realized he might fit in with the diners here more than I initially suspected. After all, the only locales suitable for a woman named "Amber" are trailers and porn videos.

And so, to counteract the effect of the surreal cast of characters who surrounded me, I ordered a "Texas size" margarita on the rocks. Was it good? Well, I wouldn't go that far. It was as sweet as liquified Sweetarts and I'm 100% sure there wasn't an assembly line of folks in the kitchen squeezing fresh limes. But it was one thing: large. Huge. Enormous. And all that sugar did a good job of ferrying the booze straight into my brain.

Though we had initially planned to restore our cred by hitting up Crif Dogs for dinner after our drinks, we ended up succumbing to the scent of fried chicken wafting over from Mr. Toothless's plate, and ordered up some sticky chicken tenders and crispy shrimp.

And as much as I hate to admit it, It was pretty good. And DBBQ, with the right date, is loads of fun.

There, I said it. Clark, you win again.