- What is it? A lively bowling alley with surprisingly excellent barbecue, serving house-smoked meats and classic comfort food.
- What’s on the menu? Pulled pork sliders, brisket, burnt ends, pork belly, ribs, wings, fried pickles, and more, all smoked in-house.
- Is it worth it? Absolutely. Generous portions, bold flavors, and a fun, no-frills atmosphere make it a standout for casual dining on the Cape.
- What’s the best dish to order? The burnt ends—tender, caramelized, and rich with smoky flavor.
- When is it open? Tues-Fri: 4-9p; Sat & Sun: 11:30a-9p; Closed Monday
On the table tonight:
- Pulled pork sliders
- Fried pickles
- BBQ Wings
- Buffalo Wings
- Brisket
- Baby Back Ribs
- Burnt Ends
- Pork Belly (yes, pork belly at a bowling alley, and it was incredible)
The waitress moved through the tangle of abandoned Velcro bowling shoes, stepping over a half-inflated balloon, a plastic cup overturned and leaking something bright. She was carrying two indistinguishable beers to a pair of mothers seated on the bench, their children momentarily absorbed by the physics of gutter balls. There was a shift in her weight, imperceptible to anyone but her, as she braced against a too-quick turn of the hips, corrected, moved on.
She was the only waitress on shift. The bar, the tables, and, most offensively, the Mother-Son Bowling Event that occupied the first four lanes—this was all hers. She had been born in 2006, which meant, in her estimation, she had already been dead inside for some time. By the end of high school, she had understood that her generation would never own a home - luck would need to find her with a deep kiss on the mouth to entertain starting a family. That it would be better not to long for things. Every so often, at a family gathering, someone would hand her a baby, and she would feel something heat up behind her ribs, something she had trained herself to ignore. But tonight was no such night. Tonight was an overdose of birth control in the form of first, second, and third-grade boys, temporarily freed from supervision and earned restraints, shrieking like fledgling birds testing their wings.
She focused on the act of moving—one foot in front of the other, the tray’s delicate equilibrium, the weight of the plates, the spill of voices across the lanes. If she paid close enough attention, she could dissolve into the rhythm of it, the way she had once in a Bikram yoga class, making slow, endless arm circles until time itself lost meaning. That had been a revelation. That left her pupils in a spiraling twirl. This was just survival.
At Table 7, four men were engaged in a feat of self-sabotage masquerading as dinner. The appetizers they’d put in: pulled pork sliders, fried pickles, two orders of BBQ wings had somehow become three, plus a last-minute addition of Buffalo wings all but sank her hopes of any decent tip. Four people, six apps … what bet had she lost with Jesus? Who comes to a barbecue joint and fills up on appetizers? Their conversation, a mix of half-formed bravado and performative indecision, drifted toward her in pieces.
More wings, more napkins, another round. Oh, here’s a bonus: one of them was drinking water and another the water solution commonly known as Corona. These other two were her only salvation. This was a monologue pumping through her internal voicebox when she dropped the second order of apps but, delightedly, she found she was barely able to shovel wet wipes onto the table before being inundated with four full meal orders. Now, would these dopes stand a chance at clearing these dinners given the troop of apps? No. But that was not her business.
For the first time tonight she smiled and took the four main orders and eight sides (there were really 11 sides when three of the four masochists added biscuits). She did the quick math and had about tripled her tip with a few quick scribbles. These gluttons. They needed church not gravy. Hallelujah.
STARTERS
Pulled Pork Sliders
A true American amuse-bouche. Succulent, wonderful, innocent. A moment of restraint before the descent.
Fried Pickles
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Good, standard, fine. You wouldn’t drive across state lines for them, but that isn’t their burden to bear.
BBQ Wings
More baked than fried, a choice someone must have made deliberately. The sauce does the work. The heat is slow, creeping, patient.
Buffalo Wings
The vinegar hits first, sharp and unmistakable. It lingers, as all good things do.
HOUSE-SMOKED MEAT TRAYS
Behind the bar, the bartender and the waitress placed quiet bets. How much of this meal would survive the night? How many containers would be necessary? Would the short one notice if the next Corona came out warm?
Brisket Plate
Simple, standard, excellent. Not dry. Served with coleslaw and potatoes au gratin. A small mercy.
Baby Back Ribs
A full rack. The man who ordered it had no chance. He was also the first to share his plate. An easy pick for the betting duo. Dry-rubbed, good with sauce, moist, and well-cooked. Served with baked beans and potato salad.
Burnt Ends
100% accurately described as beef brisket meat candy. The fat renders perfectly, every bite a precise balance of salt and char. Served with potato salad and collard greens. A strong order.
Pork Belly
Pork belly at a bowling alley. The kind of thing that invites skepticism. And yet—fatty, golden, remarkable. A high-quality cut, a finite resource. Served with collard greens and a side salad, the latter a quiet admission of guilt.
Biscuit & Gravy + Maple Butter
This was simply an exercise in excess. One (rather, three) order a biscuit with the Lean Cuisine approved gravy or maple butter only to inflict pain on the lower intestine or as some showing of braggadocio akin to winning a contest for loudest belch. You, sir, have the belt.
THE AFTERMATH
The only thing that livened up the waitress’s night was when little Tommy nailed a 7-10 split in a playoff with Nathan’s mother … no of course not - Tommy couldn’t bowl to save his life and the waitress took pity on him.
She also pitied Joey Orders Too Many Ribs, who was attempting to consolidate his takeout into a single container. The rest of them, too—stuffed, defeated, determined to salvage their dignity in cardboard clamshells. One of them had managed to eat nearly everything, save for the salad, which he inexplicably chose to take home and deposited in its vehicle with a less than deft one-handed scoop. When he asked for a plastic bag, the waitress did not bother to hide her disapproval.
"Sure, sweetcheeks. Have a blast."
It was not arm circles, but it passed the night. Heathens, barbecue, birth control, and a closing shift that ended, like all things, with a door locking behind her.
See you next week.
•••••
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