We traipse along in our mundane, but necessary, routines and every so often there’s a glimpse of sunshine in the form of a loved one’s smile, the simplicity of a child’s innocent love, or surprising and delicious morsels of food. The latter occurred last night. A moment of bliss in the early evening. After a long family day of helping Jo’s mother unpack we all went around the corner and picked up some pretty goddam decent barbecue.

My son, as usual, ran around the place like a madman while we waited and avoided the annoyed faces of the staff. We were all tired and over it. I treated for dinner and Auntie bought a round of margaritas while we waited for food. And there it was. No, not the sweet relief provided by the salt rim and alcohol (although the margs were delicious and well deserved). No, my son jetted out into the parking lot and as I ran after him in a panic–the exhausted, middle aged father just craving one goddam moment of respite and not getting it–there it was, the smoker.

Yes, there’s nothing that beckons to a man like one of these magnificent creations. A pontoon with a black matte finish. A torpedo providing a greasy, shit eating grin. The little dials and gauges on it sparkling like far away sailboats in the last moments of sun. Large enough to bury two large people inside, or smoke them if it all came to that. Ah ha ha! What is it about seeing one of these marvelous contraptions that makes the dad’s heart sing so? The very essence of my being reached out and even in the face of frustration and near collapse, I became elated.

The smoker! A well tuned violin for those who have spent enough time learning its intricacies. The perfect time and temperature. The type of wood, the well guarded seasoning. All designed to produce the blackened surface of the holy brisket. I still remember my first time. Standing in the pouring rain in Austin for just one taste of the magic. An employee handing out samples as I waited. The exterior of the brisket jet black and the inside pink as the palest rose petal. The taste unlike anything. Pure America. Succulent, fatty, and oh so pleasurable. My fingers and lips left with smears of fat and the remnants of the secret spice blend.

I picked up my kid and closed in, albeit with a respectful distance and gait, like approaching a great, beached leviathan still thrashing along the shore. The age old scent of smoked barnyard animals coming off the surface in waves. Reminiscent of days I had spent in Texas. Anytime I smell that magical, oily, sooty bouquet I am transported back to the Lone Star State for better or worse. The massive lunchrooms of sweaty men and women chewing and quaffing while seated at picnic tables. The very air so thick with burnt wood it coats the lungs and moisturizes the skin.

“There it is, boy,” I said. “The holy smoker. Someday…Someday.”

Yes, I once had a backyard where I grilled over coal, not gas. Those times and memories now distant and barely glimpseable. I have to squint a bit to conjure it all up but right there too, lurks another horizon. Yes, there I am, a little older, the old paunch more magnificent than ever, alongside my very own smoker, in a backyard somewhere, a beer in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, my own special mix I dusted over the blessed brisket twinkling like fairy glitter as I shut the lid and darkness closes. The car trunk shot from a Tarantino movie. Yes. A man can dream.

But of course, BBQ is all about the sides. Yes, there’s the ribs and the fatty brisket slathered in spicy, sweet sauce but for me taters, coleslaw, collard greens, beans, and mac and cheese is the true glue holding a good joint together. No brisket in southern California can hold up to the holy meccas in Austin, but then again, it’s the same to be said of any mouth worthy product when you’re smack dab in the holy temples themselves, looking up into the rafters, mouth agape. Guinness will always taste better in Ireland, Chianti in Tuscany.

Back at the apartment, in the throes of hunger, we dove into the take out like hyenas. Wild abandon. Yes, a feeding frenzy triggered by the wafting scents once the containers were opened and the contents spilled their collective musk into the air. No conversations now, the only sounds in the place the cacophony of lip smacking and occasional gasps of air.

More silence in the aftermath as we licked our fingers and eyeballed the banana pudding. The five of us giving off suitable sighs and gasps of content while still praising the big surprise of the night, the whole smoked chicken. Subtle and moist like walking out of an air conditioned room into a perfect summer night.