Max’s Memphis Ribs
We drove down Coronado, where Max’s Memphis Ribs is. “Hate Coronado,” Bernie said. Uh-oh. I’d heard this before. “Know what he did to the Indians? And that was just the start. Kit Carson wasn’t exactly lily-white in this area either – he was just such a stone killer at times.” Stone killer? We’d taken down more than one of those. Hey, Kit Carson – watch out. At that moment I picked up the first whiff of Max’s special sauce. When I came out of that, Bernie was saying, “…and what they did to Narbona? A sin, pure and simple.” I nudged over closer to him. He was upset about something, but I didn’t know what.
We parked in front of Max’s Memphis Ribs. Cleon Maxwell, the owner, saw us through the big glass door and gave us a big smile. The next thing I knew I was right at the door, nose pressed against the glass. The glass was getting all foggy, no idea why. The smells on the other side? Indescribable!
This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 12th, 2009 at 7:44 am and is filed under Chet The Dog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.