Jimmy G's isn't much to look at.... It could easily be mistaken for the restaurant of a midwestern Sheraton. Walk in, sit at the bar and order something achingly cold, you'll want/need it. Lean over the stainless counter and see if there is anything crawling out of the coolers.
I've had two helpings of crawfish. I can't feel my lips, my hair is damp, my shirt is a bit of a mess (Hoback), the boiled shrimp- while good-are only a temporary abatement of the heat. I pay up and continue to use a lemon wedge to clean my fingers. A Coke for the road merely spreads the pain around all of my taste buds.
Outside the dark restaurant, the air is surprisingly crisp for Houston. Taking gulps of air against my swollen tongue I stride toward the Lincoln. Not sure why the rental place gave me this. It looks to have been absconded from their Boca kiosk. I decide to embrace it...
An hour later and I'm somewhere off 59. I look beside me at the two teetering, messy lemon meringues I have purloined from the fridge over at Hinze's. They look as if constructed by a mental patient. There is also about 4 pounds of brisket in the back seat. If I had purchased a stained and wrinkled paper bag of crackling and decided to start smoking again I might be in the running for the most unhealthy car in Texas. There's also a 6 pack of Shiner on the floorboard.
Turning the crawfish scented wheel I push the massive flat hood towards the first of many Texas farm roads. I dig in deeper still as Townes Van Zandt eases from the speakers- Talking about "bad news from Houston". I roll the windows down and press the accelerator. As expected the car drifts and buffets on the blacktop. A Hispanic family in a pockmarked and faded blue Scout pull to the shoulder and wave me by. The road becomes broken, and then dusty. I am close.
I look at the pies and feel a bit like Boss Hog as the dust behind me plumes out and up into the wind. Before I even hit the turnoff, and the first in a succession of cattle guards, I feel that I could do this forever. The sky is blue, cloudy, and then threatening. The landscape is greening, and the live oaks and mesquites have that parched, biblical look even as they show the colours of early summer.. I'm listening to Townes full time now and try to keep up with the fast talking of "Mr Gold and Mr. Mud".
By the time I hit the bunk house the Lincoln is grey with dust and one of the meringue's foamy peaks has broken loose from its moorings. As I pull into the yard GP and one of his hands, "Jefe", look up from the tractor they are working on. I open the door and at once the dogs are on me. Ranch dogs of all types seem to spill towards the car- no doubt drawn by the pull of crawfish, brisket, and the unmistakable scent of fresh blood...
Hours later and around a fire hoop we finish the last of the wine from GP's home country of Argentina. We have looked at his cattle, shot over & unders, talked about his wife's trip to Dallas, and re-lived many days spent on and around grand rivers. I finish off the last of my five spice quail and settle back next to a blue eyed dog. Segovia streams from the open window and we open the Scotch as Jefe tells about their recurring problem with Boar.
Sleep comes so damn easy.....
