Guerrila Q

Even though we've seen this kind of "food"-animal-as-radical-smasher-of-the-system before, we still don't get it.

Look at El Jefe here. The Castro-esque cigar, the Che-esque beret, the revolutionary's bandoleer made of pig ribs… It's sad, really.

Sad that he thinks he's, you know, accomplishing something. Standing up for a principle. Fighting an oppressive regime. Instead of what he's actually doing: Joining the struggle to be eaten. In the streets, we suppose.

It's not exactly the stirring stuff of romantic myth-making.

Addendum: And here's the (even less logical) kinder, gentler version of the barbecue-themed freedom fighter.

Beaux Hawg BBQ

It's called the Good Life, all right?

A martini, a fine cigar. Good food, good friends. And when the good food is the good friends, so much the better.

The good pig is an instant archetype, a down-home bon vivant. He smiles at his own good fortune, shrugging in lieu of explanation.

After they've experienced everything life has to offer, they'll hoist themselves onto the barbecue. Indeed, today is a good day to die.








Addendum: Yes, sir. From Kansas to Florida, the good pig is living it up, for the time being.

Smoke Wagon BBQ

We know we're looking at an allusion to the famous gunfight at the O.K. Corral. We don't know why, and we're too weary to puzzle out whether these three represent the Law (Wyatt and Billy Earp and whoever) or the Outlaws (the Clanton Boys and them).

What difference could it possibly make?

They're standing up for the interests of Smoke Wagon BBQ, which means they're standing up to be knocked down, whichever side they're on.

They stride through the dusty street, menace hooding their eyes. They tote their guns. By God, they will be put down.

Pies 'n Thighs

Sure, it's no Packard's (or even a Thee Pitt's), but there's a certain depraved charm on offer in this Pies 'n Thighs menu. (Click on the image to enlarge it.)

You've got your tough-guy chicken endorsing the fried chicken box. You've got your fishy skipper pleased about the catfish box. You've got your lazy, degenerate pig nonchalant about the pulled pork box. So even with the conspicuous absence of a cow to point out the brisket box, this is still an impressive range of fauna and temperament.

Animals of the sea, land, and sky (kind of) have gathered to heave a single, unified, unenthusiastic sigh. Together they shrug. Just because the menu features their kinds (and maybe even their own flesh) is no reason to get bent out of shape. Or express much in the way of emotion. Just show up, pose, get eaten. That's all this bunch can handle.

She Thinks My Slabs Are Sexy

No, we don't know who "she" is who thinks his, um, slabs are sexy. Does it matter? The pig takes pride in his ribs as edible objects, and whether he imagines a potential mate or consumer relishing his ribs hardly seems to matter. And this, of course, presupposes that his lover and consumer are different people. Alas, we have learned to our endless regret that the two categories—predator and paramour—need not be mutually exclusive.

So. Fine. Whatever.

The pig is impressing his lover-eater. It's really the central theme of suicidefoodism, played out in the form of a blue collar pig with well-defined anatomy.

His masculinity, his fitness as a sexual partner, and his ultimate purpose as a commodity—all are achieved simultaneously. He is a stud! He is a virile foodstuff! He is all things to all people! Or at least to all people who want to eat him.

Landry's Seafood Restaurants, Inc.

And then there's this guy.

He has certainly settled into his role as seafood with panache. A tawdry, leering panache, to be sure, but have you ever seen a crawfish with more self-confidence?

Feet dangling in the ol' briny, teeth clamped on a cigarette holder worthy of Thurston Howell, suspect mustache winking in the sun, he's the very model of looking-out-for-number-one-ism. That he expresses his exceptionality by playing the part of foodstuff will discomfit no one familiar with our work.

He will be boiled and cracked apart, his pale flesh dug from his blood-red carapace, and he accepts it all—the attention, the adulation, the respect—as nothing less than his due.







Addendum: Or maybe he's a lobster?

Addendum 2: An earlier Landry's crustacean, this one exhibiting none of the moneyed importance of the current crawfish. Or lobster or whatever.

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 10

For reasons known only to ourselves (at best), we like to assemble paeans to frequently seen suicidal pigs. The last one was a good while ago. Our files are bulging, so it's time for another.






























































































































(From left to right by row: Orchard Old Spots, Westfest 2006; Hamm's Meat, Stu-Pit BBQ Team; B. P.'s Smoke House, Mission Cochon; Bowie BBQ Duel, Rob's BBQ on the side; The Barbeque Hut, Conway's BBQ in a Box; Carolina Children's Home Annual BBQ Cook-off Festival, Bacon Camp; Tri-State BBQ Fest bucks, Big Pig Gig; Boss Hogg Award Winning World Famous BBQ, Lucknow Fall Fair; Garden State Porkway, A Hampshire Hog; GoodLand, Manfield Village Covered Bridge Bluegrass & Barbeque; Ware's Bar-B-Q.)

Appearing in such profusion, Dopey (as he shall hereafter be known) is surprisingly resistant to variation. Yes, he can be given spots or sunglasses, but he doesn't invite the same kind of tinkering other overused pigs do. Compare Dopey's immutability with Lumpy's or Jowly's ability to assume different roles and master new contexts.

There's something steadfast—almost admirable—in Dopey's insistence on remaining so trusting, right up to the end, over and over again.







Addendum (5/22/11): What no one was waiting for: Dopey specimen #22.

Steak Frites

Très nonchalant.

In the demeanor of this boeuf, we read all we need to know. The lowered eyelids, the turned face, the frown, the studied look of ennui, even the contemptuous coil of smoke—they all convey the cow's disdain. For us. You can tell—it's palpable—that he loathes us and the untenable position we have placed him in.

To die, yes, but to die to be eaten by the likes of us?

Mais non!

He should be consumed by artists and philosophers! By sculptors and poets! Not by... restaurant-goers. Unworthies. Americans!

Bubba's Smokeshack Barbeque

Now here's a charming vision of a parallel America! Along the dusty main street of Wichita, the "food" animals have taken on the roles and mannerisms of humans. It's like the Planet of the Apes, only with barbecue.

In this America, the humanimals gather down to the barbecue parlor and just… set a spell. They catch up on the doings in the capital, puff on the ol' corn cob, pluck a little banjo. These are decent, hard-working folk, much like the people of real-life Wichita.

The difference, the warp that gives this mirror its funhouse horror, is that Cow, Pig, and Chicken have made a haunt of the establishment that will see them into their graves. Or, because graves are too good for the animals we call supper, into the stomachs of their consumers.

Of course, we and our habits, the things whose reflection is cast into this pseudo-Wichita (the Whichita?) of craven animals, are now suspect. Only a corrupt original could have spawned such a corrupt copy.