Phil's BBQ ...
Is it weird to bite into a sandwich and hear music? … Cue the Stevie Wonder. I mean seriously … I don't know quite how it happened, but a man has stolen my heart … with BBQ sauce no less. With moist, charred pulled pork to boot. And if it wasn't so frowned upon, I'd go ahead and tell you how I really feel … I love you … I love you, you inanimate caricature … mustached grill master … hoister of blue-ribbon ribs known to others as Phil … but to me as my GRUB-amore. Before this thing between me and Phil gets creepier (wait, really … too late?) take a journey with me down to SD … a magical blend of surfer brahs, Shamu fanatics, and BBQ warlords. My adventure started out on a Monday night … pulling into Phil's parking lot only to come face to face with the most horrific site these eyes have ever seen … a half dozen signs crushing my soul with a "Sorry … we're closed Mondays." So like any good GRUB-soldier, I picked out a choice spot up front, tilted my seat back … cried for a little bit … and camped out for 24 hours. Okay, fine … some of these facts may be slightly inaccurate … I cried a lot a bit. So with an extra day of anticipation under my belt, I headed back the following night and was met with the white-rhino of Phil's BBQ … only a handful of people in line to place their order. This might not at first sound impressive, but within 15 minutes of getting there, the line wrapped half way around the building, creeping up to the Disneyland-esque "approximate wait time from this point" sign (and like the rest of the top notch operation Phil is running … he gives you that wait time down to the second). As I approached the counter, my mind was pretty much already set. I mean, can you really pass up a pulled pork sandwich called … The Broham? As with everything at Phil's, this is a monster of a sandwich … a crispy, warm, mind-blowing-in-its-own-right bun cradles a bed of cool homemade coleslaw topped off with an un-Godly … I take that back … topped off with a Godly amount of never-ending pulled pork overflowing with BBQ sauce. Now, in my mind, the pulled pork is pretty much unmatched by anyone … unreal juiciness, but with a nice bit of smoky crunch to the edges … it's pure magic. But the kicker to this whole dance is the BBQ sauce. Let's just say, I finally get what Champ from Anchorman was going on and on about. It's straight crack. And like all good crack … it never stops flowing. I was about to get a side order of BBQ sauce for our fries … and damn was I glad I didn't … because the amount they loaded onto the Broham was enough for my sandwich, my fries, my coleslaw … my Mr. Pibb. But lest you think I'm complaining about the amount of sauce … it's just the opposite my GRUB-mate. Phil’s BBQ sauce is the answer to … well, everything. Put it on a rash, baptize a baby with it, use it as a mulch in your garden … and I'm pretty sure if we thought hard enough about it … it could solve world peace. Matching up with all this mayhem was a "small order of fries"… which translates into … "giant tray-o-fries" and another side order of that perfect BBQ companion … coleslaw. I've had my fare number of trips down to San Diego to visit Phil, but this was the first I came face to face with his newest temptation … giant whoopee pies. Now, my little lady has been known to throw down some pretty mean whoopee pies … and I'll still give her the edge … but these giant morsels of two chewy oatmeal cookies encasing a center of sweet, pink frosting was the perfect way to top of this GRUB-fest. I don't know how you do it Phil … but damn am I glad you do. So join me in my praise … try it out for yourself … and may I be damned if you don't start humming …
"I believe when I fall in love this time … it will be forever!"
"I believe when I fall in love this time … it will be forever!"
