Pulled Pork Pain.
Technically, I’m not a GRITS (girl raised in the south). But my dad is a BRITS (alright, alright I just made that one up for something comparable because he is a boy raised in the south) and I attended the University of Alabama for four years. So I bestow upon myself the right to claim authentic cravings for southern food. Soul food. Good home cooked vittles.
It had been quite some time since I induced a case of the -itis with a big ole pile of collard greens, so when I rolled into NYC, it was game on.
I’ve found so far in NYC that you can find pretty much any kind of any thing to satisfy any authentic craving you are falling victim to. Soul food not withstanding. So upon the recommendation and under the supervision of a sweet friend and her gastro-savvy boyfriend, I descended upon Daisy May’s on 11th Avenue (corner of 46th street).
When I saw the red lights of the “BBQ” sign from a block away, it was all I could do not to break into a run and bust through the door with a fork in hand. The simple decor inside feels like a modest, simple southern BBQ spot, a la Dreamland in Tuscaloosa, AL. Wide wooden board walls are covered in self-promoting articles and celebrity praise. TV screens blast country music videos and basketball games (which tempted the cooks to keep coming out to catch a play or two). It’s an order-at-the-counter type of place, where you step up to order your meat and two sides, pay at the other end of the counter and march your red tray of goodness on into the dining room, taking a seat at one of the three long banquet-style tables.
This was our red tray of goodness. I call it Pulled Pork Pain.
I delighted in gooey, cheesy mac-and-cheese, tasty collard greens, sweet cornbread and tender pulled pork (not my dad’s sauce, but it was still good), and I also sampled a sticky rib, washing it all down with a mason jar of sweet tea.
That’s right: that mason jar, all to myself.
It was a delicious meal, but it was rich. Not having as much sugar or fat in my diet in recent history, it made me nauseous. But as with childbirth, once it’s all over you don’t remember the pain. You just remember the joy. The joy that comes from food that has been cooked for hours and hours and hours. Of salty southern goodness. The joy of surviving another case of the -itis.
