I first visited Dreamland in the late 1980s. At that time, Dreamland was a small, hole in the wall bar/restaurant way back in the hills outside of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. On the way there we passed ramshackle houses, abandoned farms, and barefoot children playing stickball in the dirt road leading to this outstanding eatery.

It was a ‘Bama football Saturday and the Dreamland parking lot was full.

I parked the car in the shade of a live oak tree dripping with Spanish moss. My companions and I climbed up the three steps constructed from cinder blocks and 2 by 10’s, swung open the front screen door, and walked in. Once inside, our eyes began to adjust to the dim lighting of the room.

On our left was the bar. On our right were tables. Lots of tables. All filled with Alabama football fans. Besides BBQ, Alabama folks take their football very seriously too.

We were quickly ushered through the crowd to a table in a room way in the back. While our table had no sightline to a TV set to watch the game, we could easily see, almost touch, the brick oven where Dreamland Magic was forged.

In front of the oven stood a sweaty, overweight, bald, black man wearing a muscle T and a white apron. BBQ sauce was smattered all over his apron. The aroma of roasting ribs and “The Sauce” filled the room with an intoxicating fragrance unknown to Northerners like me. He maneuvered beautiful portions of ribs in and out of the brick oven.

As he pulled them out he would stick what looked like a sawed-off broom handle with a mop head on one end into a 5-gallon bucket of sauce. He would then slather them with sauce, test for doneness and place them, once again, in just the right spot on the grill grate over the glowing coals. This action would be repeated for hours, he told us, adding a few more sticks of water-soaked hickory every now and then to keep the smoke roiling up, around, and through, the slabs of ribs. When they were perfectly done, he would plate them while calling for a server to deliver the meal.

While we were mesmerized by the skill of the cook, the waiter came to our table. He first asked for a drink order—sweet tea, ‘Coke’ (‘Coke’ being the generic name given to any soft drink regardless of whether or not it was a cola or orange soda), or beer. That was the extent of our options.

Upon returning with our tea, I asked him for a menu so we could order. He said “Menu? One slab or two”.

“Could I see a menu?” I said. I thought maybe he didn’t understand my request. “That’ll help me decide.”

He said, “Our menu is ribs. One slab or two? We make it easy. It’s all you have to decide.”

“What if I would like some slaw to go with that?” I asked.

“It’s in the sauce.”

“And some beans.”

“It’s in the sauce.”

“No, I want these items as side dishes.”

“Look,” he said, “we have ribs. One slab or two. Everything else is in the sauce.”

Loosening my belt and the waist button on my britches, I ordered 2 slabs, and a refill on my sweet tea.

When the order came, it was served on a paper plate with no silverware, plasticware, or hardware. Two slabs of ribs, one on top of the other, steam rising from the plate and flooding all five senses with intoxication that I was powerless to resist. These ribs were willing themselves to my watering mouth.

Just then, the waiter snapped me out of my trance by putting another paper plate on the table. He looked me straight in the eye and took the twisty tie off of a loaf of Wonder Bread. He stood the loaf of bread on the open end as he slowly pulled off the plastic sleeve, leaving a stack of bread on the plate in the middle of the table. It was the closest thing I could imagine to foodie burlesque.

“I thought you only had ribs”, was my sarcastic observation.

He replied, “you’re right.” Pointing to the stack of bread slices, he said: “These are the napkins”.

Noticing the puzzled look on my face, he grabbed an end of one of my slabs, lifting a rib to his mouth and drawing the meat off of the bone with a gentle slurp. He chewed slowly and swallowed. He then flipped the bare bone on the table, took a slice of “napkin” and wiped his messy fingers and mouth until they were clean. He popped the rolled-up napkin into his mouth, chewed a few times, then swallowed.

“We’re not big on doing dishes,” he said.

As he walked away, he glanced back at me, offering a bit of wisdom for life.

“Everything you need is in the sauce.”