Captain Fain-tastic
Google
Wednesday afternoon. Sun’s out. Bellies empty. I’m standing inside Joe’s BBQ in Leawood, Kansas, and the first thing I notice isn’t the smell (we’ll get to that blessed aroma in a second) it’s the line. A line so long it looked like we were auditioning for a meat based remake of The Hunger Games. And lemme tell you something: that’s always a good sign. If a BBQ joint ain’t got a line, you might as well eat your shoe with ketchup. Now, I don’t know who Joe was. I don’t know if he was a pitmaster, a prophet, or just a man who looked at a cow and thought, “You’d be better with hickory smoke and 17 hours of tender loving flame.” But whoever he was, Joe had a vision. A dream. A whisper from the meat gods. And that vision was simple: “Feed them. And make ‘em cry tears of Burnt end joy and bbq ham" As me and my wife got closer to the entrance, the smell hit me like a freight train full of marinated dreams. Sweet smoke, slow cooked dignity, and a little whisper of pork that said, “You’re gonna need napkins... emotionally.” And then oh lord the menu wall. Who the hell put full color photos of BBQ along the queue line like it was some kind of food runway? I don’t know if it was Joe, a manager, or some genius intern with a laminator, but whoever you are: You deserve a Nobel Prize in Human Motivation. Because by the time I reached the counter, I was ready to order everything. “I’ll take the burnt ends special. Beans and potato salad. And the banana pudding. My wife got ham. She loves bbq ham and banana pudding, Let’s start with the burnt ends, because sweet smoky Moses. They weren’t just food. They were a spiritual journey. Each bite was like sitting front row at a gospel choir made of bbq. I closed my eyes, saw my childhood, forgave my enemies, and briefly forgot how to eat in public. That food was so perfect I almost stood up and saluted it. Then came the beans like a smoky campfire ballad, warm and deep, with a sweetness that whispered, “You ever been in love before?”
The potato salad? Classic. Cool. Reliable. Like the friend who picks you up at 2 a.m. and never asks questions. But now we must address my wife’s ham and turkey—because WHAT IN THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT WAS THAT?! The ham was so tender, I’m pretty sure it became our new favorite bbq joint. I took one bite and heard it whisper, “You ever tasted forgiveness?” And the turkey? Juicier than it had any business being. I looked at it, looked at her, and said, “I think your turkey just outperformed my spiritual burnt ends. This bird has secrets.” I don’t know what Joe did to that turkey maybe he gave it a pep talk before the smoke, maybe he played Marvin Gaye in the smoker but whatever it was, it worked. Let’s talk about the banana pudding for a second. Because holy sweet mother of creamy enlightenment I had an out of body experience. I took one bite and saw my childhood, the future, and probably a few ancestors applauding from the Great BBQ Beyond. It wasn’t dessert. It was a religious ceremony. Even when we left bellies full, spirits lifted the line was still there. Still growing. Like some kind of BBQ pilgrimage. And every single person in that line was smiling. Because they knew. They’d smelled it. They’d seen the menu. They’d felt the call. And this this is what makes Joes BBQ so special.
It’s not about gimmicks or hype. It’s about roots. About taking time to do something the right way even if it takes all day. It’s about the pitmasters who wake up before the sun, the smell of smoke curling through neighborhoods like a hymn, and recipes whispered across generations.
Joes doesn’t just cook BBQ. It passes it down like a legacy. So whether it’s your first time or your fiftieth, when you walk into a place like Joe’s, you’re not just getting a plate you’re becoming part of something. Something bigger than you.
Something that tastes like home, even if you didn’t grow up here. And if you're lucky? There’s banana pudding at the end. And maybe just maybe that’s what heaven taste like.
