Memphis Trip Part III: BBQ and BB King

This is Part III in a multi-part story that will detail our recent road trip to Memphis. To follow along with the pictures that accompany this blog, click here.

Remember that you can always click on an image for the full picture. And click a photo subject header to go to the blog that corresponds with that section of pictures

Saturday Night

In a group the size of the Memphis gang, it’s good to have someone who is willing to make a decision. In a group as drunk as the Memphis gang, it’s even better to have a person willing to shout that decision over the ruckus. Luckily, we had Goldstein. Fingers were pointed in every direction as we stood on the sidewalk outside our Best Western and tried to come to consensus on a restaurant for dinner. Goldstein kept pointing down the dirty alley between the Holiday Inn and our hotel. Seeing as though no one wanted to eat in a dirty alley, people (myself included) talked over him and pointed every other possible direction. Eventually he just shouted out that he was going down this alley to a place that he had eaten before and that he knew was good…we could do as we pleased. Blank stares were shared and since no one really had a better idea, we silently fell in line behind our leader.

Now, I’m a fan of the hole-in-the-wall joint, really I am. But I have to admit that even I would have never ventured down this alley to the little wooden sign just past the dumpster that read “Rendezvous.” And even if I had ventured down that alley, I see no reason I would have thought to go down the steps into the basement. I’d like to say otherwise, but without Goldstein, I would have missed out on a Memphis tradition. What I didn’t know at the time was that this particular hole-in-the-wall is known far and wide as the best dry-rub barbeque in a city renown for its barbeque. True, I didn’t sample this legendary barbeque since it is, by definition, made of animal bits. But, the red beans and rice were pretty good and the place just reeked of history. Our waiter had been working there for 40 years and mocked us in the friendly, sing-song patterns of ridicule that seem to flow so naturally in southern black culture. In short, the place was perfect. Do not let the alley scare you away from this treasure.

With full stomachs, we split up again. The bulk of the gang was heading straight to Beale Street, but Duke and I wanted to go up and finish off our Peabody Duck experience. By this point the ducks had returned to their “penthouse” and we were curious what kind of splendor they lived in up there. Now, Jet has already teased me for spending so much blog-time on these silly ducks. But the fact is that while the ducks themselves are really nothing more than ducks, I will stand by my being mesmerized by the phenomenon of the ducks. So either indulge me or skim ahead…but what we did next involved the ducks.

There was some sort of black tie affair on the top floor of the Peabody that night, something to do with the Bar Association if the lobby sign was to be trusted. But Duke and I were not to be dissuaded. We went ahead and charged up to the top floor, hoping to skirt the party on our way to the ducks’ home. The elevator dumped us into a lobby filled with black suits and black dresses. To the left was a ballroom filled with festive lawyers, to the right were patio doors that lead to the rooftop. We darted to the right as quickly as our touristy shoes would go.

The ducks were pretty boring, I’ll admit. Remove the Sousa and children and they were just some ducks in a rooftop cage. However, the rooftop view of Memphis at dusk was well worth the trip up the elevator. Clouds rolled overhead and the wind toppled large potted plants as a storm moved toward the city. A building across the street displayed colored lights that just barely read “Go Grizz” in support of that nights’ Memphis Grizzlies playoff game. We roamed the rooftop for a while and just enjoyed the scenery before heading back inside. Once inside, however we were face to face once again with the formally dressed attorneys. We tried to smile politely in our t-shirts and tennis shoes, but no one smiled back. I hadn’t remembered the elevator being particularly slow on its way up the first time, but this delay seemed unbearable. When it finally arrived, a sour looking man in black entered with us. Silence for five floors.

“I think we were a little underdressed for that party,” I suggest jovially, trying to break the tension.

He looked me looked me up and down once before returning to his straight-forward stare with an “uh-huh” that indicated he felt “underdressed” may have been an understatement. Suddenly, the mild tension was replaced by actively uncomfortable pressure. Duke and I exploded into the downstairs lobby and burst out laughing once we were out of earshot.

“I’ve never seen a tension breaker backfire quite that badly,” Duke offered.

“Wow,” I responded. “If I’d have known it was such a lost cause, I would have gone for a trumpet fart instead. It’s probably what he was expecting.”

And so, with the disapproval of a well-dressed Memphis lawyer fresh in our hearts, we strolled toward Beale Street. We found Jet and a handful of his friends seated under a neon sign in a bar with a window view of the party outside.

