I remember the moment my faith in online reviews plummeted. Twenty minutes after reading, "These brisket tacos changed my religion", I crossed my heart and prayed for penance. Time to feast!
I pictured a broad pot braising meat — slipping out silky strands of tender goodness — but instead of Blessed Brisket, I found a sad slop of stringy stuff staring back at me. What a pity.
Brisket has never really appealed to me. It's nothing personal — I grew up in Nigeria and England, which meant I ate goat, guinea fowl, and goose, before I even knew what that beefy stuff was. When I moved to America, I learned of this mythical cut — juicy, smoky, butter-soft — it sounded delicious. Since then, I've had a few bites of bbq bliss, but I'm yet to taste the famed plates from Texas.
I know San Francisco is hardly the Mecca of Barbecue. But if this Meat Man offered a hint of the divine — enough to "change my religion" — how could I refuse?
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I arrived expectant on Brisket Judgement Day. The San Francisco sun was purring, flaunting its radiance on accepting faces. Someone with sufficient security clearance restrained Karl the Fog, our lovable cloud cover from attending this party.
With our Foggy Fella forbidden, the sky sported a brilliant curtain of blue. Beaming light revived sulking faces and put a pin on petty fights. You know the rules — you can't argue when it's sunny outside!
Citizens must frolic when the sun visits — it's cemented in city law. So my friends and I squeezed our feet into our running shoes ready to brave the silly streets. That pile of unfolded laundry lying on my couch could survive another day. Those damn taxes? Eeh, I file faster when the pressure's on. Go on, test me. Sunny streets demand dancing feet. We bobbed around from boutique stores to boujee pop ups — trying cheap sunnies and sipping on orange wine.Â
We wandered like five headless chickens bouncing around town. What could go wrong? Well, we walked one block too far, and hunger struck our flock. When Austin placed his palms on his hips in that familiar sunken pose, I knew his race was nearly run. The party would end if we didn’t feed him. I had to act quick! Google Maps came clutch with a rousing recommendation that ticked all the boxes: walking distance (check!), outdoor seating (check!) and — wait for it — brisket fries (ding ding ding!)
But I wasn't convinced by the 3.8 rating. 3.8 out of 5 sits in that awkward zone of competence — clearly better than average, but miles from spectacular. Is the kitchen getting 5's for the food and 3's for customer service? Because I could live with that. Or is it the reverse? Pretty food that’s pretty average? Mmm not so good.
Before I try a new restaurant, I like to know where to place my expectations. If my own body was the ruler, where should the marker go? Shoulder height? Down at knee level? Or right at my gut — trusting its infinite wisdom to see through bullshit.
The matter was settled once I read that description of divine brisket. My mind drifted into dreamland as I pictured meat braised in a supernatural stew.
I imagined sinking my face in those silky strands and tasting the gelatinous goodness. Stubborn chains of collagen broken down by the prayer of patience. Hallelujah.
We ordered and I sat waiting for this preacher to convert me to a Brisket Believer. But instead, I met a shoddy impersonator — a false prophet! The meat was tender but laid limp and lifeless. It smelled okay. The taco shell was structurally sound, but is that alone worth jubilation? Sliced radishes and pickled jalapenos were supposed to add texture and acid, but neither popped. The whole production was an orchestra of unprepared singers — each one unable to lift the other up.
And so on a beautiful bright day, in this very America where bravado and reality often collide, I trusted the words of a stranger online in pursuit of life-changing brisket, and was left staring at a pitiful pile of plausible meat. The charlatan won
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