Uncle Billy's
“Those can’t be real.”
“It looks like something is stuck on them," the waitress says. "Not pasties. I forget what they’re called.”
“No, those have got to be fake.”
Uncle Billy’s has two black velvet paintings: Elvis and a woman. Elvis is, well, Elvis. And the woman has tight, pelvis-hugging pants but no shirt. At Uncle Billy's bar - a bar its owner fashioned out of old Portland Expo bleacherboards - a debate surrounds the authenticity of her breasts.
Open less than a month, the focus at this Congress Street pork palace is décor. At least so far. Wooden fish. Illustrated pigs. A paddle a bondage party reportedly used for a private party at one of Uncle Billy’s many previous locations (South Portland, Newbury Street and Yarmouth).
As the leather jackets came off and the draft beer (so far just Shipyad) flowed, the stuff from Uncle Billy's attic stuck on the wall was enough to keep me occupied while I chewed my chewy piece of beef brisket.
And chewed. And chewed. "How is everything? Good," said a waitress, who did not resemble the painting. "Good. Good," she said before I swallowed.
It was tough. If only the sauce, a salty, sweet and spicy barbeque, endured. But this place, with its regulars and honky-tonk jukebox, should not suffer such a fate. Which brings me to the mac and cheese, one of about six sides (none of which include collard greens, if you were thinking it was that kind of BBQ joint). The home-style mac and cheese represents the finest in Uncle Billy's fare -- this is no Hooters food.
Greasy, cheesy and crispy. A little like Jonathan St. Laurent, the chef, who sometimes emerges from the ovens in his splattered white apron to offer a late-night dinner to regulars.
Goes well with "Ship Yod."
“It looks like something is stuck on them," the waitress says. "Not pasties. I forget what they’re called.”
“No, those have got to be fake.”
Uncle Billy’s has two black velvet paintings: Elvis and a woman. Elvis is, well, Elvis. And the woman has tight, pelvis-hugging pants but no shirt. At Uncle Billy's bar - a bar its owner fashioned out of old Portland Expo bleacherboards - a debate surrounds the authenticity of her breasts.
Open less than a month, the focus at this Congress Street pork palace is décor. At least so far. Wooden fish. Illustrated pigs. A paddle a bondage party reportedly used for a private party at one of Uncle Billy’s many previous locations (South Portland, Newbury Street and Yarmouth).
As the leather jackets came off and the draft beer (so far just Shipyad) flowed, the stuff from Uncle Billy's attic stuck on the wall was enough to keep me occupied while I chewed my chewy piece of beef brisket.
And chewed. And chewed. "How is everything? Good," said a waitress, who did not resemble the painting. "Good. Good," she said before I swallowed.
It was tough. If only the sauce, a salty, sweet and spicy barbeque, endured. But this place, with its regulars and honky-tonk jukebox, should not suffer such a fate. Which brings me to the mac and cheese, one of about six sides (none of which include collard greens, if you were thinking it was that kind of BBQ joint). The home-style mac and cheese represents the finest in Uncle Billy's fare -- this is no Hooters food.
Greasy, cheesy and crispy. A little like Jonathan St. Laurent, the chef, who sometimes emerges from the ovens in his splattered white apron to offer a late-night dinner to regulars.
Goes well with "Ship Yod."
Labels: Uncle Billy's
posted by Psst! at 10:20 PM
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