sheldon cohen
Google
A Traumatic Encounter with Culinary Excellence at Bofinger BBQ
Let me preface this by saying, if you value mediocrity, if you cherish the bland, and if your palate recoils at the mere suggestion of genuine flavor, then for the love of all that is unspectacular, DO NOT go to Bofinger BBQ in Montreal.
Consider yourselves warned.My recent visit was nothing short of an assault on my carefully cultivated apathy towards barbecue. I went in expecting the usual, the forgettable, the "it'll do." What I received was a gastronomic intervention I didn't ask for and am now, infuriatingly, grateful for.
First, the barbecue ribs. Oh, the utter gall of these ribs! They were so ludicrously tender, so shamelessly falling off the bone, that one wonders if they've bribed the laws of physics. Each bite was a decadent, smoky whisper of perfection, drenched in a sauce that had no business being so profoundly balanced – sweet, tangy, with just enough of a kick to remind you that your taste buds are, in fact, alive and currently being exploited for pleasure. It was an insult to every dry, chewy rib I've ever reluctantly consumed.
And the French fries? Preposterous! Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and seasoned with such devilish precision that they rendered ketchup entirely redundant. Who needs a condiment when the fry itself is a masterpiece? It’s almost offensive in its simplicity and flawless execution.
Then there was the mac and cheese. This wasn't just mac and cheese; it was a creamy, cheesy, carb-laden conspiracy against willpower. Rich, comforting, and dangerously addictive, it clung to every noodle with an unapologetic intensity. It’s the kind of side dish that actively tries to sabotage your main course by being equally, if not more, compelling. A true villain, disguised as comfort food.
And finally, the chicken. Juicy, flavorful, with skin that boasted an almost criminal char. It wasn't merely cooked; it was transformed. Each piece was a testament to proper seasoning and masterful grilling, forcing me to confront the harsh reality that I may never look at a rotisserie chicken the same way again.
In conclusion, Bofinger BBQ is a menace. It dares to serve food that is genuinely, unequivocally delicious, thereby raising the bar to an uncomfortably high level. If you enjoy your culinary experiences to be just "fine" or "decent," then absolutely, unequivocally, avoid Bofinger. You've been warned: your expectations for good barbecue will be irrevocably ruined.