food | America

The food arrived and, even if Aleck’s had not resonated with history, it would still be heaven. Drenched in a tangy red homemade barbecue sauce, the ribs were a transcendent culinary experience, their wilting tenderness and deep, rich flavor transporting me out of myself as if the stool I was sitting on suddenly spun around and threw me airborne.

I went back probably a dozen times over the years, sometimes traveling hours out of my way to go there. It never occurred to me that a place so timeless would ever go out of business. The no-tion never even entered my mind. Had the thought ever strayed into my head, I would have thought that some interest group would be looking after it, making sure it went on forever. Great authentic eateries, after all, are what make this country what it is. They should be saved, at least as much as whales and trees.

I drove up the street several blocks, then back down the street. Up and down. Again. And again. And again.

This was inconceivable.

Finally, I just parked there.

I gazed at the empty space where Aleck’s used to be. After a while, I looked over at my young son. So much for myths. Sometimes even fairy tales die. That Sam would be denied knowing a temple of true America gastronomy and history was doubtless more wrenching to me than to him.

Still, there ought to be a law.