Anyway. Why, you ask, am I in Kansas City? I’m returning from the American Royal BBQ festival, one of the top 4 BBQ fests in the US. I bet you had no idea that there were so many of these things so as to warrant a “top 4” list. If I were to describe the experience in one picture, this would be it:
All-American, over-fed, slightly offensive, and quite unfortunate.
We sent a whole crew of brandies, an agency chick, a couple PR kids, and some sales friends to this thing, as one of our illustrious brands (I won’t say what one, but it’s pretty much the only name-branded charcoal that matters) sponsors a famous competitor on the BBQ circuit and we needed to go connect w/ our consumers a little bit. After a morning of retail investigation, we headed to a famous BBQ restaurant where I indulged in my first of many slabs of hot meat for the day. Pulled pork and hush puppies (or sweet corn fritters as they call them in KC). I know there are lots of starving kids in Africa, I always keep that in mind actually – it’s pretty much the only reason I make sure to clean my plate – so with that v. humanitarian mantra ringing in my head, I made sure to eat each of my 28 corn fritters and finish each morsel of my incredibly fatty meat.
(Wait: interjection –don’t you love it when people sitting 5 feet away from you talk about you like you can’t hear them? Currently the two women to my left are talking about my laptop and the fact that I’m a fast typer (indeed!) as if I don’t have ears. I do).
Anyway. Oh, and I ate my coleslaw. So, satiated, we took a quick trip back to the hotel to freshen up before hitting the festival. For the record, it’s October, and in KC yday, it was 90 degrees with about 90% humidity, so why we even bothered to freshen I’m not quite sure, b/c within about 2 minutes of exiting the air-conditioned car and entering the giant fair grounds area I was sweating and sticking to my jeans, which were a poor choice of clothing anyway – but then again I guess I thought the event was indoors or something so I really didn’t know any better.
The BBQ festival: two-sided. On one side: the serious competitors, with team names that convey a def serious tone, you know, names like “Bob’s Butt Rub.” These teams haul giant smokers (exorbitantly-sized grills that cook shit tons of meat for very long periods of time) ½ way across the country and then spend 24+ hours at work on their meats. On the other side, the “party teams” that aren’t entered into the invitational segment of the contest, with much LESS serious team names, like “Lazy Ass BBQ.” Clearly, quite differentiated.
Essentially, all I did yesterday was stroll around a food festival drinking beer, tasting BBQ sauces, while sweating and allowing my clothes and hair to smell more and more like slabs of smoked meat. I got tired, cranky, and considerably more irritated by my manager, who clearly never goes out and thus enjoys these work functions where he can let loose and focus on drinking free alcohol, while making uncomfortable comments about how all the girls he was with (including myself) should work on getting him into the “private parties” (or, access to different BBQ team booths where the Beast, err, pardon, Milwaukee’s Best, flows freely and fat women wearing halter tops shake it on the dirt “dance floor.”).
At 4:30, he reminded us it was time to hit the lau, like 28 times, an “exclusive” event for sponsors. Allow me to set the scene: free food (BBQ, including an entire roasted hog), free drinks (including Kendall J chard and the newest fruit-flavors in the Zima product lineup), girls in hula skirts/cowboy hats and boots/wife-beaters distributing leighs, and a white-jumpsuit clad Elvis impersonator providing the entertainment. My kinda party? Yes, please…
We sent a whole crew of brandies, an agency chick, a couple PR kids, and some sales friends to this thing, as one of our illustrious brands (I won’t say what one, but it’s pretty much the only name-branded charcoal that matters) sponsors a famous competitor on the BBQ circuit and we needed to go connect w/ our consumers a little bit. After a morning of retail investigation, we headed to a famous BBQ restaurant where I indulged in my first of many slabs of hot meat for the day. Pulled pork and hush puppies (or sweet corn fritters as they call them in KC). I know there are lots of starving kids in Africa, I always keep that in mind actually – it’s pretty much the only reason I make sure to clean my plate – so with that v. humanitarian mantra ringing in my head, I made sure to eat each of my 28 corn fritters and finish each morsel of my incredibly fatty meat.
(Wait: interjection –don’t you love it when people sitting 5 feet away from you talk about you like you can’t hear them? Currently the two women to my left are talking about my laptop and the fact that I’m a fast typer (indeed!) as if I don’t have ears. I do).
Anyway. Oh, and I ate my coleslaw. So, satiated, we took a quick trip back to the hotel to freshen up before hitting the festival. For the record, it’s October, and in KC yday, it was 90 degrees with about 90% humidity, so why we even bothered to freshen I’m not quite sure, b/c within about 2 minutes of exiting the air-conditioned car and entering the giant fair grounds area I was sweating and sticking to my jeans, which were a poor choice of clothing anyway – but then again I guess I thought the event was indoors or something so I really didn’t know any better.
The BBQ festival: two-sided. On one side: the serious competitors, with team names that convey a def serious tone, you know, names like “Bob’s Butt Rub.” These teams haul giant smokers (exorbitantly-sized grills that cook shit tons of meat for very long periods of time) ½ way across the country and then spend 24+ hours at work on their meats. On the other side, the “party teams” that aren’t entered into the invitational segment of the contest, with much LESS serious team names, like “Lazy Ass BBQ.” Clearly, quite differentiated.
