Rocklands

I had truly come to the realization I was leaving this fine country when I had barbecue. In a place where I had scoffed at the possibility that the word "barbecue" could be honestly applied. Here, in Washington DC, I have spat the word out of my mouth with disgust, as I assessed no other place outside of the midwest could do barbecue. Not convincingly or with soul or without vinegar or absent the obscene addition of coleslaw on top. I'll admit, I was a bit wrong.

I visited Rocklands, after an unsuccessful attempt to drop off my recyclables, which could accurately suggest that this joint is in an industrial corner of Alexandria. I was skeptical. I asked for chop beef, which they didn't have. And then I very cockily asked, "how's your friend okra." In an extremely pretentious, sententious tone. I'm learning about good fried okra from my dad, so I think I'm a good judge. So I made sure I implied that as strongly as possible with a very intent eye directed toward my order-taker.

I got the fried okra, chopped pork, and baked beans.

I had such a look of consternation on my face as I tried to fill up my small cup of barbecue sauce (full of long stringy but delicious onion strands), a kind barbecue man gave me a full cup of onion-less sauce. I used nearly all. Apparently my style of barbecue loving means prolific appreciation of sauce with some barbecue meat underneath.

Oh, and the okra was fabulous: hearty okra with a crisp, not greasy breading.

The baked beans tasted like something from a can and if not that obscene, like beans with ketchup and chopped meat. Nothing spectacular.

Thinking very highly of myself and my capabilities, I decided to toss on some scarily-labled hot sauce.

It was sort of scarily hot tasting, but delicious. Anyway, from an airport lounge on my way to Paris, this all seems wildly uninteresting. Now barbecue in Paris, perhaps with streaks of foie gras, chevre, and a freshly constructed tomato sauce from my local market, ca me va.