Not even a minute after I first walked into Pappy's Smokehouse, the fantastic new midtown barbecue joint, I thought I was busted. I might as well have worn a T-shirt with "Restaurant Critic" in bold, bright type. Owner Mike Emerson strode right over to where I stood at the end of the long line to order, shook my hand and thanked me for visiting. I mumbled something and stared at my shoes. Time to buy a wig.
As usual, paranoia and megalomania had gotten the better of me.
This week I visit Pappy's Smokehouse. If my car weren't in the shop, I'd be driving back there right now. Check back tomorrow to see what I think. (If it's not already clear.)