Essentially, all I did yesterday was stroll around a food festival drinking beer, tasting BBQ sauces, while sweating and allowing my clothes and hair to smell more and more like slabs of smoked meat. I got tired, cranky, and considerably more irritated by my manager, who clearly never goes out and thus enjoys these work functions where he can let loose and focus on drinking free alcohol, while making uncomfortable comments about how all the girls he was with (including myself) should work on getting him into the “private parties” (or, access to different BBQ team booths where the Beast, err, pardon, Milwaukee’s Best, flows freely and fat women wearing halter tops shake it on the dirt “dance floor.”).
At 4:30, he reminded us it was time to hit the lau, like 28 times, an “exclusive” event for sponsors. Allow me to set the scene: free food (BBQ, including an entire roasted hog), free drinks (including Kendall J chard and the newest fruit-flavors in the Zima product lineup), girls in hula skirts/cowboy hats and boots/wife-beaters distributing leighs, and a white-jumpsuit clad Elvis impersonator providing the entertainment. My kinda party? Yes, please…
So, after my second pile of meat for the day, we returned back to our BBQ man’s tent. Let me say here that of all I experienced at this thing, our man may have been the only true joy. An adorable man with beautiful blue eyes, a fantastic personality, an intense focus, and ability to cook what is probably the most amazing BBQ I’ve ever tasted, this guy, was amazing. Dude, my friend Steph hasn’t eaten red meat or pork in well over 10 years, and she ate one of his ribs. Seriously. Anyway, so he made like 10 huge slabs of ribs for us. The meat dropped off the bones. These ribs were like food for the gods. So, pile of meat number three.
After tossing back yet another can of watery American light beer, we decided it was time to go get something for our sweet tooths: an elephant ear. Fried dough. Similar to a funnel cake but with no funnels. A giant deep-fried pancake liberally sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Fresh from the frier and truly the size of a real elephant’s ear, 4 of us shared an ear and made it about ½ way through until I found a giant strand of hair in one of my pieces and deemed the EE party over.
Soon thereafter by manager called to find out where we were in order to meet back out. Thusly grouped, we hit up a little Hawaiin-themed party (what’s the deal w/ Hawaiin-themes???). I stood stiffly and awkwardly as my manager danced lightly to “My Humps.” Call me prude…but I just can’t gyrate to “My Humps” in front of the man that I otherwise discuss sampling opportunities, volume shifts, and PR press releases with. I know, I know, I so have a stick up my ass…
After we headed to the booth next door, whose party included a giant stipper pole in the middle, Jen McB, who happened to be in town (long story, ask her, although I tell it better) asked permission to whisk me off to another booth party (thank the f’in lord). I think I might have thrown up in my mouth or maybe actually on my shoes if I had to watch my manager do anything with a stripper pole in the near vicinity.
Around 10:30, having been in the middle of America’s heartland festival for over 10 hours, exhausted, grumpy, and completely dirty and gross, we left. Friends: please give me at least a few months before you send me back. I need some recovery time. I need to first let my body recover from the shit I put into it, I am contemplating carrots sticks, water, and some sort of flushing mechanism for a week. I need to wash the contents of my luggage, not once, but twice. And I need to let my eyes rest after viewing so many stomachs that actually hung out from beneath the hems of t-shirts emblazoned with such tasteful logos as Abercrombie and Fitch, oh wait, I meant, “Grababoody and Pinch.” Yep, after having thusly detoxed, I may be ready to go back and do it all over again. I don't know. Or maybe, not.
After tossing back yet another can of watery American light beer, we decided it was time to go get something for our sweet tooths: an elephant ear. Fried dough. Similar to a funnel cake but with no funnels. A giant deep-fried pancake liberally sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Fresh from the frier and truly the size of a real elephant’s ear, 4 of us shared an ear and made it about ½ way through until I found a giant strand of hair in one of my pieces and deemed the EE party over.
Soon thereafter by manager called to find out where we were in order to meet back out. Thusly grouped, we hit up a little Hawaiin-themed party (what’s the deal w/ Hawaiin-themes???). I stood stiffly and awkwardly as my manager danced lightly to “My Humps.” Call me prude…but I just can’t gyrate to “My Humps” in front of the man that I otherwise discuss sampling opportunities, volume shifts, and PR press releases with. I know, I know, I so have a stick up my ass…
After we headed to the booth next door, whose party included a giant stipper pole in the middle, Jen McB, who happened to be in town (long story, ask her, although I tell it better) asked permission to whisk me off to another booth party (thank the f’in lord). I think I might have thrown up in my mouth or maybe actually on my shoes if I had to watch my manager do anything with a stripper pole in the near vicinity.
Around 10:30, having been in the middle of America’s heartland festival for over 10 hours, exhausted, grumpy, and completely dirty and gross, we left. Friends: please give me at least a few months before you send me back. I need some recovery time. I need to first let my body recover from the shit I put into it, I am contemplating carrots sticks, water, and some sort of flushing mechanism for a week. I need to wash the contents of my luggage, not once, but twice. And I need to let my eyes rest after viewing so many stomachs that actually hung out from beneath the hems of t-shirts emblazoned with such tasteful logos as Abercrombie and Fitch, oh wait, I meant, “Grababoody and Pinch.” Yep, after having thusly detoxed, I may be ready to go back and do it all over again. I don't know. Or maybe, not.
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