I ate a bad meal—or, part of one, at least. It took several decades, but I finally figured out that there’s no upside to finishing something that tastes bad, so I threw most of the crap away. The closest these ribs had been to a pit was the distance from the oven door to the smoker out back—a clearly cold and unused custom job with nary a log in sight. (A mighty big investment for a prop piece, I’m thinking.) The slight char on the outside was more likely from being parked too long on the steam table. The meat was greasy and not of particularly good quality, and it had been badly chopped such that little flecks of bone might be found in just about any bite. A genuinely disappointing meal.