I pulled up to the gas station with a full tank and no hunger for a Clif Bar, Red Bull or beef jerky. This wasn’t your normal gas station. The red words along the side told me a gas station like this could only be in Kansas City, Mo.
“CIGARETTES. SANDWICHES. ICE. MILK. BREAD. JUICE. MOTOR OIL. OKLAHOMA JOE’S BBQ.”
In Kansas City, this serves as one-stop shopping.
Barbecue isn’t a specialty in Kansas City. It’s one of the chemical elements of survival, right behind oxygen and right above love. It’s the self-proclaimed barbecue capital of the U.S., and more than 100 barbecue joints in town will challenge you to name another.
People here seem to put brisket on their corn flakes, barbecue sauce in their coffee.
I firmly believe Kansas City has more bar fights over the best barbecue in town than they do about the Chiefs. Even the most civilized civilians can’t pass up the argument. Last week here at the Big 12 Spring Meetings, my K.C. sportswriter colleagues discussed the merits of different local BBQ restaurants like my Rome friends discuss Michelangelo vs. Bernini.
I’ve sucked BBQ sauce here for years but to truly gauge the depth of Kansas City barbecue, I hit the high and low ends last week.
Oklahoma Joe’s marks the low end. That has absolutely nothing to do with taste. It has everything to do with the site. At Oklahoma Joe’s, you can get your oil changed and cholesterol clogged at the same time.
I’m serious. Oklahoma Joe’s is in the corner of a gas station. Ever see a Subway shop tucked in the back of a convenience store? Picture the waft of sweet K.C. barbecue sauce and a line that snakes around the inside of the station and out toward the gas pumps, and you have Oklahoma Joe’s.
I got in line barely inside the door at 7:25 p.m. The polished, recent college grad in front of me lives just a few blocks away.
“I often drive by and see the line and say, ‘Nah,’ ” he said. “Sometimes it winds around the building.”
While in line I picked up a copy of “Burnt Ends.” I thought it was a tome on the doomed newspaper business but it’s actually an Oklahoma Joe’s flier on the K.C. barbecue scene. Yes, Kansas City barbecue has its own newspaper.
I read the story of how K.C. barbecue started when Memphis riverboat cook named Henry Perry arrived here and in 1907 sold barbecue from a cart. I scanned the history of pork, which I’m sure served as one of my colleague’s senior theses.
I had a lot of time to read. It took me 32 minutes to reach the counter where a young, clean-shaven guy in a T-shirt that read, “My favorite restaurant is in a gas station” took my order of a half-slab rib dinner, a side of barbecue beans and a Coke.
“HALF SLAB! BEANS! Drink at end,” he shouted.
I took a seat at a long communal table and looked at this feast in front of me. The seven ribs looked like they came out of a brontosaurus. They were about 8 inches long, and the pork was so tender it fell off the bone with soft pokes from my fork.
The characteristics of Kansas City barbecue are threefold: one, a sweeter sauce than you get in Texas or the Deep South; two, a variety of meats from turkey to burnt bits; three, a huge array of side dishes from spicy coleslaw to a vile concoction called cheese corn.
The sweet taste makes Oklahoma Joe’s ribs taste a bit like honey and gets addicting by the second rib. A Utah man sitting next to me kept muttering, “Wow! Wow! Wow!”
I couldn’t finish my last rib before waddling out. On my cab ride to the local angioplasty clinic, my driver told me the story of how Kansas City became the capital of American barbecue. Back in the ’60s when the Chiefs and Kansas City Athletics played at old Municipal Stadium, the smoke from Arthur Bryant’s BBQ across the street would waft into the broadcast booth.
The broadcasters would tell the world about the incredible aroma — and how they wish their darn game would end.
“I don’t know if we had the best barbecue,” my driver said, “but we had the best publicity.”
It definitely has the best variety. No, high-end barbecue is not an oxymoron. At Fiorella’s Jack Stack in spiffy Country Club Plaza, barbecue meets haute couture. It features varnished, dark-wood tables, candles and brass chandeliers.
The menu lists a $120 bottle of Opus One from Napa and $26.95 rack of lamb from New Zealand. This is one barbecue where I could take a hot date.
However, I doubt any woman could finish my Kansas City Combo, a massive crown prime beef rib with half a chicken. The giant rib had three inches of meat on both sides hanging off a bone the Royals could use for batting practice.
Then again, this is just my taste. I’ve tried others in Kansas City, and I’ll leave town with some fightin’ words: Arthur Bryant’s stinks!
Gentlemen, the line forms to the right.
John Henderson: 303-954-1299 or jhenderson@denverpost.com
If you go to K.C.
Oklahoma Joe’s, 3002 W. 47th Ave., 913-722-3366
Fiorella’s Jack Stack, 4747 Wyandotte St., 816-53-7427.
