Author: Ainsley Daschofsky
Every step I took away from the restaurant, concrete and bricks flashing into my eye retina, was like an interference. With a satisfaction so deep that the world couldn’t match, I licked my mind lips over and over. The match as a memory of fire hitting meat. The memory of lamb ribs on top of me like a lass I’d been imagining for years and had finally won. The fat from the smoked rib charred my teeth with a memory’s gush as the fat spilled down my throat, swallowed into me. Eyes closed, keeping all else away from the brain memorizing every pull of lamb rib. While not memorizing. You can’t memorize what you already know. What your beast knows. Your primal DNA making the taste succulent to your inner knowledge. That’s the thing about flavor. It is no hologram. It was not factory made …until it was. Meat and its flavor is known to every creature that is human. Whether you have McDonalds or not. They can only tap into the buds that scream and dance and cry to their passion. Food. Survival. Instinct. Your brain says meat should be inside it because it is your survival. Cured’s burger was this release from being a part of the world, the modern day, and back into the being part of your insides. The known without speaking. They don’t fuck with meat until it’s a veggie burger or lay down caramelized onions to hide the blood that isn’t there. Even the cheese goes inside the flavor. They char the blood to the perfect texture and honor its true flavor. They cure while pounding love into it. Eyes closed and mind dripping with bloody sweetness we call Cured our home.
We conversed …wrong word because the connotations don’t take in the connecting. We bonded through words with our favorite server Mark. From opening every door we go through, to knowing down to the second how long to stay. Chef greets us like old friends, hugging us our third time in. This is his home and you’re the guest. We then worded with the manager about Mexican food and food overall. Everyone is happy and content to share this experience. This staff is loved and the chef created that. Chef driven, chef passioned, and meat living. Every person there is valued, and we sat at the chef’s counter where you overhear everything. That kitchen was happy. Those people weren’t just there. They are part of something. He made them part of something, and we got to be in that home. We have been in restaurants a long time and know when people just stand there and when people feel like they belong there. The staff here wasn’t there for the dollars they left with, but there because they wanted that place to be part of them. Part of the life they would live in it, and away from it.
We started with a small bite of a watermelon specked ice cream. The cream so heavy and pure it was like mousse. For happy hour they serve quail legs for 50 cents with a honey sauce. Don’t miss these. Then we got the lamb ribs and the best burger I’ve ever had. This was the second time and it held up to the memory. The assembly is simple but executed flawlessly. Now the ribs. The ribs were brined, smoked and then fried. People call ahead to try and reserve these ribs. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them until the meat was gone from the bone. The house crafted green sauce only stood to the side, never trying to get too in your face. Imagine La Barbecue brisket as if it could be a rib. This is like that BBQ going to college and educating itself.
We ended with a sweet potato pie dessert that Mike convinced us into. “I’m not into barley syrup” I say, “Trust me” he replies. I sigh inside. How can you not trust this man? He is the same man that brought the ribs.
It was like having the crust of sweet potato pie turn into the real pie, with the filling on the side. It was perfect. Forever trust.