Freddy's BBQ

Even the most important man in the world stops for pig. In a world consistently busy where no one has time any more, the slow roasted, Pee Dee style, pepper vinegar sauce based Wilbur can get anyone from any walk of life to shut up and eat. 

At least, we can only speak of the pig served at Freddy’s BBQ joint in Baltimore, a South Carolina style BBQ joint near our nation’s capitol.

Follow the sign to the nondescript dive where no hours are posted.  The place opens when the owner feels like it and closes when his gut tells him to.  

Drinks are Kool Aid and Mexican Coke and his porkers come from Ferguson Farms, 45 minutes up north cared for by 4-H members.

The ribs served aren’t Instagram worthy and waiting a second longer than one should when the ribs are placed right in front of you is a disservice to the owner and your namesake.

There is a science to eating the ribs at Freddy’s. First, break the slab in half with the two hands God gave you.  Work your way from the center of the left to center of the right, not the other way around.  It’s biblical and any other way is just bad voodoo, plain and simple. Sapid and deliciously crispy.

There’s a je ne sais quoi to eating the barbecue at Freddy’s. No matter who you are, where you came from, what your title is or how much money you make, when you take that first bite, you feel like the fucking President of the United States of America.