(A cry for help from The Boyfriend)
I’m so excited.
And I just can’t hide it.
I’m about to lose control…and you know what? I think I like it.
(Ed. Note: Yeah, he went there.)
In just a little more than a week, Julie and I are heading to Memphis for a long weekend. I’m excited to the point of giddiness. We’ve been so busy for the past four months that we haven’t been to the movies, let alone traveled.
Since money is tight, as it is for most people nowadays, we decided to put together a short trip that wouldn’t break the bank account. We wanted a destination that (1) neither of us has ever visited, (2) could be reached in a few hours by car, and (3) that offers relatively cheap accommodations, food, and entertainment.
As a native Southerner, I’ m contractually obligated at some time in my life to embark upon a pilgrimage to Graceland and to pay homage to The King. (If you were born after 1980, they actually put a Post-It note on your birth certificate.) Since I’m not getting any younger, and since Memphis fits all other requirements for a relatively cheap weekend getaway, we are heading to Beale Street. Our goals for the weekend: barbecue, music, barbecue, Elvis, blues, barbecue, beer, pork, and barbecue.
This is where you come in.
Neither of us really knows anything about Memphis. We have, of course, done some nosing around the internet in an attempt to scope out activities for the weekend, and we’ve found some well-known, oft-visited places that show promise. But this trip is largely about barbecue. And the best barbecue often hides in out-of-the-way places. And I don’t want good barbecue…I want the best damned barbecue that Memphis has to offer.
If you have first-hand knowledge of Memphis barbecue, or reliable second-hand knowledge, please pass your information on to Julie and me here at wine me, dine me.
We anxiously await your replies.
(Editor’s note: No large chains, please.)




