Chapter 4 Ribbed for Our Pleasure
RIBBED FOR OUR PLEASURE
Thank God I’m not a detective anymore, thought Wes Dane as he lovingly dished a ladleful of brisket into a take-out box. Being an investigator was too high-stakes. And saving people’s lives was too draining. It was so much easier to feed them.
And, as the owner of Natural Born Griller, Brooklyn’s latest, greatest barbecue food truck, he delighted in doing exactly that.
As Wes handed off the brisket to his customer, an NYU grad student wearing beaded cornrows, he could feel his face light up with unselfconscious happiness.
He flashed her a smile—the dangerous one, with the dimple.
She blushed. Thanked him with fluttery lashes.
And then disappeared in a cloud of citrus fragrance.
Wes couldn’t have dreamed up a lovelier Saturday. He felt like breakdancing. Had he ever known such contentment, such unrestrained joy? Doubtful. It was a perfect Saturday afternoon. Today,
Natural Born Griller was the featured truck at F.E.A.S.T.
, the weekend food truck market nestled in Prospect Park (Central Park’s chill Brooklyn cousin).
Clear skies, eighty degrees. The crowd was a multiethnic combo of food-fluencers, chic couples, and post-gender friend groups in breezy linens.
And Wes was parked in a prime location. The top seller spot, at the entrance to the clearing.
Also, he had the longest line (not that he was counting). And the most buzz (according to Eater). And the most faithful regulars (they’d named themselves the “Barbecuties”).
Prospect Park was simmering with vivacity. Somebody’s speakers were pumping syrupy, smooth Afrobeat. And Wes’s world, once so action-packed and unpredictable, had been whittled down to a few small elements: Marinade. Braise. Sear. Grill. And he’d never been happier.
This was the life. The crowd was buzzing, and he adored his customers.
They were easy to please! They were fun to please.
Whether they were starving artists buying their one daily meal, or pregnant folks seized by cravings, or obnoxious foodies looking for the next big thing—everyone wanted a delicious treat to enliven their day.
It was just a matter of reading people. Understanding what dish they were in the mood for, and then giving it to them.
Feeding people was compassionate. It was like communion.
It was a reciprocal dopamine rush. And these days, most people were teeter-tottering on the verge, trying not to tip over into despair.
One good brisket could soothe your psychic wound for five minutes, an hour, an afternoon. And Wes Dane had food for every mood.
That’s not a bad tagline, he thought.
“Who’s hungry?” he called out.
A tween boy wearing starter dreadlocks and basketball shorts stepped up. Truth Johnson, a repeat customer.
Wes gave him a powerful pound. “What’s good witcha, dog?”
“Chilling. You?”
“Grilling.”
“That’s wassup, that’s wassup,” said Truth, nodding heavily. “Yo, I came with my girl, this time. She’s over by Soup-er Star.” He cocked his head to the left. “But don’t look!”
“This ain’t my first day on Earth, little buddy. Did you offer to buy her lunch, like I told you?”
“Yeah.” Truth pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket. With confidence, he slammed it on the counter. The cheapest item on Wes’s menu was twelve dollars.
“What should I get?” asked Truth. “I heard from two different sources that she borrowed her dress from Neavah Gray. And she’s mean as hell. So, she can’t spill on it.”
“I got you.” Wes served up a plate of charred chicken bites. “She can just pop ’em in her mouth, no muss no fuss.”
“My man!” exclaimed Truth, and headed to his lucky date.
“Who’s hungry?” asked Wes, squinting in the sun. He never wore sunglasses at work. Too impersonal.
A curvy blonde in a purple maxidress stepped up with her friend, a petite, glum-looking woman wearing a band tee and jorts.
“Hi, Wes,” said the blonde in a sing-songy tone. “You don’t know me, but I follow the Natural Born Griller account on socials. It’s fire. I’m an associate digital strategist, so I say this from a place of absolute professionalism.”
Wes put his hand over his heart, soulfully nodding at her.
“I appreciate you. Thank you. I try.” Actually, he didn’t.
His social media intern oversaw all that.
