me and mac fu dominated this place...

along with a-game and d-train.



Another afternoon, the search for Texas barbecue led to Houston's far north end. The small cabin of Williams Smoke House hid in a neighborhood of narrow roads hacked from piney woods. Through an open door in the back shed, the coals of oak posts glowed red in the smoker. A good smell left the chimney. Inside, I ordered an ambitious plate of pork ribs and sat down to wait in the small dining room.
The ribs that emerged had been dry-rubbed and then smoked for four hours over those posts. They were just crusted on the outside, moist inside, and no gnawing was required to separate meat from bone. Slices of white bread and a cup of sauce expertly made with vinegar, tomato and something hot were on the tray, but I kept it away from these ribs.