After a long soccer game, we walked up to the food truck, grumpy with hunger. A Southern gentleman took our order: Three pulled pork sandwiches with fries.
Through the window, I saw him load a russet potato through a hand-cranked French Fry cutter, slice it into long wedges, then dunk them in the boiling fryer til they turned crispy golden brown.
He toasted our brioche buns on the flattop, each side lathered with a cartoon-sized heap of butter. Then he filled them with a blue-collar pile of pulled pork shoulder smoked over hickory from sunrise until sundown in the Dollar Tree parking lot.
He garnished with the tastes of southern hospitality: Apple-cider pickled onions and a few strong shakes of Frank’s Red Hot Sauce.
We sat on the Tennessee Street bus stop bench and ate our handmade barbeque with a silent reverence only observed in Catholic monasteries and Buddhist temples. [150]
by Damien Rigol
Table Tales - 150 word stories 