By Michael Y. Park The other week, when I brought up the Dear Abby column that led to a discussion about how we deal with our un-PC friends and relatives making racist cracks in ethnic restaurants, I completely forgot to mention my own worst racist-in-a-restaurant tale, only realizing my omission later the next day. I’ll make redress here. This is the worst racist incident I can recall being drawn into in a restaurant, ethnic or otherwise. It was in … well, it was a hell of a long time ago. I’d recently finished grad school in New York, and was hired temporarily to do the kind of online chatrooom stuff that was big for a year or two before the dot-com bubble burst, for AOL. The mission: To open a metaphorical window for AOL users onto the world of college spring break in Panama City Beach, Fla. (The kind of gig that sounds great when you’re twentysomething, and worse than a trip to the dentist when you’re a decade or two older — at least at the dentist’s, your insurance will cover the anesthesia.) My partner in this endeavour, by the way, was Epi’s own Megan Steintrager, who I was friends with from school. She’ll have to correct me if my memory falters. At one point during the trip, we were chased around a “museum” of Florida-themed knick-knacks and alligator heads by a machete-wielding dog poisoner named Remus, but that’s a different story. Anyway, Megan and I drove down from New York City to the Florida Panhandle in a rented car on the AOL dime, and were excited to finally cross over the Georgia-Alabama border and find a roadside barbecue joint on the outskirts of Phenix City–shades of future food writers! We sat down in the otherwise empty log-cabin-y joint at an odd hour of the afternoon and ordered (I think, Megan might remember better) beef brisket and ribs, which I think came in paper baskets or plates on the sort of brown, molded-plastic tray you used to be able to swipe from McDonald’s. As we were digging into our long-delayed meal, in came a trio of locals: a boisterous, big-bellied middle-aged white man who looked like Boss Hogg‘s bigger, louder brother; his wife, who I don’t think said a peep the entire time; and Boss Hogg‘s slim, middle-aged black employee, who wore mechanic’s overalls and was also entirely silent. Spotting us–obviously not from around there–Hogg asked us where we were from. Friendly and smiling, nothing to hint at what was to be one of the most awkward moments in my life. “New York!” he whooped. “New York City! We got Yankees with us here in Phenix City, Alabama!” Grinning broadly, he introduced us to his wife and employee and explained that he owned a nearby car dealership, and that this was their favorite barbecue joint. This was when I in hindsight remember the two employees of the place–both black, I think–begin to cringe. His wife was already withering. “Today I’m taking this boy…<div

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