Arriving at Killen’s the following day, I see a line snaking out the restaurant’s front door, down the footpath, and nearly to the sidewalk. I meet Killen’s rep, Kimberly Park, who remarks that the queue looks “really short today.” Often, the line continues around the corner and up to a quarter of a mile down the road, with hungry carnivores waiting hours upon hours to sink their teeth into Killen’s famed barbecue. I take a seat at a table on the outer edge of the dining room. Everywhere I look are families, groups, and couples digging into hunks of meat with delighted, reckless, greasy abandon. A grandmother glugs down beer and eats beef ends with a fork; a bearded metalhead with a Bongripper back patch heads to the patio carrying a tray piled high with brisket, turkey, macaroni and cheese, and creamed corn.
I want to go there.