Meanwhile, Distant Relatives

Another night on the road. Another hotel on another frontage road next to another interstate highway. Many of these nights blur together, but not tonight.

I live in a barbeque desert. There are many great things in New England, but barbeque isn’t one of them. So, finding myself in Austin on business, a barbeque dinner was a must. Weary from travel, I searched Yelp and Google, balancing purported barbeque quality against proximity to my hotel. One place leapt off the screen and piqued my curiosity.

Distant Relatives was described as a “casual, kid-friendly BBQ joint with an African influence.” The name and description immediately conjured the image of cuisine handed down across time and place, paying homage to the people and place where it began.

We Americans tend to think of barbeque as American creation. Whether Carolina pork, Kansas City ribs, or Texas brisket and whether the sauce is made with tomatoes, vinegar, molasses, or mustard, we claim it as “American”.  Now, our manifestations of barbeque are uniquely American, but like almost everything in this country the origins lie elsewhere. Early Spanish explorers are credited with grilling meat in the “barbacoa” style, but the barbeque we know today took shape in the American South through the influence of enslaved African people. Meats, sauces, and techniques evolved based on local livestock, crops, and regional tastes, but the common thread was a people who knew how to make any cut of meat not just edible, but extraordinary.

So, while all American barbeque has an African influence by default, I knew I had to try this version which explicitly credited the influence of distant relatives on a continent far away.

A couple more clicks revealed that Distant Relatives wasn’t really a restaurant but a food truck permanently located at a brewery named Meanwhile.

Really? A unique barbeque experience and a brewery? A late afternoon sunbeam cut through the hotel window like I was Jake Blues at the Triple Rock Baptist Church – “I have seen the light!” A few cartwheels down the hotel hallway and I was off to Meanwhile Brewing.

While “Distant Relatives” meant more to me than just good barbeque, “Meanwhile” communicated more than just craft beer. The word “Meanwhile” has taken on a poignant meaning for me in the last few years. Shortly after Jimmy Buffett passed away, I became more familiar with long-time Coral Reefer Band member Mac McAnally. Mac is an amazing guitarist, an extremely gifted songwriter, and a natural storyteller and entertainer. Like Jimmy, some of Mac’s songs are playful and fun, and many are deep and insightful. Among the latter is “Meanwhile”, a song about the things we chase and how, meanwhile, the seasons change and life goes on. It is a great reminder to live life fully in the present and it is on my “life lessons” playlist.

So, with Mac’s song on my lips, I headed out to visit Distant Relatives at Meanwhile.

It was a perfect springtime evening in Central Texas – not warm, not cold – like baby bear’s porridge, just right. The outdoor beer garden was buzzing when I arrived. I found a spot overlooking the scene and watched a beautifully diverse crowd enjoy the evening. There were young families with strollers and an elderly couple holding hands. Cowboy hats and ball caps. Folks in blue collar uniforms and white collar shirts, both stopping by on their way home from work. Every skin tone and every background. All enjoying a beautiful spring evening.

I settled in with a Plot Twist Pale Ale and an amazing brisket sandwich and spicy rice courtesy of the Distant Relatives. The brisket was tender with a depth of flavor that went well beyond heat, and the rice could have been a meal on its own. Life was certainly good in that moment, but the night’s magic wasn’t quite complete yet.

As I enjoyed my pale ale and brisket, I noticed a band setting up on the outdoor stage. The acoustic guitar immediately caught my attention, quickly followed by the fiddle, upright bass, and mandolin. By pure luck I had arrived at Meanwhile on their monthly bluegrass night. As the band started pickin’ and singin’ and the crowd of all ages, races, and walks of life enjoyed the music, it made my heart, and my face, smile.

I was particularly drawn to the mandolin. Watching and listening to it near Austin, on a piece of land that was probably a pasture not that long ago, I was reminded of a story about fifty years old. In “Something So Feminine About a Mandolin” Jimmy Buffett sings about a night spent near Austin, playing with a group of musicians and being particularly moved by a mandolin player. So moved, in fact, that he wrote the song. The closing line goes “That evening in a pasture, somewhere near Austin, her mandolin made me sing.” And there I was, near Austin, moved by a mandolin.

So, amazed, but not surprised, that I would stumble into something meaningful, I raised my glass and drank a silent toast to the crowd, to the band, to Mac, to Jimmy, and to the distant relatives. Cheers.