Lies Come with that Shake at "Ribs-n-things"

Business: Ribs-n-things

Location: 4302 Rhode Island Ave. (Route 1), Brentwood, MD 20722
Date of incident: April 2006, Night of the NCAA Championship Basketball game

Quick Hit
The 2006 NCAA Basketball Championship game was ruined for me this year by too-salty pork and an even saltier carry-out restaurant owner who made an empty guarantee. Read the full story about how I was swine-dled at Ribs-n-things.

The Run-up
Milkshakes aren’t even on the menu at Ribs-n-things in Brentwood, MD. I just needed a kitschy headline to draw you readers into this harangue about this new rib joint on rte. 1. But if Ribs-n-things did sell milkshakes I’m sure they’d tell you they are the “Best Milkshakes in Town.” But you shouldn’t believe the hype.

Ribs-n-things’ slogan sets them up as the place with the “BEST BBQ IN TOWN.” Well, maybe if by “in town” they literally mean the 0.38 square mile, 3,000-person burg of Brentwood. And even then, J’s Soul Food on Bladensburg Rd. might have a little something to say about that. But this isn’t an article about who pulls the best pork. It’s simply a tale about loose lips and broken promises.

So on the culminating, championship night of the all-time greatest sporting event ever invented by man (with the UFC running a close second), the NCAA Basketball Tournament, I rolled down Rte. 1 to pick up my partner down in the Woodridge section of NE D.C. The plan was that we’d scoop up some victuals for my whole family and him on the way back out to Beltsville where we’d watch the game in my basement. We were both feeling like succulent barbeque ribs was the only cuisine befitting such a momentous event. (We’d be rooting for UCLA, by the way, since George Mason had already been knocked out after a spectacular Cinderella showing in the tourney. And because I usually root for the underdog if I don’t have a dog in the match. And, finally, because I absolutely loved Tyus Edney’s and Cameron Dollar’s performances in the tournament during UCLA’s march to the championship back in 1995.)

As my partner and I headed back north, we didn’t exactly know where we’d get these ribs, but we were sure there’d be some place—either a hole in the wall like where we ended up, or at Hard Time Café at the top edge of College Park. Not long after we crossed the MD line, this bright red awning and pastel-shaded building festooned with the sort of flags you see surrounding car dealerships caught our collective eye. Hallelujah!! It was a rib joint! A brand new rib joint, at that! So we just knew they would be trying extra hard to build clientele by offering great customer service and fabulous, thick and tender, zesty, meaty portions. So we hang a u-turn and pull into the tiny parking lot. I went inside and my partner remained in the car. The place was brightly lit and still had that sanitary, brand-spanking-new veneer to it. “A good sign,” I thought to myself. Boy, was I about to be fooled.

As I strolled up to the order-window, taking in all the porcine delights on the menu, the Asian gentleman behind the bullet-proof encasement said something to the effect of “Can I help you, sir?” Smiling, and only half-joking, I asked him, “So, are the ribs pretty good here?” “Yes, sir! Best in town. I guarantee. If you don’t like them I’ll give your money back.”

"Wow! These must be some skippy-dippy good ribs if dude is willing to refund my money just ‘cause I say they didn’t stack up to Red Hot & Blue," I thought. But, realistically, what did I expect him to say, “You know, they’re ok…could be better…”? What got me was the guarantee. But despite its novelty and seemingly sincere delivery, I even blew that off as simple bluster and proceeded to order. I mean, why would I think that I’d ever need to take him up on his warranty? It was a brand new spot, with brothers who looked like they hailed straight from Pork Loin, NC back there manning the barbeque spit, for cryin’ out loud.

Well, you know how sometimes after a situation has gone down you wish you had had an orb-shaped video camera following you wherever you went, hovering over your head recording everything (well, almost everything) that went on in your life for future playback? Or is that just me? At any rate, this was one of those instances. I wished that guarantee had been captured digitally for playback when required. Because, yes, you guessed it, it was required.

