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Lyle was a connoisseur cook. He did not work at a cafe, he cooked for himself, mates, and family. He always was searching for new recipes to surprise and delight the people around him, so he studied every cooking show on {TV|the T. V. Television, taking notes, and making plans. One evening, on one of his fave shows, the chef went on about Tennessee barbecue sauce, so Lyle made a decision to try it. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t get it right, so he made a decision to go to the source. He was pretty sure the restaurant would not give him the recipe, but he knew if he could taste it, he could make it. On the morning of his trip to Tennessee, he leaped out of bed, called a cab to pick him up in 30 minutes, jumped in the shower, slipped and hit his head. He awakened in the trauma room, with a bad concussion, and stayed in the hospice for about a week. Unfortunately, as he stepped from curb to taxi, the taxi lurched forward, and he broke his ankle. Showered, packed, and safely in the cab, on the way to the airport, Lyle was eventually going to get to taste the best barbecue sauce Tennessee had to give, and he used to be a satisfied man. That’s's when a drunk driver slammed into the taxi, sending both Lyle and the cabbie to the hospice for an extended stay. I assume that I’d have given up by that point, but not Lyle. He was by this time, obsessed with that barbecue sauce. Agreements were made once more, and he was off to Tennessee. On his arrival in Memphis, he went right from the airport to the eaterie, which was besieged by firemen, and burning to the ground. Obviously, our Lyle was a man of action, difficulty was a challenge, not a hindrance, so he immediately ordered the driver to take him to the best Chinese restaurant in city, where he had a heavenly dinner, then returned to the airport, and caught the subsequent flight home.

A young man was going by a slightly seedy looking eaterie, when he spotted a sign in the window offering a free dinner. A real dinner was an event our hero had not took part in for a really long time, so in he went, found the manager, and requested the publicized free meal. The manager explained, with a grin, that there had been a bet involved. Next, there had been an alligator in the back room with a bad tooth, which he must remove, and finally, he would have to apply 2 coats of nail polish, to the waitress’s toes. If he could do it all in 20 minutes, he would win the best dinner he had ever had. The ensuing din was something similar to you have never heard. There was thumping, banging, scratching, and a scream or 2. He went straight to the counter, asked for another jar of that barbecue sauce, drank each drop, and returned to the back room. This time, the noise was superb. If you can imagine what it would sound like if a semi van drove through a china shop and into a pet store, you’d be getting close to the awful racket coming out of that room. Suddenly, it was silent. Then, with a loud bang, the door to the back room slammed open, and there he stood. Our intrepid fellow was scratched from head to toe, the rags he’d been wearing were shredded to a state beyond rag, and you might tell by the look on his face, that he could have decided this free dinner came with quite a price ticket. He stumbled to the counter, requested yet another bottle of barbecue sauce, drank it in one gulp, asked how much time he had left, which turned out to be nine mins, and returned once more to the back room. In less than a minute, he was back at the counter. ‘Please sir, would you start my dinner now, and additional barbecue sauce, if you don’t mind. I’m finished with the alligator, and it should only take a couple of mins to pull the waitress’s tooth.’ .

A young man was going by a rather seedy looking eaterie, when he noticed a sign in the window offering a free dinner. A real dinner was an event our hero hadn’t took part in for a really long time, so in he went, found the boss, and requested the publicized free meal. If he could do it all in twenty minutes, he would win the best dinner he had ever had. The child grabbed the jar of barbecue sauce, drank it right down, and proceeded to the back room. There was thumping, banging, scratching, and a scream or 2. Just when you presumed it could not go on any longer, the kid appeared from the back room, his garments ripped, his hands bloody. He went directly to the counter, asked for another jar of that barbecue sauce, drank each drop, and returned to the back room. If you can imagine what it might sound like if a semi lorry drove through a china shop and into a pet store, you would be getting near to the awful racket exiting that room. Suddenly, it was silent. Silent like a funeral, which the manager thought he may have to arrange, if that hobo didn’t make an appearance shortly. Then, with a loud bang, the door to the back room slammed open, and there he stood. In less than a minute, he was back at the counter. ‘Please sir, would you start my dinner now, and additional barbecue sauce, if you do not mind. I’m finished with the alligator, and it should only take a couple of minutes to tug the waitress’s tooth.’ .

One of my best friends is English, he is living in Manchester. I met him a few years back when I was romantically involved with his next door neighbor, a beautiful lady, who dumped me flat. He too, had recently become single unexpectedly, and we spent one or two days together, in the local pub, feeling sorry for ourselves, eating and drinking. Pub food is not that great, but it must have helped, maybe because it replaced heartbreak, with angina. We were having an evening meal of bangers and mash, a particularly heavy concoction of sausage and mashed potatoes, when I commented that a little barbecue sauce would do our supper a whole world of good. With the possible exception of some temperamental UK chefs, with Yank television programs, the Brits just do not know how to make good meals. And, a real, hearty, savory barbecue sauce can’t be found anywhere. Before I left, I told my pal, if he ever made it to the States, I’d show him an excellent time and we’d have some real barbecue. His first night here, we had supper at my house. the night before he flew back to Manchester, we had the grand finale dinner. I took him to a Syrian eaterie where they drenched a goat, in the Arabic version of barbecue sauce, and then cooked it in a pit. the next day, before we left for the airport, I gave him some some of my family’s secret barbecue sauce recipes. It was actually the least I could do, because, after all , I’d ruined English cuisine for him, for ever.

It was just before school break, and my roommate and I were comming up with some plans for a trip to Florida. It was set, we were good to go, however as normal, we didn’t have any cash. This situation hadn’t stopped us before, however irrespective of what we tried, we couldn’t raise any cash. We were explaining our dilemma to my big sister, who had stopped by for a visit before she left for Vail, and she had an idea. Her latest flame had been gloating about some type of barbecue sauce he had on a recent visit to Daytona. It was made with mustard, molasses and some secret spices, or so he said, but you could only get it at some out-of-the-way tiny dive between Daytona and Cocoa Beach. Sis was pretty sure her partner would spring for the trip, if we would bring some of that gourmet barbecue sauce with us. We traveled straight through to Florida, and were on the beach the following morning. Then I remembered the barbecue sauce. We didn’t have it, we hadn’t even looked for that obscure little dive, and, we had sufficient money to get back to school, if we were lucky, and our car would coast a little . My roommate and I were a little upset as we loaded up for the jaunt home. My sister’s partner had been nice enough to fund our adventure, and we had botched our part of the deal. Then, I got a crazy idea. I took the secret 10 dollars out of my shoe, and bought ketchup, mustard, molasses, chili pepper and cilantro at the small food store next to the gas station, emptied and cleaned out an old fried chicken bucket I found in the back seat, and all of the way back to school, I mixed and tasted, tasted and mixed. Whew! I never did tell my sister the real life story of the back-seat barbecue sauce, and my sole regret is that I can’t remember how I made it, as it was excellent!