This is the barbecue that stuffed-to-bursting, groggy, contented 6 p.m. naps are made of. It starts blocks away, that scent of smoking meat you know will subtract a day or two from your life, but who cares? You near the parking lot and wave to the rent-a-cop watching carefully over the beat-up station wagons and Lexus sedans parked side-by-side. Your stomach roars carnivorously like some starved mountain lion leaping upon its longed-for meal. Your legs move of their own accord, longing for purchase upon Arthur Bryant's rain- and drippings-soaked floors.
The screen doors slap shut behind you as you quickly assess the ordering line, figuring instantaneously how long you must endure the smoky sights and smells before tasting of their goodness. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages fill the narrow room ahead. Unfortunately, several of them are ahead of you in the queue.
The dirty jeans-clad lucky man who's reached the window says turkey on whole wheat, pickles and fries. He doesn't need to say "to go" - that's assumed, unless you hand the man behind the counter a dishwasher-hot white plate from the tall stacks close at hand. Behind him the high-powered businessman waits, gold cufflinks jingling as his hands shake slightly in anticipation.
A huge sheet of butcher paper is laid on the cutting board. One slice of whole wheat, then six more next to it (you need a lot of bread to soak up all the meat juice and sauce). A pound of meat on the single slice. Slap it with a house-painter's brush soaked in barbecue sauce. The customer wants extra, really paint it this time. Top with other six slices of bread. Grab a handful of fries pulled just seconds ago from boiling oil (no protection for the skin, first-time customers stare in wonderment), dodge the co-worker heading with a slab of meat for the slicer, pile the fries next to the sandwich. Grab a handful of dill pickle slices from a huge plastic jar, slap them down on the other side of the sandwich. Roll the whole mess into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Juices soaking through, wrap it in another big sheet of butcher paper and seal with a sticker printed with Arthur Bryant's address (as if you could possibly forget it). Hand it to the happy customer, who rushes to pay at the end of the line because he knows the meaty majesty that awaits him.
This is the place where presidents (Jimmy Carter) dine. This is the place where you don't need foo-foo "side orders" like corn on the cob and cole slaw to fill the empty space left by less-than-generous servings of meat. This is the place that makes you look at restaurants like K.C. Masterpiece and Famous Dave's and think, "Why eat there? I'll just waste valuable stomach capacity I could better use at Arthur Bryant's!"
This is the place that occupies the same block as Wanna Burger, where employees could be seen through the windows (I kid you not) still cleaning up the bloodstains from that morning's shooting. This is the place I drove through a tornado watch to get to on a Saturday. This is the place that's worth it.
There's pork, beef and turkey for sandwiches, as well as sausage, ribs and burnt ends. There's the fries. Beer by the glass or the pitcher, or a big 40-ounce soft drink in a cup with the Arthur Bryant's logo if you're driving. Six to eight dollars for the sandwiches and I've never tried the ribs or sausage - the sandwiches are just too good. A group of four can dine for $48, beer, soft drinks and enough leftovers for next day's lunch included.
The blinding-hot smoker, big as an industrial refrigerator, stands with its blackened doors wide open just three feet behind the counter. At Arthur Bryant's, you know where your meat is coming from - because they pull slabs out of the furnace and start slicing them if they run out of meat on the counter. You could go to some lesser chain barbecue restaurant, where some college student serves you a prettified plate of origin-unknown "barbecue" - or you could travel three hours from Lincoln, Nebraska, four from Omaha, Nebraska, or send your private jet from California (it's happened). Who cares? It's worth it.
Arthur Bryant's | 1727 Brooklyn, Kansas City, Missouri | (816) 231-1123
This piece originally appeared May 29, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
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