Ya' Cousin Cleon
OG COUCH CORNER HUSTLA
"It was about choosing my town, my city, and my identity... it boils down to a pure love for this community."
On the north side of Flint, Michigan, a collection of jumbo barbecue drums puff smoke in a grass lot next to a vacant gas station. Among the big grills is a folding table under a small canopy, the sum of which makes up World Class Bar-B-Q.
World Class isn't really classifiable—it's not a restaurant or pop-up. It's sort of a street-side, open-air barbecue stand that at first glance might not seem legal, but with the sun shining bright on Saturday afternoon, a crowd is gathered around it.
The mood is nearly festive, and a cross section of Flint is standing in line, craning their necks to see what's on the grill, while one of the four women running the show swings up the grill's hood and flips meaty slabs of ribs, giant wings, and club-sized sausages. Music blares from a nearby red-striped Caprice, and another of the World Class women dramatically whacks tips off ribs with a giant cleaver.
The tips are little nubs of cartilage with charred, crispy exteriors concealing super-tender rib meat and pig fat, and gnawing at them gets a little bit primal. World Class does its ribs with a dry rub, but upon request the pitmaster will also ladle on a piquant sauce from a giant pot she keeps on the grill. It's slightly sweet from brown sugar, and there may also be a few lemons, onions, and peppers bobbing in it.
The operation is hardly conventional, but it's representative of the sort of creativity found around Flint's food, as well as the talent in the city's chefs. "It began as a retirement hustle and to give my kid a summer job, but it took off, and they haven't let us shut it down yet," says owner David Burton, who with his wife has been running World Class for 21 years.
In fact, Flint is full of compelling restaurants and chefs, and they're playing a vital role in the city's turnaround. As with World Class, there's often a DIY element, and many are community-focused—they're not just here to cook, but reshape and lift up the struggling city around them while creating new opportunities for others.
"People in Flint are hustlers and survivors, and it's kind of inspiring," says Tony Vu, who runs the Vietnamese noodle bar MaMang. "There's story upon story attached to the food here, and that’s why people want to do it."
And in a broader sense, some say the shared story of Flint is what compels them to look out for one another. Next month, as World Class prepares to shut down for the season (they only operate from late May or early June to September), the Burtons will donate their final week of profits to local soup kitchens. Over the last eight years, they've given $120,000.
As a customer who went by "D" put it: "We love [World Class] because they show Flint some love back."
That means something in a place still reeling from repeated, heavy economic blows. Though the worst of the Flint water crisis is past, the issue still simmers. Meanwhile, residents continue wrestling with an encompassing, decades-long economic slide that started as the auto industry largely abandoned the once-mighty region and moved their assembly lines south. 42 percent of Flint lives in poverty according to 2017 census data, and high unemployment, crime, a declining population, and the other usual Rust Belt problems remain a fact of life.
Still, there's optimism in the food industry, and the best of Flint's cuisine is, like the city around it, blue-collar—diners and coney dogs, pho and fried chicken, loaded potatoes and rib tips.
The Rebuilding of Flint Is Starting With Barbecue and Banh Mi
On the north side of Flint, Michigan, a collection of jumbo barbecue drums puff smoke in a grass lot next to a vacant gas station. Among the big grills is a folding table under a small canopy, the sum of which makes up World Class Bar-B-Q.
World Class isn't really classifiable—it's not a restaurant or pop-up. It's sort of a street-side, open-air barbecue stand that at first glance might not seem legal, but with the sun shining bright on Saturday afternoon, a crowd is gathered around it.
The mood is nearly festive, and a cross section of Flint is standing in line, craning their necks to see what's on the grill, while one of the four women running the show swings up the grill's hood and flips meaty slabs of ribs, giant wings, and club-sized sausages. Music blares from a nearby red-striped Caprice, and another of the World Class women dramatically whacks tips off ribs with a giant cleaver.
The tips are little nubs of cartilage with charred, crispy exteriors concealing super-tender rib meat and pig fat, and gnawing at them gets a little bit primal. World Class does its ribs with a dry rub, but upon request the pitmaster will also ladle on a piquant sauce from a giant pot she keeps on the grill. It's slightly sweet from brown sugar, and there may also be a few lemons, onions, and peppers bobbing in it.
The operation is hardly conventional, but it's representative of the sort of creativity found around Flint's food, as well as the talent in the city's chefs. "It began as a retirement hustle and to give my kid a summer job, but it took off, and they haven't let us shut it down yet," says owner David Burton, who with his wife has been running World Class for 21 years.
In fact, Flint is full of compelling restaurants and chefs, and they're playing a vital role in the city's turnaround. As with World Class, there's often a DIY element, and many are community-focused—they're not just here to cook, but reshape and lift up the struggling city around them while creating new opportunities for others.
"People in Flint are hustlers and survivors, and it's kind of inspiring," says Tony Vu, who runs the Vietnamese noodle bar MaMang. "There's story upon story attached to the food here, and that’s why people want to do it."
And in a broader sense, some say the shared story of Flint is what compels them to look out for one another. Next month, as World Class prepares to shut down for the season (they only operate from late May or early June to September), the Burtons will donate their final week of profits to local soup kitchens. Over the last eight years, they've given $120,000.
As a customer who went by "D" put it: "We love [World Class] because they show Flint some love back."
That means something in a place still reeling from repeated, heavy economic blows. Though the worst of the Flint water crisis is past, the issue still simmers. Meanwhile, residents continue wrestling with an encompassing, decades-long economic slide that started as the auto industry largely abandoned the once-mighty region and moved their assembly lines south. 42 percent of Flint lives in poverty according to 2017 census data, and high unemployment, crime, a declining population, and the other usual Rust Belt problems remain a fact of life.
Still, there's optimism in the food industry, and the best of Flint's cuisine is, like the city around it, blue-collar—diners and coney dogs, pho and fried chicken, loaded potatoes and rib tips.
The Rebuilding of Flint Is Starting With Barbecue and Banh Mi
all that shyt good af
