A guy walks into a Deli. The waiter asks: What’ll ya have?
The guy says: I’ll have the brisket … rare.
What kind of sandwich does a moil carry in his black bag?
I’m killing me.
The concept of rare brisket really kills me –
The right pause is critical in telling that joke.
If he is killing himself then I’m gonna talk him down, with an irresistibly coaxing brisket sandwich…well done.
All this talk about brisket had my whistle whetted for some, sooooo….Along-for-the-Ride Heidi and I went for a ride out to Backyard BBQ. Now, I know this is not the sort of brisket that MMSMinNYC had in mind, but down here below the Mason-Dixon Line, but not below enough to warrant decent delis such as those in Miami, we settle (and it is not too too painful) for BBQd brisket.
Meat and three. Imported Sabrett’s from way up north. The sort of hotdog that speaks Brisket in any environ.
On Marty’s rolls. Potato rolls. I go for Marty’s. Warm golden yellow, puffy and a teeny bit sweet. The brisket was superlative. A bit of brisket and a bit of beans made a bit-o-mess cold lunch the next day. Just the thing to get me through a 5 hour wrestling meet. Sustenance mandatory. Whaddya mean “No Outside Food Allowed”. Beg pardon?!!!