Ah, dear friends, gather 'round, for I have a tale to tell of my most recent culinary adventure at the Mission Bar B Q in Baltimore's Canton district--a tale fraught with high hopes dashed like a mighty ship dashed upon the rocks of disappointment.
On a day most fair, I ventured forth from my humble abode, eager to partake in the sacred ritual of barbecue. As any man of discerning taste would do, I ventured to the establishment, seeking my usual indulgence--a two-meat platter, with the finest brisket and pulled pork, and, naturally, a side of fries to complete the trifecta of satisfaction. I was so ready, so confident, that this humble meal would once again reaffirm the belief I had in the good people of Mission Bar B Q.
Alas, my excitement was soon dashed. For when the to-go box was handed over to me, I could feel the weight of destiny upon it--nay, the weight of my hopes and dreams resting on a humble cardboard vessel, which I, like an eager schoolboy, hastily snatched from the hands of the cashier. "At last!" I thought, "A feast fit for a king!" And so, I set forth on my journey back to my apartment, dreaming of the sweet taste of slow-cooked meats.
But as I traversed the streets of Canton, my mind was consumed by the aroma of the meal, my stomach grumbling in anticipation. I finally arrived at my domicile and quickly unpacked my bounty, my heart soaring like a bird freed from its cage, soaring high and unburdened by the cares of the world. But, oh, how quickly that bird of joy would plummet back down to Earth.
For you see, dear reader, after but a few bites, the excitement began to wane, much like the sudden and alarming decline of a barrel hurtling down the mighty Niagara Falls. What was once a meal of promise became a bitter disappointment. And thus, my two-meat platter began to unravel in the most unfortunate of ways.
Let us begin with the brisket, that great and noble cut of meat, which should be tender and full of flavor. But no, what I received was the burnt end of the brisket--a dry, charred, and tough morsel that could have been used as kindling for a fire. I dare say that even a ravenous wolf would have turned its nose up at this sad excuse for brisket, for it lacked both tenderness and the rich, smoky flavor that one expects from such a revered cut. I did what I could to salvage it, chewing and gnawing as though I were attempting to chisel a piece of stone, but alas, it was to no avail. My jaw ached, my spirit dimmed, and I felt as though I had been swindled--robbed of my birthright, my rightful brisket.
And yet, I soldiered on, for I still had the pulled pork to look forward to. I thought to myself, "Surely, this will redeem the meal, surely the pulled pork will be the salvation I seek." But alas, this hope was quickly shattered as I bit into what I believed to be a tender and juicy bite of pork, only to feel a sudden crunch beneath my teeth. Crunch--what was this? What evil sorcery was at play? I soon realized, much to my horror, that I had bitten down on something hard--something inedible, something vile. Upon further inspection, I discovered it to be a bone, a hard shard of what could only be described as a culinary insult.
Now, I ask you, dear friends, how is it possible to ruin pulled pork so thoroughly? To have something as simple and pure as pork, slow-cooked to perfection, tainted by the unforgivable presence of a bone? This bone, this grotesque foreign object, ruined what could have been a perfectly fine meal. I was left sitting there, pondering the nature of my misfortune, wondering where the harmony had gone. Where was the tender, melt-in-your-mouth goodness I had come to expect?
In the end, my meal was not the joyous occasion I had envisioned. I felt taken advantage of--betrayed, even. It was as though I had paid for a feast, only to be served scraps. Portion-wise, I was left wanting more, and what I did receive was not worth the price paid. The brisket, burnt and dry, and the pulled pork, tainted by the hard bone, made me wish I had never set foot in that establishment.
Yet, hope remains, dear reader, for I shall return--though with great trepidation. For as any lover of good food knows, one bad experience does not define the entirety of a restaurant's legacy. Perhaps next time, the brisket will be tender, the pulled pork bone-free, and my faith in Mission Bar B Q restored. But until then, I shall remain cautious, for I have learned that even the most promising of meals can quickly turn to disappointment.
May the next visit bring better fortune, for my heart longs to once again taste the greatness I was promised. Until then, I will cherish the memory of that once-glorious two-meat platter, now lost to the winds of fate. read more