For the next few hours we roamed from bar to bar and band to band. Fun was had and songs were sung. Duke, for his part, did a pretty good job of matching the frat boys beer for beer for a time. But, eventually he decided against pursuing them any further and wisely let them go on without him. I, on the other hand, indulged in one of the few great perks about NOT drinking in a bar. The bars all assumed I was the designated driver and kept my plastic cup full of free soda. Score! Amidst all the revelry, however, I kept a close eye on Jet even as I enjoyed myself. And when his speech reached the recognizable level of slurred and his flirting reached the recognizable level of incoherence…Duke and I made our smooth departure before any responsible action was required of us.

We visited Duke new favorite spot on Beale, Silky’s. I’m told it’s a great club…but Duke didn’t care about that. He had fallen in love with its street side hot dog vendor…the hot dogs…not the vendor himself, mind you. So, we sat on the street and chatted as Duke worked his way through two or three of the overpriced dogs. We watched as drunken girls hung on drunken guys. We watched as drunken guys sneaked glances down the blouses of the drunken girls hanging on them. And because we held still for too long, we were eventually discovered by Memphis John.

Memphis John opened up with a request for cigarette from Duke. From there he began his story. Homeless vet with the word of the savior Jesus in his heart. I’ll admit that I’m pretty jaded when it comes to this sort of show. I had talked to too many men just like Memphis John when I lived in the French Quarter in N’awlins, so I moved away and continued my people watching. Duke however was hypnotized by this street preacher and grinned sincerely as John spoke. Perhaps if I had listened, I would have realized that Memphis John had some sort of charisma that separated him from other such men. But personally, I suspect that Duke’s hours of frat chasing were working in John’s favor. At one point, I heard John lamenting all the poor people who stupidly ignored the word of Jesus to worship trees and statues and nothingness. I toyed briefly with jumping in to inject a few Buddhist trinkets into the conversation, but figured I was just being difficult. Duke still seemed to be enjoying himself so I let it go.

After about a half hour, my patience wore out and I began making gestures over John’s shoulder to get Duke’s attention. Duke wrapped up, gave Memphis John $5 and shook his hand as John made some sort of blessing. On the way back to the hotel Duke apologized for ignoring me for those ten minutes and was stunned to lean that his conversation with the sidewalk minister had lasted thirty minutes. Like I said, either John was good or Duke was drunk.

We fell asleep discussing Heaven and Hell and morality as the storm finally unleashed on the hapless partiers still on Beale.


Sunday Morning

As on Saturday, Duke and I rose early and had our Grand Slam breakfasts at Denny’s. The rest of our party was upstairs trying to sweet talk the hotel into extending their checkout to allow more time for sleep and clean up. Eventually they found their way down and we discussed our plans for taking the Sun Records tour before heading home. Since very few were interested, we loaded up the van and Duke, Jet, Ben, and I walked down Union Ave to the Sun Records Recording Studio while the rest of them ate breakfast or slept in the lobby.

Much like Graceland, there’s not a whole lot I can say about the events at Sun without turning this into an essay on Sun Records. However, I will say that standing in that building, in the very room where so many amazing musicians recorded was truly astounding. The walls just oozed history. From Howling Wolf to Johnny Cash to Elvis to Jerry Lee Lewis to Roy Orbison…it was almost overwhelming to try to imagine it all.

So, while I won’t go into great detail about this, I will say that it’s worth seeing if you never have. And it’s worth learning about it you don’t know much about it and you’re interested at all in the history of American music.

The Return Trip

The ride home was a bit more subdued than the ride down. The keg was empty and the radio was turned down. No one puked or spilled anything on anyone. And because of this calm, the miles ticked off much more slowly than they had on Friday. With no reason to jump out of my seat every few minutes to dodge a precariously balanced pitcher of beer as it passed over my head, my ass grew sore in the seat. And with no one shouting insults back and forth, I grew sleepy. I watched cows out the window and listened to the Hold Steady on my iPod. In the end, however, we found ourselves back at our cars behind Jet’s wedding store. The weekend was over. No one got hauled off to jail and it certainly seems everyone had a great time. I’d call the whole thing a roaring success.

So, I’d like to take a few lines here to thank everyone on the trip for making it so much fun. Thanks to Jet for still wanting your old, married, alcohol-free, vegetarian brother along on his beer fest even after my presence was no longer needed as best man. Thanks to Duke for doing all the baby-care gymnastics necessary to get yourself out of the house for a weekend. Your presence made it possible for me to enjoy the frat boys’ company…and vice versa I’m sure. Thanks to Goldstein for handling so much of the planning and for making sure Duke and I had our own space away from the hubbub. And thanks to each of the guys who shared that van. It was a truly wonderful experience and I’m glad I got to share it with you. Oh, and thanks to anyone who actually read all three of my Memphis posts. They were long, I know. And they were basically the blog equivalent of a two hour slide show of some dude’s vacation photos. But on the up side…now I can return to my normal pattern of writing about Pumkin preparation. I have no doubt you are all quite excited ;)

The End