When I first moved to Atlanta, I went barbecue-crazy -- I lived near a place called Dusty's and ate there at least once a week, often more. I toyed with the idea of writing a book about a BBQ roadtrip, from the Eastern seaboard to the Midwest, but ultimately rejected it because I don't get really worked up about whether you spell it "barbecue" or "barbeque," and couldn't remember which style was Carolina and which was Georgia and which was Texas and so on. Plus, I realized after a year or so that eating so much of it was making me a fatass, so I largely gave it up.
Thus, when I moved downtown and started driving by Daddy D'z a lot, I never went in. After having barbecue (que?) 67,000 times in the first two or so years here, I've probably had it less than 20 times in the subsequent six or seven years.
But eventually, any place that's got signs as cool as Daddy D'z is going to woo me in, so on Friday, the Ski Bum, Coco and I went for lunch. It was, as expected, fantastic, and left me unable to eat or move for about 18 hours afterwards.
The above is just one of the many cool handmade signs lurking around DD'z. It was the only one I took a picture of on Friday, though -- the pig's bloodshot eyes drew me in.