The Beef (or in this case, pork)
When we arrived home with our huge order for feeding three grown folks, a teen, and two children, we all dug in like Hurley on Lost after he found the peanut butter stash. And almost simultaneously, from different parts of the house, came the call, “Dang! These are some salty ribs!!!” These ribs tasted like one chef had begun preparing them, had to leave due to a family emergency, calling for a different chef to take over not knowing that the first chef had already salted them. And then that replacement cook, having salted them again, was put on coleslaw and replaced by a third unwitting chef who added another dose of sodium. (Okay, so I'm giving the place way too much credit by calling them chefs.) I think we managed to get through one, maybe one-and-a-half ribs each before our lips began to sting and shrivel and we had to take serious water. Talk about upset!!!! The game was on, UCLA was losing, and we couldn’t partake of this sensuous delicacy sitting before us.

Needless to say, my night was pretty much ruined. And the prospect of the trek back to D.C., expending more precious gas to take my man home, was made even less attractive by everything that had transpired. But we had to pass right by Ribs-n-things again to get him home. And, as possibly evidenced by the existence of this Web site, I’m not one to just let things go once an expectation has been set. So, of course I stopped back in, with a few of the ribs in the box.

As I approached the window this time I opened with, “Ok, I’m back to put your ‘guarantee’ to the test.” The owner, the same Asian gentleman who sold me the ribs originally and made the guarantee, looked puzzled. Then it suddenly hit him and he beamed, “Oh, I remember you!” (It had only been about three hours, mind you.) “Good. Now I’m here to put your guarantee to the test,” I repeated. “These ribs were so salty that we couldn’t eat more than one or two of them. You can taste them if you want.”

And then there was that moment. You know that moment: When you realize things are not what they seem, and think that some ugliness may be called for in order to put things back in balance. In this context it was when the owner evidently processed everything I was saying, got to the part in his head where he envisioned crediting my Visa, and suddenly went sullen. He shook his head and said that he couldn’t give me my money back, that he couldn’t do business that way, etc., etc. My retort, of course, was to ask why, then, he would make such a guarantee if he knew he would not honor it and return my money. He then acquiesced slightly and said that if I gave back the ribs he’d return some of my money. But, as I explained to him: 1) That’s not what the guarantee was, and 2) I did not bring back all the ribs, because some had been placed on various persons’ plates and I thought it would be unsanitary and messy to pick through them, place them back in the box and transport them back here. (We really only brought the ribs back out with us because my guest hoped the saltiness might wane some and he could eat them later. He’s optimistic [read: greedy] like that. I had not planned to stop back at the rib spot when we left the house. It just began to fester the closer we got to the place.)

Needless to say, we got a little loud…ok, I got a little loud and berated him, in a cordial manner, of course, for making false claims just to bolster business. Then I did something uncharacteristic. I told him he could have his sorry ribs back…and proceeded to dump them into the change plate, that little metal cut-out in the bullet-proof glass. And I walked out. In the parking lot I met two gentlemen on their way in and took the time to briefly explain my experience with the super-salty ribs. They turned around and departed in their pick-up without ever going in.

Epilogue

So, as you can probably tell, I’ve been carrying that one around with me for a while, and it has great significance in terms of the impetus for the launch of this site.

As soon as I arrived back home that night I got online and placed a stop-payment on my Ribs-n-things credit card transaction. I fully expected to hear from the belligerent owner of the place, either directly or through my bank or credit card company. But I have not.

The lessons in this story are not new ones:

• Don’t say it if you don’t mean it; have some integrity. Quite honestly, I didn't expect to actually get my money back when I went back to Ribs-n-things. But what I did expect, given the guarantee that was issued, was a sympathetic ear, an apology maybe, but especially not to be treated with outright derision.
• Don’t believe it unless you get it in writing (or capture it on your personal float-y video thingy).
• Ask for a taste test. I actually did this, but the piece that I tasted was either too small to be representative of what we were getting, or it came from a different cut.
• And most importantly, THINK TWICE BEFOR EATING AT RIBS-N-THINGS!!!!
• And, oh yeah, when it comes to the NCAA tournament, past performance does not dictate future achievement.

Turns out it’s the ribs and the things you gotta watch out for at Ribs-n-things.