Rub

[gobble]

So I promised a review of the barbecue place that Dana and I found on our bike trip through South Baltimore, and here goes. I don't understand what Richard Gorelick is talking about here, when he says that Rub makes brisket that is "very tender and a little bit beautiful" or turkey that is "a marvel of modest flavor." Both are simply untrue.

Let me instead chance an analogy that better suits the quality, originality and general ethos of Rub -- how easily Gorelick was seduced by the Walker Evans photo qualities of the landscape, the six-pack cartons as condiment holders (wee!) and everything else Rub tried to sell him as "authentic feelings about Texas and the good food that Texans make for each other"! -- and that is, Rub is to barbecue as whiskey is to Jim Beam, and there were at least 2 dozen Beam bottles lined up on a mantlepiece behind the bar. In fact, almost all the house cocktails, like the Lone Star lemonade, are bastardized whiskey sours made with Beam, and Beam is held up in this place as the most Texas, most appropriate accompaniment for slow-smoked meat, and the fact is, Jim Beam is disgusting and a whiskey that rests only on its strong branding.

Likewise, Rub's barbecued meats are disappointing, and resting on the laurels of a bar with the kind of character that attracts fratty Federal Hill types. Why else would there be over a dozen flat screens showing ESPN, FSN, network football and even Gol friggin' TV? Real barbecue joints don't need to be sports bars, nor do they need to look pretty:


[gobble, 2]

But now, actually, that does look pretty. That's the turkey breast that came on the Lone Star platter. But don't be fooled! It was dry as a bone and served less-than-lukewarm. This was amateur barbecue, not slow-heat alchemy. Same goes for the brisket. This wasn't the type of meat that you don't want to bespoil with hickory sauce -- it was exactly the type of meat you want to smother in it. And we did, and it tasted fine, I guess, but not revelatory by any means. The chicken did fall off the bone, I guess, and the sausage was pretty delicious, but what kind of barbecue place can be judged on chicken and sausage? What's that you say? A Texas pit? Nay. Sausage is important to master -- it's like learning your Suzuki Method before trying the Shostakovich violin concerto. But for a Texas-style barbecue joint, your brisket is your Vocalise -- a penetrating, dreamy, melted-butter aria that can be made truly beautiful, or wholly forgettable. Rub is certainly not the former.

Our sides:


[m&c] [pomme-de-terre ensalat]

This were disappointing as well. Vanilla, mayo-based potato salad devoid of herbs, and M&C heavy on the cream, not the cheesy. Myeah.


[dosty]

FOOD: B-
A Texas barbecue place needs to focus on the essentials, videlicet, not poultry. The balance can't hang in the cradles arms of a mediocre mustard sauce. The ribs and brisket were not impressive, the "slow heat" not apparent, and the plate arrived half cold. You want Baltimore barbecue? Go to Big Bad Wolf.

DRINK: B-
Had a nondescript pale ale that I don't remember now because it was October. The cocktails all looked pretty frighteningly bad. Keep your Red Bull away from me.

AMBIENCE: B-
This place really bothered me (can you tell?) because it was so clearly a sports bar first, and a food purveyor second. I can't deal with barbecue places that don't give it their all. Get rid of the commercialized drink specials, the hordes of Ratbird fans, and the constant product placement, and then we'll talk.