Don't Go Looking For Texas in Georgia

A couple of months ago, one of my all time favorite cowhands, Chad Allen (C.A.) decided to come join The Gypsy for a little excursion. He jumped on a plane in the south Texas town of Laredo, and flew to Atlanta, where he arrived half drunk (nothin’ unusual about that) and eager to see some city lights. I picked him up at the airport, and asked him if he was hungry. I was just asking to be hospitable, since I’ve never known him to answer such a question in the negative. He responded by saying he was anxious to see what the Deep South had to offer by way of barbeque. I informed him that if he were going to be comparing it to the smoky mesquite flavors of Texas he would be sorely disappointed. And he was.

I took him to a little joint that most would consider good barbeque. Name withheld to protect the innocent. I mean, how were they supposed to know that C.A. was comin’ to town, and that not having beef brisket on the menu was somethin’ akin to callin’ his momma a woman of ill repute. That poor gal taking the food order didn’t know what hit her.

I swear it took him 20 minutes to order. Just stood at the counter and stared at that little girl. He was convinced they really DID have some brisket in the back, but were just hiding it from him. Line was backing up to the door. C.A. just stared.

And stared…and…stared.

Well, I finally got him settled down to a plate of ribs and chopped pork. The ribs he liked. The pork he swore up and down was really turkey. “What’s up with these Georgia folks tryin’ to pull a fast one on a fella from Texas?” he said through a full mouth. Did I mention that he was half-drunk? Well to be honest, I think by this time he was whole-drunk. Nonetheless, he endured the good ribs, bad “turkey,” and the ugly stares of the city folk that had never seen cowboys in their midst (I think I did overhear one patron mention something about the ‘missing link,’ But I digress).

Dinner finished and bellies full, Brother C.A. was ready for a good time on the town. So I took him down the road to a late night establishment. C.A. kept wantin’ to know where the “cowboy bars” were, to which I had to continually remind him of his whereabouts. We pulled into the parking lot, exited the vehicle, and started walking toward the door. As soon as we entered, the big fella working the door exclaimed, “Sirs, you must take off those hats!” Oh dear Lord…here we go again!