Dickey’s BBQ and the Standard That Wasn’t Met

I have lived in seven places and traveled to dozens more.  Each has its own unique take on food—Italian balsamic vinegar so thick it oozed, Korean fried chicken that leaves its American progenitor in the dust, whatever that meat on a stick was from a Thai food cart.  I’ve been blessed to try some amazing food in interesting places, and finding the intersection of the two is the best part of going somewhere new.

Colorado Springs, however, is a disappointment.  My wife and I have entered many a restaurant with high hopes, only to have them dashed on the flavorless rocks.  Nowhere is the more prevalent than with the local BBQ scene.

We have tried four different BBQ places, each more meh than the last.  It’s as though the chefs took their inspiration from Colorado’s lack of humidity and tried to outdo each other on who can cook the driest meat. 

The one BBQ place close to our house we hadn’t tried was Dickey’s, for two reasons.  One: it’s a chain—chains and good BBQ have the same relationship as gas stations and good sushi.  Two: it’s the lowest rated on Google Maps by a wide margin.  Given how many 4.5+ star restaurants we’ve tried that appear to have a heavy handicap, Dickey’s floating around 3-star territory was a red flag.

Yet here I was, holding the door open at Dickey’s as my family trooped through.  Clutched in my hand was the rationalization—a coupon for a free two-meat plate meal.  I wasn’t willing to pay full price to be disappointed, but half price?  Sign me up.

As I walked in, the smell hit me like a shot of enlightenment.  It was perfect BBQ smell, that smokey scent that sizzles in the back of your nostrils and draws you forward like a 90s cartoon character.  My wife and I exchanged a look, one that said maybe we were wrong.

We quickly got into line and passed our orders onto the eager high school student manning the meat trays.  I’m a simple man with simple tastes: brisket, pulled pork, mac n’ cheese, corn bread, and baked beans.  The smell coming over the counter continued to whisper sweet nothings into my ear, promising me that my search had finally come to its end.

Unfortunately, the kitchen had no intention on delivering on that promise.

We sat down and I reached for the first dish—the brisket.  I always get brisket at BBQ places because when it’s done right, it’s transcendent.  A good brisket requires no sauce—no, it demands no sauce.  Sauce is a crutch used by lesser briskets to trick people into forgetting that it used to be the cheapest cut of meat off a cow.  What you need is that smoky, charred edge as a one-way ticket to Flavortown.

This brisket, however, sat in front of me as a chopped and unrecognizable mash indistinguishable from any of the other brown mass on my plate.  My shoulders slumped, but I stabbed my fork into the questionable pile and took a principled bite with no sauce.

Before I could finish chewing, I already was reaching for the sauce.  I chewed and felt my saliva glands activate, but mentally I couldn’t determine if there was actual food in my mouth.  The flavor was AWOL.  The brisket conveyed protein and nothing else—the culinary equivalent of a shrug.

Next was the pulled pork.  I had higher hopes for this one, as no fewer than three signs within eyesight claimed that Dickey’s had America’s #1 rated pulled pork—a claim backed up by several major outlets.  I believed it.  After the brisket, I needed something to believe in.  I raised my fork to my mouth, ready to be rewarded.

My wife and I once traveled to the Sahara to spend a night in the dunes.  This pulled pork brought me back there so viscerally I felt the camel under me again.  When I say this pork was dry, it rivaled the face full of sand I got when I crashed duneboarding.  I have slept in those dunes.  I know what that desert feels like.  This pulled pork was a credible recreation.

I didn’t remove the signs on the wall when I left, so they are likely still there, tricking other would-be consumers.  I have questions about the methodologies of whatever outlets issued that rating.

The mac n’ cheese arrived gelatinous.  It was the kind of gelatinous that has just enough chew to raise questions about its fundamental nature—whether that’s cheese on the noodles or something that has recently developed opinions.  Some horrors are meant to remain buried.

I slid the bowl over to my toddler without comment.  He, in turn, accepted it without complaint, which either speaks poorly of his palate’s early-stage development or his judgement.  Both possibilities concern me.

The cornbread muffin came shrink-wrapped in plastic.  This is never a good sign.  A meal that requires individual packaging for its bread course has already made a series of decisions you were not consulted on because you would likely not approve.  Plastic wrap is a barrier that works both ways—sure, it keeps things out, but it keeps things contained, too.

One bite confirmed that the primary ingredient was chemicals.  Not a specific chemical—just the general concept.  I put it back on my plate and left it there, the one bite standing as my mute protest to what was done to me.  In retrospect, the shrink wrap was a courtesy warning.

We left the restaurant like soldiers trudging home after losing the war.  On the drive back, my wife gave her analysis for the problem: we have high standards.  I’ve heard this before.  I’ve agreed with this before.  It makes sense—we’ve traveled widely, eaten well across multiple continents, and have reference points most people don’t have.  Of course our standards would be high.

Then we drive past Chili’s.  The steak bacon ranch quesadilla immediately jumps to mind, my go-to order at the restaurant any foodie would consider a small step above eating from the dumpster outside of it.  I have ordered it many times in many places—on four continents, actually.  I have enjoyed it every single time without reservation or embarrassment. 

So instead of nodding my agreement, this time I pushed back.  It’s not that our standards are high, it’s that we have a clear understanding of what matters most with food: does it taste good?

My wife and I had the opportunity to eat at a three Michelin star restaurant in Rome.  They had a seven-page water menu, if that says anything to you about the hoity toityness of the place.  We came, we ate, we left.  But when we left, we both shared a look that said, that was it?  We had enjoyed street food off a sketchy cart earlier in the day far more than what theoretically should have rocked our worlds.  Why?

The standard here is not sophistication.  It’s not ingredients, or price point, or prestige.  All my rubric consists of is whether or not I’m happy with how it tastes.

One of my favorite foods are the tacos from Jack in the Box.  For those who haven’t had the pleasure, they have both the visual appearance and physical texture of wet cat food.  I make no excuses for that, but I will still happily eat a dozen of them in a single sitting.  I defend these tacos knowing they are indefensible.  I’m from Southern California—I know what good tacos are.  They’re one food category where my standards are genuinely high. 

That said, I still eat Jack in the Box tacos because when you pair them with their drippings-from-industrial-equipment hot sauce, they are delicious.  I’m not defending ignorance; I’m defending honest enjoyment.

Here, then, is the standard I plant on this hill: am I happy I just shoved whatever I did into my mouth?  By this standard—the lowest possible standard, the floor-level standard, the standard that cheerfully defends wet-cat-food-adjacent fast food tacos—Dickey’s failed.  This is not snobbery.  The bar was on the ground and they went under it.

The baked beans were solid, though.