When I was in high school, I had an English and philosophy teacher who tried, mostly in vain, to drum up enthusiasm for reading the classics.  Like a mantra, she’d repeat,

Remember…they’re not GOOD  because they’re OLD.  THEY’RE OLD BECAUSE THEY’RE GOOD.

I think I have a comparable understanding about eating barbecued ribs.

They’re not GOOD because they’re MESSY.   THEY’RE MESSY BECAUSE THEY’RE GOOD.

Many people have a special passion for barbecue.  Old friends will argue over what makes the best ingredients for a rub.  Like some political debates, because of such strong feelings, barbeque fundamentals can represent a taboo subject between, otherwise, the best of friends.

To brine or not to brine?  Smoker or charcoal grill with woodchips?  Can ribs even be properly prepared on a gas grill?

My paternal grandfather kept a kosher diet in his home (per Grandma Sarah’s rules) but, on occasion, would enjoy a heaping plate of ribs at Russell’s, a nearby barbecue joint.

I have friends that maintain a predominantly vegetarian diet at home but go hog wild if they go on a meat eating spree.  Spare or baby back pork ribs represent their indulgence of choice.

I have not experienced Kansas City style barbecue, but I am pretty well-versed in Texas, Carolina, and Chicago style.  A few years ago, I spent a glorious weekend with a friend in Memphis delighting in traditional offerings from Central BBQ and The Rendezvous.

Realizing that the Summer of 2018 was already into August and I had not yet fed my rib craving, this weekend, my goal was to find a willing partner in crime, to join me at Lillie’s Q, a Chicago barbecue staple that markets it’s vinegar, tomato, and mustard-based sauces in many states.

Ahhh!

Eating ribs are delightfully messy.

Even the language and etiquette around clearing a plate of barbecued ribs suggest untidy, unbridled consumption.

If you seek out a nice steak or portion of fish, you order a prime cut or fillet.  You eat a SLAB  of ribs.

Even though a serrated steak knife is usually employed to separate each rib (and attached meat), ribs are usually eaten with your fingers.

With tangy, mildly salty collard greens and sweet potato fries, and a full assortment of sauces, sipping sweet tea from a Mason jar — Lillie’s did not disappoint.

Not especially restrained when eating anything I enjoy (my dry cleaner can point to geographies on favorite sweaters where spatterings of salad dressing landed), any attempts to try to go slow and be neat when disengaging reddish-brown sauce doused chunks of meat from rib bones are abandoned.

When eating ribs, It feels like permission is automatically given to let it all hang out. You can forget about whether your chin is streaked with barbecue sauce.  It’s okay.

You don’t have time to be self-conscious.  When you’re happily engaged in a minor tug o’war, pulling flesh connected bones apart, all you can think about is smelling and tasting EVERYTHING.  You’re very in the moment.

You can’t help but laugh at yourself, at the thought of WEARING your dinner.

Napkins are, thankfully, cheap and in ready supply.

Licking your lips and savoring sweet and smoky sauces, remembering the flavors of the falling off the bone tender meat consumed hours earlier, is no small thing.