The night was far younger than we realized. Someone invited us to have a drink at Wild Bill’s, which a local would later call “the last real place in Memphis.”
The P&H, or Poor & Hungry, Cafe looks both poor and hungry. The whole building looks like it would be the first thing to blow away in a tornado.
The Ribs. Succulent, platonically moist, fall-aparty, infused with Memphis-style charcoal smoke, served with a dusting of finishing-spice and a side of sweet house sauce. In other words, perfection.
Maybe it was the way she said patty, but the patty melt won. We asked if she could cut ours into thirds. She smiled. I wondered how long she’d worked there and been forced to listen to stupid shit like this.
The only guy not wearing a hoodie was bald, and his entire face and scalp were tattooed with coiling black snakes.
She looked at me with big, childlike eyes and made a pouty face. I could tell she was about to say….something.
We really wanted to work the river into our weeklong stay, but that would prove more difficult than we imagined. As usual, day drinking solved the problem.
Memphis just wants to be happy doing what Memphis does. Memphis feels a little sorry for you if you see it any other way.