I had ribs, if you must know, smoked and dry-rubbed, a hint of sweet, cooked as you’d expect in Kansas City or St. Louis or Memphis.
Not necessarily Chicago, though there I was Friday afternoon, tucked inside a joint called Smoque, digging into slaw and cornbread, sharing it all with a long-time colleague who covers Michigan State football and basketball.
I had sausage, too.
If you want to judge, that’s cool, that’s part of operating in this space. Which means I might as well tell you I had bourbon-caramel bread pudding, as well. And I hate myself … mostly — though I only had a few bites, as my pal devoured the rest.