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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Pastrami Beef Ribs:
A Cosmic Ode to Dinosaur Delights
By Arlo Agogo
Dig this, cats and kittens, let me lay down a tale so juicy it’ll make your taste buds do the jitterbug.
We’re talkin’ pastrami "Dino" beef ribs—those gargantuan, Flintstone-sized slabs of bovine bliss, smoked low and slow, kissed by spices,
and funkified into pastrami perfection.
This ain’t just food, man; it’s a portal to the cosmos, a meaty mandala that spins your soul right into the orbit of Funkadelia, where the Groovatrons groove to the rhythm of the universe.
So buckle up your ride, slip on your paisley shades, and let’s ride this flavor wave to the stars.
Picture me, your ol’ desert-wandering beatnik, 58 years young, tooling down Rosemead Blvd, in my 1965 VW Bus, headed to "The Hat", the one with the tie-dye curtains and a bumper sticker that says,
“Honk if you dig quantum entanglement.”
It’s a Saturday night, circa now, 2025, and the air’s thick with the promise of something righteous. I’m headed to "The Hat" in Pasadena, that sacred temple of pastrami where the neon glow hums like a Zen koan.
Back in the day, my Dad—God rest his soul—used to haul me there, his ’67 Mustang purring like a contented cat.
We’d slide into a booth, order pastrami sandwiches slathered with that special dip sause, and talk about life, golf and the pursuit of the perfect bite.
"The Hat" was our church, and pastrami was the sermon. Fast-forward to last week, and I’m in my Mohave Dessert pad, sipping some far-out oolong I scored from a tea merchant in Santa Ana.
My neighbor, this cat named Rusty—a grizzled BBQ shaman with a smoker in his front yard that looks like it could launch a rocket—rolls up with a proposition.
“Man,” he says, eyes glinting like he’s seen the face of God in a brisket, “I got somethin’ special.
Pastrami beef ribs. Dino-sized.
You give me fifty bucks’ worth of that fancy tea you got, and I’ll hook you up with three ribs that’ll blow your mind clear to Alpha Centauri.” I’m no fool, daddy-o. I know a cosmic deal when I hear one.
I hand over the tea, and he hands me these ribs, wrapped in butcher paper, still warm, smelling like a spice bazaar on a planet where flavor is king.
Now, let’s get one thing straight: pastrami beef ribs ain’t your run-of-the-mill BBQ. These ain’t the ribs you gnaw on at a backyard shindig while your cousin burns the hot dogs. No, sir, these are dinosaur ribs, the kind of meat that makes you feel like you’re wrestling a brontosaurus and winning.
Rusty, that sly alchemist, took these Flintstone-worthy bones and gave ’em the pastrami treatment—brined in a witch’s brew of salt, sugar, and secrets, crusted with a pepper-coriander cloak, then smoked for what I’m guessing was ten hours, maybe twelve, until they were tender enough to make a grown man weep.
The result?
A slab so succulent, so groovy, it could make a vegan reconsider their life choices. But how’d this idea even beam into Rusty’s brain? Word on the street is, the Groovatrons had a hand in it. Yeah, those intergalactic funkateers from Planet Funkadelia, the ones I told you about in my last blog, hitching rides on quantum waves and spreading good vibes across the multiverse.
See, the Groovatrons ain’t just about cosmic boogie; they’re foodies, too. Legend has it, they caught wind of Earth’s BBQ scene through some interdimensional diner menu and zeroed in on Rusty’s smoker like it was a beacon.
“Man,” they telepathically zapped to him, “you gotta take those beef ribs and make ’em pastrami. Brine ’em, spice ’em, smoke ’em till they sing!” Rusty, being the kind of cat who listens when the universe whispers, did just that.
And now, here I am, holding a beef rib that’s practically glowing with extraterrestrial mojo.Let’s break it down, beatnik style.
Pastrami, for those who ain’t hip, is like the lovechild of a deli counter and a jazz riff. You start with a hunk of beef—brisket’s the classic, but Rusty went rogue with these ribs.
You soak it in a brine that’s part chemistry, part poetry: salt, garlic, maybe a whisper of clove or allspice, and who-knows-what-else that Rusty won’t spill. (I asked, but he just winked and said, “Trade secrets, man.”)
After days of marinating, you rub it down with a spice mix that’s black pepper and coriander doing a tango, then you smoke it low and slow until the meat surrenders, soft as a sigh, with a crust that’s all bark and glory.
Slice it thin for a sandwich, sure, but leave it on the bone like Rusty did, and you’ve got a primal feast that’d make a caveman write sonnets.
I take these ribs home, unwrap ’em, and—sweet mercy—they’re a sight. Each one’s as big as my forearm, glistening like they’ve been polished by the gods. The pastrami crust is dark, speckled with spice, and the meat underneath is pink-ringed from the smoke, promising a flavor bomb that could detonate your soul.
I fire up the ol’ record player, drop some Wes Montgomery for ambiance, and dive in.
The first bite? Man, it’s like biting into a supernova.
The crust crunches, the meat melts, and the spices—oh, the spices—they hit every note from smoky to sweet to peppery. It’s The Hat’s pastrami sandwich, but bigger, badder, and bonier.
I’m half-expecting the Groovatrons to materialize in my living room, clapping their funky paws in approval.
Now, I ain’t no stranger to pastrami. Growing up, it was my go-to, whether from The Hat, a catering truck on Huntington Drive, or some hole-in-the-wall deli where the counter guy knew my order before I opened my mouth.
But store-bought pastrami? Nah, that’s like listening to a cover band play Miles Davis—close, but no cigar. The real deal, like Rusty’s ribs, is a labor of love, a process that takes time, patience, and a little bit of madness.
It’s why I’d drive clear across town to The Hat at midnight, weaving through the neon jungle of Valley Boulevard, just to sink my teeth into that perfect sandwich, sauce dripping down my chin, my buddies laughing over Cokes and fries. As I’m gnawing on this rib, I swear I hear the Groovatrons humming in the ether, their funky frequencies syncing with the beat of my heart.
They’re digging this, too, broadcasting the recipe back to Funkadelia, where they’re probably throwing a pastrami rib rave right now. I picture ’em, all glowy and grooved-out, passing around platters of these ribs, their six-fingered hands sticky with sauce, their boomboxes blaring intergalactic beats.
“Earthlings got it goin’ on!”, and I can’t help but grin.
So here’s the moral, if you’re looking for one: life’s too short for bland meat. Find you a Rusty, a cat who’s crazy enough to turn dinosaur ribs into pastrami poetry.
Or better yet, hit up The Hat, order that sandwich, and let the shoe-shine sauce baptize your soul. Me? I’m gonna keep trading tea for ribs, keep cruising these desert roads, and keep listening for the Groovatrons’ next big idea.
Because when pastrami beef ribs are this good, man, the universe feels like
--one big, smoky, delicious jam session.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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