Daddy Bruce's

The first I heard of Daddy Bruce's was when my friend drove me by it and said, "That place is never open, but it's supposed to be REALLY good." The sign said BBQ and I was sold. I was only in Boulder a couple of days, and I ate A LOT of great food while there, but Daddy Bruce's continued to loom over me.

Finally, my last day, literally my last hour, my friend Bridget and I cruised down Arapahoe Ave and saw the open sign. We had just gorged on asian food but stopped nonetheless. I thought, "hey, I'll just get it to go and eat later." It's not that simple at Daddy Bruce's.

It sounds a little cliche to say that dining is just as much about the experience as the food, but it really applies here. When you walk into the trailer, Bruce Randolph Jr. (aka Daddy Bruce II) greats you from behind the counter, takes your order, and tells you to make yourself at home. He's in no hurry, and you shouldn't be either.

I've always enjoyed watching skilled hands make a meal. The older the person, the more fascinating to me. Their moves are so memorized, so confident; no hesitation or stumbling around for ingredients. And during all of this, he's telling us his life story. He talked about his barbershop in Denver, and told me the same hands that were making my food cut the hair of MLK. He wasn't boastful, he just had a lot of pride. There was an article about him taped to the wall, the article was from an overseas newspaper and he was quite proud of this.

Daddy Bruce placed my food in front of me, and despite my full stomach, I dug in. The meat was tender and smoky, the sauce was sweet and vinegary. He provided a stack of white bread to soak up the leftovers and it came in good use. While I ate he tried to teach Bridget how to play the piano, only giving up once another customer came in. We said our farewells and I took one last picture of him. He insisted on making it a profile shot, perhaps an homage to the greek gods of brisket.