I am a man of principle.
One of my core principles is that when I am in Texas, I must consume brisket and Tex-Mex. Oh, and if it works out, I will try to hang out with my moogerhead brothers.
This week I managed to accomplish all three during a work trip that had me back in my native state for a mere 42 hours.
It’s been five years since I kicked around in the place of my birth, and that epic journey New South Essays covered in detail back in 2021. It involved much shenanigious behavior with the aforementioned moogerhead brothers.
This time around started out a little shaky, and Delta Airlines nearly prevented the whole thing from happening.
I was startled to realize when I rose at 4 a.m. on May 14 to go to Hartsfield-Jackson-Turner-King-Carter-Perry-Usher-Seacrest-Goggins International Airport to catch my 7:25 a.m. flight that I was not, in fact, flying into Love Field in Dallas, the more conveniently located of the two Dallas-area airports for my stay at the Westin Dallas-Downtown. Instead, I had apparently booked passage to Dallas through DFW, the airport at which my father worked as a mechanic at American Airlines when it first opened in the early ‘70s.
But it was 10 minutes after takeoff that my real concerns kicked in. The pilot came over the PA to inform us we had a “slight equipment issue” that needed to be taken care of, so he was turning around and taking us back to Hartsfield-Jackson-Turner-King-Carter-Perry-Usher-Seacrest-Goggins International Airport. Turns out the engine wash on our Airbus 330 the night before left a “residue” that needed to be tended to.
We made it back safely to Atlanta, of course, or else I wouldn’t be posting this New South Essay and you would have already read in all the papers about the passing of the renowned New South Essayist in a tragic plane crash.
Overall, Delta is to be commended for getting us back in the air on another plane in under three hours, but for a few tense moments there, it was looking like I might not get any brisket whatsoever. Oh, and I may not get to go to my work conference or see my moogerhead brothers.
Because I was flying out so early in the morning, even with a three-hour equipment setback, I still managed to make it to the conference on time. The conference organizers made it engaging and interactive, and I started an IV drip of coffee to make it through the sessions despite my early rising.
My youngest brother, Lyle, picked me up for dinner in some sort of Buick that looked like an Audi and was fancier than I remembered Buicks being. I greeted him as I do all my ridesharing drivers with: “I’m Lance… Are you, Lyle?” I then promptly called him my “Broober Driver” (a quite hilarious portmanteau of “brother” and “Uber”) to which he responded with a characteristic eye roll and questioning his decision to spend the evening with his world renowned Southern humorist brother.
We met my middle brother, Lee, at El Fenix, which Lyle had recommended and I quickly agreed to on account of my principles and all. Lee has been mindful of his diet since being diagnosed with a hiatal hernia, and not a lot on the menu there fit into his new clean eating habit. To his credit, he looked great, and both he and Lyle have been taking good care of themselves since I last saw them. About the most complimentary way I can say it is that there was much less of the moogerheads to spend time with on this visit.
We shut El Fenix down, outlasting even a very joyful and possibly margarita-infused birthday celebration a few tables over that featured multiple renditions of “Happy Birthday.” Me and the moogerheads laughed, reminisced, and celebrated the pending milestones each of us has to look forward to, particularly the impending nuptials of Lee’s daughter, Kalee, coming up May 29.
I do subscribe to the proverb that laughter is the best medicine, and the best laughter is shared among siblings. Whether it’s recounting Tecmo Bowl injustices of a bygone video gaming era or the adventures of throwing rocks to shoo away whippoorwills, the shared experiences we relive when we’re together is both therapeutic and grounding. Five years was WAY too long to go between visits.
For the record, I ordered the brisket enchiladas because I was fearful that I may not otherwise experience brisket on my quick visit to Dallas and thus violate one of my core principles. They did not disappoint, and I was able to honor my principles in the process.
We parted company after I spent some time coveting Lee’s big ol’ Texas-size Ford F150 pickup truck. Back at the hotel, I crashed hard. I typically have trouble sleeping my first night in a strange place, but being awake for 20 hours is a surprisingly effective sleep aid.
The conference adjourned at 2 p.m., and after several thwarted attempts to hail a Lyft to take me to brisket, I gave up and walked the 1.1 miles from my hotel down Main Street, roller bag in tow, to Deep Ellum, the eclectic and colorful district where my nose sent me in search of some mighty fine brisket at Pecan Lodge.
I last dined at that fine establishment with my brother from another mother, Bob Perkins. We waited in line outside before our feasting five years ago, but because it was not quite supper time, I had no trouble placing my order before heading to the airport.
Like on the trip out, I was shocked to find out I would be transiting through a different airport than I expected. Instead of flying into and out of DFW, I flew out of Love Field, which was the better of the two choices. I asked the guys in the kitchen carving up my brisket if their to-go orders could pass through TSA. My brisket preparer looked very concerned and said earnestly, “I don’t know.” I may have been the first person in his career to ever pose that question.
As a public service announcement, New South Essays is pleased to inform you that, yes, Pecan Lodge’s world famous brisket, when properly sealed in cling wrap and secured in a cardboard take-away box, will, indeed, pass through TSA screening apparati.
I wish you could have seen the face of the guys next to me in the Terminal 1 food court eating a soggy Whataburger when I unsealed my brisket. It was a record scratch moment. All activity in the entire Love Field airport came to a screeching halt. The aroma of smoked brisket filled the entire concourse, and suddenly a multitude of witnesses gathered around me to drool and wish they had had the foresight to secure themselves a chopped brisket sandwich from Pecan Lodge on their way to the airport.
The gentlemen at Pecan Lodge had, in fact, hooked me up. I had a metric ton of brisket sealed in cling wrap, separate from the bun. Both the bun and the brisket were still warm. Two kinds of sauce were also sealed in tiny containers and wrapped up so as not to leak out during the security scan. It was heaven.
The flight home was uneventful, and I slept well on the flight. I had managed to achieve all of my goals on this quick trip. My heart was full from being with my brothers, and my belly was full of brisket.
That, pardner, is how you do Texas.
New South Essays 