THE PITMASTER

"Food don't smell the same when you make it in a rep," he says. "When you cook real meat, you gotta do it for a long time. Not 30 seconds. So the smell permeates your whole home, for a while. Gets your glands workin' up. Gets your stomach ready to eat a proper meal. When you make a meal in a rep, your body don't have enough time to get ready for it."

I kept my place running for a full month after the collapse began. You better believe it. 

Now, I did have to make some changes. There were two big ones. First, no more take-out orders, of course. And second, we hired a security guard the stand watch at the door, in case anybody got any smart ideas about stealing a plate of my ribs so they could run home and scan it into a rep.

Well, my grand plan only held up for that one month. This guy came in. Big ol' fat fuckin' white boy. And he ordered one of everything. I mean everything. A half rack of ribs, some hickory smoked sausage, a boa boston butt, a pulled pork sandwich, some chopped chicken, baked beans, a pecan pie, coleslaw, turkey breast, and a motherfuckin' roll. 

I know that sounds like a lot, but to be truthful with you, I didn't think nothin' of it. These big ol' bastards used to come into my place all the time. And they'd just eat until they'd shine. 

Well, this guy got the best of us. He had a couple friends with him, and the two friends started pretending to fight in the middle of the store. Knocking over tables and chairs and shit. 

I hollered for my security guy, and he came runnin' in to try to bust it up. That's when the fat boy slipped out with all that food in hand. As soon as he was halfway out the parking lot, the two guys who'd been fightin' gave up the game and walked out after their friend, like nothing had ever happened. 

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That was the last day I ran the restaurant. 

That guy put you out of business by making copies of your food with a rep?

Hell no. He was just gonna scan it for himself. He wasn't competition. I knew that for a fact. 

But just the idea of people eatin' my ribs, without any of the proper preparation or work going into it... I couldn't stomach that. 

My daddy was a pitmaster. And he learned from one of the all-time greats, down in Texas. 

Shit. For him, it was a craft he'd spent his whole life perfecting. And he passed that down to me. 

I just kept thinking about that fat fuck who stole my plate… eating my fine cracklin' meal over and over and over for years to come. Always comin' out of a goddamned machine, with no love in it. No human touch. 

I simply couldn't bear the thought. 

So I decided to just pull the plug on the restaurant and find somethin' else to do with my life. 

I never did figure out what the hell that would be. So now, I just play with my grandchildren mostly. And sometimes I still cook up some brisket, the old-fashioned way. 

Matter-of-fact, I got some cookin' in the back right now. You want some? 

Real beef, my man. Farm-raised by a guy I know.

Don't go tellin' any of the damned animal rights people about this, you hear?