Generally, it's from a nondescript restaurant named "Barbecue." You almost missed it but you decided to stop on a whim. The iced tea is good. The paper napkins are flimsy. You can smell the hickory, the mesquite, the pepper, the glistening fat liquefying in the meat.

The person behind the pit might be an old guy or an old gal. They've seen some things over the years, and it shows on their faces. They are quiet and focused on the pit. All their troubles are behind them now, and they have found salvation over the coals. Nothing much else worked out quite right, but this is good. They can do this. They can make this meal happen for you.

When they drop it on your plate, you'll be startled by how heavy it is, how hot it is, and how much care has given to making every bit of it perfect. What's been done to this meat took all day to accomplish. It tastes like smoke and fire, like light and joy, like sin and redemption.

"You enjoy that now," they say, their eyes bright.

And so you do.