LC’s Bar-B-Q
The word “dive” when referred to a restaurant, can have a
negative connotation, but in using it when describing LC’s Bar-B-Q, it is
written with deep respect, for LC’s is a serious dive.
Situated next to the Blue River, which is anything but blue,
LC’s Bar-B-Q shares its neighborhood with a couple of used car dealers, a
garbage dump service, and a garage, which means its customers are coming there,
not because they spotted it on the way home from church and just want to try it
out because of a fancy neon sign. Their customers are intentional, serious
eaters of bar-b-que, and they come to this neighborhood joint from all over the
city for some serious bar-b-que. Maybe the Blue River is named after the blue
collar locals that are the lifeblood of this community.
When peering through the barred windows, one can see that
the inside mimics the outside. Small, cramped, undusted, unglamorous, and
serious, it brings to mind Grimaldi’s Pizza in Brooklyn where the food is
serious and the food left on the table from last week is all part of the charm.
The difference here being that at LC’s the tables are cleaned often enough that
you don’t mind putting your elbows on the table when taking on a rib.
Walking through the door, the first thing that greeted
Andrew and me were the long lines, one waiting to order on one side, and one
waiting on their order on the other. The some-six or seven tables in the joint
only hold some-24 to 28 people, which is why they probably added a stand-up
table in the back corner that can accommodate a maximum of 3 people shoulder-to-shoulder.
Each table had a paper towel holder. Some of the holders have paper towels. LC,
the original owner who has since passed on, has an “office” memorialized to him
against the west wall with two of his pictures hanging over a modest desk and
chair, and three very large catfish hanging on the wall, acting as guardians to
keep another stander from sitting down. The office takes up a four-foot square
space, as unpretentious as everything else in LC’s.
The smoker is in your face, right behind the counter, and
displays the bountiful stacks of meat they have for the day; when it’s gone,
it’s gone. Better come back earlier tomorrow. Its lovely smoke will permeate
your clothes upon entering. If your wife has you on a diet, you had better
change and shower off the betrayal before you get home, or at least have the
courtesy to bring some BBQ home for her as an apology. When you order, you wait
a good 10 to 15 minutes before you’re served, but the serious gentleman behind
the counter apologizes to you in a way that expresses years of practice. It’s
just how things are done around here, and people don’t seem to care much
because the meal is worth the wait.
When the food comes out, it doesn’t look very special. Each
item is served individually on its own white Styrofoam plate or bowl, the white
more easily showing the bar-b-que sauce dripping down the side and onto
whatever gravity chooses for its final resting place. If you’re lucky enough to
find a seat at one of the tables, the payoff comes next. If you haven’t gotten
enough of the smoke in the air, you will get your share with the food. The
burnt ends, both beef and pork, have a thick, crispy bark that shoves the smoke
in your face, obtrusively, unapologetically. You’d have to have Covid mouth not
to notice the smoke. In creating the bark, the meat’s moisture suffers
slightly, which is why they pour a good helping of their tomato-based sweet and
tangy house sauce on top. Two slices of white on bottom and one on top makes
for a one-pound sandwich that must be eaten with a fork, or forks.
When you eat the sides, that’s where LC’s catfish guardians on
the wall play in to the restaurant’s style. Spicy battered green beans that
remind you of hush puppies, and panko-battered onion rings make you feel like
you are at a fish fry. They, themselves, could pose as the meal, and you would
walk out satisfied. It is this amalgamation of south meets KC’s Midwest that
makes LC’s unique, as if LC’s needed any help in that arena. Top it off with a
small portion of their peach cobbler, not that you had room for that, and you
and a buddy are walking into the fresh-ish air outside a mere 30 dollars
lighter in the wallet. Amazing price point! Maybe this is why an extra cup of
sauce costs 50 cent--something I overlooked considering.
In this day and age of out-of-control inflation, LC’s is waging
war for their customers. Go to LC’s Bar-B-Q if you want a traditional, original,
blue-collar, Kansas City Bar-b-que experience.
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