Filed from the chlorinated warzone of the Quality Inn Pool, Main Street, USA
The DeathJuice crew is on location.
This week, we’ve taken our caravan of chaos to Richfield, Utah—gateway to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, yes, the candy mountain of folk song fame, sugar-coated lies, and long-forgotten boxcar dreams. But we’re not here for your nostalgia. We’re here to tube the river, wreck our shins on underwater rocks, and wage chemical warfare in the Quality Inn’s pool area with Dollar General pool noodles and watermelon White Claws.
To say we’ve “taken over” the pool would be like saying the Berlin Wall was just a local zoning dispute. Our dominance is total. Germans on the Costa del Sol would bow to our towel placement strategies.
Tubin’ and Baitin’
Fueled by vintage glory and arcade pixel violence, we resurrected the 1980s via a few sweaty rounds of Toobin’. Spirits soared higher than a Mary Poppins kite on an Adderall wind. Floating the river tomorrow is the mission, but tonight was about hunting meat and testing faith.
The eternal travel question arose:
Do you risk local flavor, or submit to the predictable embrace of national chains with beige walls and half-frozen ranch dressing?
We rolled the dice. We went local.
Welcome to Boren’s: Where Fat Is Flavor and Flavor Is… Absent?
Boren’s Steakhouse is just a block away from the hotel. Naturally, we drove. Because this is America and walking a block is an act of either penance or felony suspicion.
The subwoofer growled Get Dead’s “Bad News” as we rolled up like punk rock cattle to the slaughter. Inside? Picnic tables. Sparse decor. The sound system was dripping Jason Aldean-style country twang—music that screams “Try That in a Small Town,” while offering you a lukewarm Dr Pepper and a side of condescension.
The staff? Polite. Hopeful even. You get the sense they wanted us to like it.
We ordered. Ribs and brisket. The sacred cuts. The test of any true smokehouse.
Back at the hotel, full of anticipation (and brisket-scented shame), we unwrapped our bounty.
What followed was a meaty betrayal.
Fat. So much fat. More fat than a British chippy’s fryer during peak hours. Lean option? That was a lie. It was as if someone whispered “beef” over a bag of suet and called it brisket.
BBQ: A History Soaked in Smoke and Something More Sinister
Let’s have a real talk. BBQ in America is complicated. Its roots are entangled in deep, often painful history. Developed out of necessity and brilliance by the oppressed, it’s been colonized into a flavorless parody by the same folks that now charge $23.99 for gristle wrapped in a wet napkin.
“Low and slow” is the slogan, but what it really means is, “We took trash meat and cooked it until you gave up and paid for it anyway.”
And the sauces? Nashville, Memphis, Carolina, Alabama White Death… all of it is a desperate attempt to distract you from the fact that what you’re eating would have been a hard sell to a feral hog.
Chains vs. Charms
Now here’s the kicker. Some of those national chains people sneer at? Yeah, they started out as local joints that actually nailed it. Before the investors, before the franchising, before the soul dilution.
Meanwhile, the restaurants that stay small town?
Sometimes it’s because they’re community treasures. But more often? It’s because they think slapping Toby Keith on the stereo and wrapping a napkin around a wad of fat passes as “authentic.”
TL;DR
We gambled. We lost. And now our insides feel like a smoker full of regret and Crisco.
But tomorrow… tomorrow we float the river.
We cleanse the sins of Boren’s in the holy waters of the Sevier.
We reclaim our joy.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll pack a lunch.
DEATHJUICE DOT COM
Never trust a rib that jiggles.