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BBQ Joints > Missouri

Greedy Man's Bar-B-Que

5536 Troost Avenue
Kansas City, MO 64110

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June 15, 2011, 7:37 p.m.

Snuggled up between three barber shops / hair salons, Greedyman's (one word according to a sign in the store) is actually at 5536A, one door to the south of 5536.

The menu at Greedyman's *Bar-B-Que*, a giant banner hanging under the counter, boasts two (2) barbeque options - a turkey and a beef sandwich. (Yes, I should mention that there are large and small Rib Tip options, but with no ribs on the menu, I'm chalking this up as a fail from the start.) On the other hand, there are 15 chicken options ranging from a 6pc wing ($6.50) to a 50 piece after-church-special ($38.50).

I ordered the "Big BBQ Beef". At the moment I voiced my order, the handsome young man behind the counter looked straight at me and SCREAMED "WE GOT BEEF?". (Yeah it was a question. I thought, hey, nice way to go and one up on the agonizingly annoying welcome screech over at Gates.) Lacking sufficient grace to answer, I took a cue from my environment. Turns out, the scurrying motion in the kitchen behind him was the "chef" looking in a cabinet under the flat top. Chef yelps back an apathetic "Yeah". Only then did the counter man write down my order. I shudda walked out then.

Not one to be intimidated by circumstances that clearly dictate I am in the wrong situ, I sat down in one of the available 16 chairs in the whole dang joint. Yup, me and 15 municipal maintenance workers slash urban ambassadors waitin' for our orders. Scarcely 20 minutes later, my giant beef chunk sannich arrived. (I also paid for a diet soda, but the cooler case only featured generic soda cans brimming with fructose. Apparently Greedyman was onto the cognitive dissonance between a "Big BBQ Beef" sandwich and a prissy diet soda.) While my brethren were enjoying their meals on Styrofoam plates, I got the high-end treatment, a styro-to-go clamshell. Nothing says, "Get yo butt on up outtahere" like a to-go box. I stood my ground, "Ok if I eat that here?" Greedyman grunts, "Yeah"

Operative word: eat. I opened up the clamshell. Dadgum eight inch hoagie was doing it's very best to constrain a gargantuan serving of nicely-barked, well-smoked, generously-rubbed, appropriately-sauced beef chunks, about three-quarter inch cubes. Let's dive into this clam. Bite one. What the... . Tastiest rubber I ever forced down my throat. Bite two. Capitulate and Evacuate. This food fail has to come to an abrupt end. I latched up my friend, the clam, and bolted. At this moment I can't decide if I should slow-cook the meat to tenderness or just consider the $9 tab a lesson well learned - what kind of lesson I have no idea.