We crossed the flat farmland of middle Illinois to Hannibal, Mo., passing by the 90 degree longitude line, a quarter way around the world, and over the Illinois River. At about 11:30, we drove over the Mississippi River. A hillside portrait of Twain greeted our arrival into Missouri.
After the fantastic tour of the Mark Twain Cave (see moviefish's post), we thought about lunch. Since we were in Missouri, everyone felt in a ribs mood. Consulting our AAA guide book and our iPad, we came up with Bubba's, a rib joint by the town levee. Great name, top marks on a barbecue website: How could we lose?
Karen brought us to the right street, then the right block, and finally, as she always does, she proudly announced we had arrived at our "destination," the last lot before the levee. But no Bubba's. Nada.
We circled the block, returned in hopes that maybe it would appear if we tried hard enough, and still no Bubba's. As I was going into the stately Hotel Mark Twain, now a senior citizens home, to ask about the restaurant, I stopped a local resident dropping someone off. She said a bad flood last year, not an uncommon problem in Hannibal, had swept away Bubba's. Instead, she suggested, try a place called Drake's, a favorite local barbecue spot, out on Highway 61. Sorry, Bob.
But first, we went down to the river, walking along the same cobblestone boat landing that Twain played on as a child. The boys dipped their feet into the muddy but mighty Mississippi, which we could see was carrying tree trunks and other large items swiftly by out past the marina. Before we left the historic downtown, we also checked out Twain's childhood home, a simple, 2-story white house on a cobblestone street, just across from his father's law offices, which leaned perilously to one side, and the house of Twain's sweetheart, the inspiration for Becky Thatcher.
But back to the search for barbecue. We drove down Broadway, out of town, made a few turns, reached 61 and then the right turnoff. There it was: the sign for Drake's, up a hill and down a shady driveway. We had found it. It was local, out of the way, a real find. We piled out of the car, chortling about sandwiches and racks, and then: boom. Of all the lousy luck, Drake's was closed only on Monday. We stood crestfallen. It looked bleak for barbecue.
Luckily, a sweaty restaurant employee working outside took pity. He walked over, listened to our barbecue lament, and said there was a newer place up the highway, The Steakhouse. It did ribs, pretty well too. Growing weak, prepared for it to have burned down last week, we drove a few miles to a shopping mall. Lo and behold, it still stood. And it was open. And Monday was "Rib Day," a free half-rack with every rack.
A mound of tender, sweet ribs and excellent fries, sweet potato fries and cole slaw arrived. We made short work of it all. Oh Bubba and Drake, we didn't know you, but it all worked out.
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