My father has returned to
Oz, his brief time here (this trip) neatly bookended by lunch at Abe’s
Bar-Be-Que. Out on the highway, faded
signs scattered around the gravel parking lot warn those not eating at Abe’s that
they will be towed. Porcine statues mill
about outside the entrance and an ancient non-illuminated neon proclaims the
place has been here since 1924. The
delicious scent of slow-cooked pork hangs thick in the air and inside a buzzing
crowd hungrily devour what has come to be called ‘the come-back sauce’. And with good reason. We sit at one of the little brown plastic
booths, hemmed-in by more pork-based interior design than one can
comprehend. Our server is a large woman
worked off her feet by the clamouring crowd, weaving her way between the closely-packed
tables in a classic American server’s apron.
She’s been putting herself through night-school. Her weary face breaks into a wonderful grin
when she sees John – he’s been coming back here for years now – all the way
from Downunder for this world famous barbeque.
And we have a feast. And boy,
that’s good. But then my father and I
part ways.