For someone who could teach a college course on high-level systems hacking, Wes couldn’t get the hang of editing videos.
And he hated posting details about his life.
The secondhand embarrassment part of his brain was too overdeveloped.
“This is my friend,” the blonde said, gesturing to the sad girl. “I dragged her here. She’s not having the best mental health day.”
“Oh, that’s just existential dread,” he quipped cheerfully. “Wings for your trouble?”
Flashing his Natural Born Griller grin (again), Wes handed the sad girl a plate of wings. She didn’t quite smile back—but her eyes softened, matching his friendly energy. The blonde cheered, paid, and then dragged her away. As they left, Wes overheard their short exchange.
“I told you,” whispered the blonde.
“Do you think he knows?” wondered the sad one.
“Oh, he knows,” she responded. “Look at his joggers.”
Wes glanced down. He was wearing the same gray joggers, crisp tee, and Yankees snapback that virtually every millennial Black Brooklynite had on that summer.
He was cooking outside in the heat; he wasn’t focused on what he was wearing.
But whatever magic the joggers possessed, they just sold almost four hundred dollars in the past hour.
He bit down on a proud smirk. Whatever worked.
Wesley Dane was a competitive person. No matter the game, he craved winning.
So, when he decided that selling barbecue was his calling, failure wasn’t an option.
Wes had a few shortcomings: He had no idea how to run a food truck, or even cook professionally.
He’d never worked at a restaurant. But starting in his twenties, from early summer to late fall, he’d fire up the grill and his kickback playlist—and everyone he knew would gather at his Fort Greene studio apartment (his space was microscopic, but it had backyard access).
Some of his favorite memories happened on those endless Saturdays, with friends from disparate eras of his life munching on his slightly overseasoned, decidedly unaesthetic barbecue, chilling on the couch, the floor, the counters—till all hours.
Those parties were a blissful reprieve from detective work.
One night, he thought, I could live like this forever. And a light bulb went off. Why not monetize this passion? Sink it into a new business? Find some investors, research grilling on a larger scale, and do this thing?
So, Wes bought a retro, seventies-style truck on a deep discount and fixed it up himself.
(He did employ the help of his boy, Spare Parts Shawn, who supplied him with a brand-spanking-new oven of dubious origin.
Wes had a hookup for everything.) When he was finished decorating and renovating, the truck looked like something out of a cool, low-budget action flick. You had to notice it.
Then, he brushed up on his grilling chops.
The most talented pitmaster he ever met was his great-uncle Rudy, a career cook at several iconic soul food spots.
When his wife kicked him out for excessive gambling, Wes allowed Uncle Rudy to sleep on his pull-out couch for a few months—in exchange for teaching Wes all his barbecue knowledge; especially about brisket, which would be his signature dish.
An expert schmoozer, he pulled some strings to garner entry into F.E.A.S.T.
Traffic was slow, at first. His truck was untested, and he was parked in the least-desirable position (behind a swing set).
Then, it occurred to him—he needed an unforgettable logo.
So, he had his cousin, a Spotify graphic designer, whip up a Blacksploitation-style design that matched the truck’s throwback vibe.
On the logo, Wes was shirtless, wearing roughed-up carpenter pants, Timbs, a scowl, and a spatula jutting out of his apron pocket.
His cousin photographed Wes from the ground up, making him (and his spatula, wink) look extra-larger than life.
It was wild, comic book-y. And plastered on the side of the truck? It was gold.
Everything changed. In the span of one fall weekend, Natural Born Griller became a destination. His lines were long; his customers effusive. But it wasn’t until his social media intern pointed him to the comments section of her latest post, that he fully understood his fanbase.
@mollyfranks I’ll beat his meat
@carohmel98 Get behind me, sis, I’m about to pull his pork
@brooklynbaddie After I jerk his chicken
@tina1995 I heard he’s ribbed for our pleasure
For two seconds, Wes was insulted. Jerk his chicken? He’d sunk a good chunk of cash into that truck. He’d sous-chef’ed and lived with his intolerably unkempt Uncle Rudy for months. He expected to be taken seriously. But his indignation was short-lived. Because wasn’t this his plan, all along?