I read this article and decided that any place with Rod Stewart memorabilia AND a divine, holy, barbecue trinity on my side of town is like the greatest sweet jane food-fantasy of all time. (At least the greatest realized food fantasy since that fried chicken and doughnut shack they closed down on Gaston.) Like, to-tally.

Chris HATES HATES HATES Rod Stewart and I think that the article pretty much baffled him. God, how I love the barbecue. God, how I love the Rod. He quizzed me on the ride over to Big Al’s Smokehouse; wondering how I ever found it. Did I google Rod? Did I google barbeque? Did I google Rod Barbecue at the same time? (A secret midnight pact with a dark horned beast?) Even more amazing is that we set out to find the place without a map or address of any kind. ’Da Ya Think I’m Sexy’ pounded from the stereo, I graciously provided the live car accompaniment, and the vehicle guided itself there…despite the contrary directional reasoning between Chris and I.

Big Al’s hides off the Inwood street a ways. The building exterior is of modest and classic construct of mid-seventies barbecue-joint-style, but stands in an old strip mall. Classic barbecue architecture to those not from ‘round these parts -means a ranch-style cedar molding painted fire engine red against a neutral stucco façade and few if any windows.
Inside we surveyed the vast wood paneled layout. No fancy hostess stand to hold your hand to a table, no crappy lethargic waitstaff with a barage of questions and their boyfriend crisis on the phone in the back. Nothing to get in the way between you and the meat feast.

At the ‘ode to Rod’, a glass-framed, autographed, tour t-shirt, we gripped our orange plastic trays. Cautious, we scanned the black board menu with white peg lettering, and coordinated our selections to maximize sample options, and scooched down to the place of the solemn barbecue carver. With the order complete, he used his fork to motion us down along his lush running line of sides called ‘vegetables.’ (Can pasta salad, potato salad, and 2 styles of baked beans be called vegetables?)

Pork ribs with two sides: beans and potato salad. Rudolph’s sausage and beef with a corn cob and smoky beans. (Chris found the wooden pick inserts for his corn impressive). At the end of the line sat a little man that eyeballed the trays and figured the check accordingly. This is CLASSIC barbeque joint organization.

We walked past a half dozen 5-coat-lacqured oak tables before settling on one with plush vinyl chairs footed with tiny wheels; these being preferred over the round tables surrounded by old nautical themed restaurant chairs. We unloaded our trays and didn’t speak for a long time, except to negotiate a trade of my one rib for one silver-dollar-sized sausage and two beef morsels, and then to provide a brief review:
'Ribtastic’.