Paris, Texas

Listen, don’t look up, don’t look down, whatever you do, please don’t look around. With your eyes closed, your palate a dome and your tongue a cushion to the meat melting in your mouth, you could be a courtier or a courtesan. If you don’t look up over your shoulder as you tear delicate tendrils of brisket, the silkiness and succulence of the meat will make you forget for a moment that this is frontier territory.

I told you, but you had to look up, down, and around: you had to spot the stuffed menagerie hanging from the walls, the plastic forks and paper plates, the soda dispenser, the Nascar hero in his post-prandial Sunday best. Above all, you had to see the glassy-eyed raccoons making a mockery of culture, history and decency in their miniature kayak.