It’s the question that changed everything.
“Should we... fry that?”
And from then on, we lived in a world that got you places like Rusty’s Southern—a Carolina barbecue spot with a surplus of fried chicken on its hands. It’ll open this week. Here’s the slideshow in the meantime.
Like any good Carolina barbecue joint, this one’s opening in an old Vietnamese karaoke place. Past the sliding barn door and the long brass-top bar, there’s a communal table that’ll give you enough room for you, your friends, your date and your date’s friends.
And then: fried chicken. Fort Point Kölsches. Pork. Biscuits. You know. All the barbecue-related keywords that activate your salivary glands on an evening when you’ve suddenly got no other plans that can’t be rescheduled. Fry baskets. Chili burgers. Hush puppies. Cornmeal-breaded catfish. Plinko.
Yeah. Plinko.
Coming soon: brunch, lunch and an exclusive Fort Point brew (they’re thinking an amber lager) that’s scientifically calibrated to... go well with barbecue.
And you can’t rush science.
“Should we... fry that?”
And from then on, we lived in a world that got you places like Rusty’s Southern—a Carolina barbecue spot with a surplus of fried chicken on its hands. It’ll open this week. Here’s the slideshow in the meantime.
Like any good Carolina barbecue joint, this one’s opening in an old Vietnamese karaoke place. Past the sliding barn door and the long brass-top bar, there’s a communal table that’ll give you enough room for you, your friends, your date and your date’s friends.
And then: fried chicken. Fort Point Kölsches. Pork. Biscuits. You know. All the barbecue-related keywords that activate your salivary glands on an evening when you’ve suddenly got no other plans that can’t be rescheduled. Fry baskets. Chili burgers. Hush puppies. Cornmeal-breaded catfish. Plinko.
Yeah. Plinko.
Coming soon: brunch, lunch and an exclusive Fort Point brew (they’re thinking an amber lager) that’s scientifically calibrated to... go well with barbecue.
And you can’t rush science.
