Occasionally in our wanderings we stumble upon food that becomes archetypes akin to what existed in Plato's world of ideas.  Every time we eat that food, it's compared to the archetype and found wanting.  No pizza ever matches the one I had from Giordano's in Downtown Chicago.  No fried pastry will ever be like the beignets I had in New Orleans.  No hot pretzel will ever be as soft and delicious as the ones I had across from Union Station in Washington D.C..

Some archetypes become ensconced in popular lore and are readily fed to foodies as we grow our palettes.  Very few people contest that crab cakes are best in Maryland.  The cakes I ate one night in Dundalk reinforced that archetype for me, but since I've had very decent crab cake.  I can't rebel against my bit of foodie lore, though, lest everything I've been taught come crashing down and I find myself one night, hugging a bottle of red whine while eating white fish.  This is, truly, a form of foodie purgatory and one I wish to avoid.

But, on the occasion I'm able to make my own archetypes; free from the excessive tampering of self-righteous foodies, haughtily holding an over-sized wine glass (I hate you so, Dana Corwin, with an irrational, burning hate), the memories surrounding the moment I first tasted the food bloom.

Twice I've ridden through Missouri.  The first time I took a northern road.  Missouri didn't look too much different from south-central Illinois and because I was speeding along the interstate, the state didn't stir any longing passions in me.  The second time, I was following, or rather, trying to follow Route 66.  Although following Route 66 has become a clichéd motorcycle rite of passage, best left for old men and women trying to re-live their Peter Fonda youths, I fantasized about doing it myself while in High School and was therefore determined to ride Route 66 along with the faded glories.

In spite of the popularity of Route 66 in our culture and our kitsch, the actual road itself in many parts of the Eastern leg are a bitch to follow.  Much of the original mother road is in shambles, paved over, or ripped up.  Some places have roads besides 66.  The only travelers on those stretches of 66 are rocks, weeds, and animal feces.  The signs pointing out Route 66 are hard to find and often are as derelict as the road itself.  I spent a lot of time trying to find the road, riding next to the road, or wishing I weren't riding on the road while the back of my bike did its best to send an engine up my rear-end.

By the time I got to Rolla, I had enough of trying to follow/find Route 66 and decided to break off on one of Missouri's many rural roads.  I figured that as long as I was going southwest, I'd eventually end up in Phoenix, regardless of my road.  Missouri road designations are unique in that they don't use numbers to indicate a path.  They use letters.  Because I grew up using numbers to designate roads and much of the roads east of the Mississippi were like that, I found the alphabetical designations confusing.  Riding N didn't make much of a difference from riding D or R.  Somehow, I found myself on road Z, which much to my chagrin was part of the original mama road.  And, it probably hadn't been up-kept since the 60s, either.

After about 20 minutes of having the bike pound my rear end, I was sore and needed a break.  Luckily, there was a BBQ place near by and I pulled off to enjoy.  The parking lot was gravel and the place looked like it was too.  Its doors were open and I could see a line of people waiting to order food.  Since I had left nowhere, Missouri and was pretty sure I was at least a half-hour's ride from somewhere, the queue befuddled.  Clearly I found something for which many people were willing to drive and wait.

Inside, there was a counter, people, and a large rotating rack filled with various meat products.  All the tables were full.  I didn't mind eating outside and at that time in my life, found my bike to be better company than most people.  Those of us who have ridden know that few things in life are better than sitting up against a freshly rested bike, with food in hand and mouth, and a big, blue sky up and over everything.

When it was my turn to order, I selected ribs.  They were given to me and I walked out to eat them.  Across from where I sat, an older, Hispanic woman bustled about a brood of white children.  Her employers brought out food and she set about making sure everyone was seated and fed.  The woman had long, black hair that fell about her large, brown eyes.  I don't remember much about her face, other than she had wide, thick lips covered in bright lipstick.  They were Latin lips, singing-sex lips, lips designed for kissing and sucking and not much else.  Her body was thick and loose clothes covered her breasts.  But, she had a succulent ass; muscular and graspable.

The woman caught me looking at her.  We froze, not sure what to do next.  I decided to wink, just to see what would happen.  She drew back then smiled and returned to the masticating brood.  I, in turn, fell on my ribs.

They were at once sweet and smoky, with meat that literally fell off the bone.  I picked up one and watched everything fall on to the bread.  This, I realized, was clearly the epitome of ribs.  The remainder was quickly shoved into my mouth.  I did the best I could to remain a proper gentleman of the road, but tasting after tasting convinced me that the only way to pay true homage to my meal was to noisily lick, suck, and slurp as much meat and sauce as I could from the inedible parts, then stare longingly at whatever remained on my plate.

When finished and satisfied, I lingered some to enjoy the scents of BBQ.  And, I (well, really, my butt) wasn't in that much of a hurry to return to the road.  The woman and her employers finished eating as well.  Lazily and lustily, I watched her clear off the table and attend to the children.  The employers headed to a van parked closer to the restaurant.  When she finished, the woman stepped into the open side of the van.  Before sitting, she paused to look over her shoulder, at me.  We looked at each other for as long as the moment lasted, and I said farewell with a wink.

She wiggled her rump, laughed, and then closed the door behind her.  I eventually left Sweetwater with my new rib archetype and the memory of an older, Hispanic woman with bright, red lips and a lovely sexuality.