The Dinner Files

Sometimes you do not want another fish sandwich. Even if it is remarkably fresh and delicious. Luckily, if you find yourself driving through Kawaihae, Hawaii on a Friday, there is GJ’s Huli Chicken.

Also, as you can see, GJ’s also hulis up ribs.

Huli? What is huli? It’s Hawaiian barbecue. Meat is slathered with brown sugar and soy sauce and usually some ginger and maybe other seasonings depending on the cook and cooked directly or indirectly with a fire.

GJ’s offers a plate lunch, with a scoop of rice and macaroni salad (“mac salad,” which can be a bit confusing because in every other instance I’ve ever experienced “mac” in Hawaii is short for macadamia nut, although it is usually phrased as “mac nut” so I should have caught on just a bit sooner than I did) or you can just buy the meat.

If you just want the meat, GJ picks up a half rack of ribs or half a chicken and puts it right in a plastic grocery bag (well, really two plastic grocery bags to avoid the quite fragrant meat juice dripping all over you and your car) and hands it over.

The plate lunch, with its carb-heavy propensity, seems like something developed for workers, surfers, and kids at that stage when they’re growing like weeds. My son loved nothing more than a plate lunch, especially the one from GJ’s with its generous allotment of bird.

My dashing husband and I preferred to get our meat-in-a-bag and doctor it up a bit back at the house with a vegetable or two. Spicy pickles and piquant dressings were key to cutting the fatty deliciousness of GJ’s huli.

GJ’s Huli, in Kawaihae on Fridays, Waimea on Saturdays, and Konohaa on Sundays. You supply the pickles.

Last week I dropped Ernest off at the day camp in town he goes to when we’re in Northern Minnesota. I had some errands to do in the bigger town of Brainerd and so ended up driving through Ironton, not something I do much. Boy am I glad I did because I saw an addition to the town since I last drove through – whenever that might have been. As you might guess from the picture above, it rather captured the eye. I can barely describe the extent to which this flame-covered building with its bright reds and oranges and yellows stands out in a small town in Minnesota lake country. The folks here are practical, utilitarian, pragmatic people. Energy must be conserved for the long winter that always looms in the background. Colors are muted, speech is reserved, and blending in is highly valued.

Upper midwest culture firmly embraces (and enforces) a no-tall-poppy policy. Garrison Keillor has documented it extensively. Don’t stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Who do you think you are? It is an aspect of the region that has not always served yours truly very well. I know what it takes to stand out here. I know the snarky comments and dry-humored back-handed compliments those flames attract.

So perhaps you can imagine how happy those flames made me as I drove (blah) through to do errands (double blah) on a gray day (triple blah).

And when I saw that this extremely tall poppy houses Louie’s Bucket of Bones, a rib joint and smokehouse (custom smoking available!), I nearly fainted with pleasure. Stenciled lettering promotes the establishment’s ribs, chicken, and catfish, as well as tacos and lasagna. A little something for everyone, I suppose.

Over the weekend I sent my brother to pick up ribs, both St. Louie style and baby back. Both were, in their unique way, fabulous. The tender, unctuous baby backs were preferred by half our group and the dryer, chewier St. Louie by the other half, so peace was maintained as we gnawed our way through our order until we had, indeed, created a bucket of bones.