At a white tablecloth steakhouse in Florida, I ordered the barbecued ribs. It was a bad idea to start with, I know. But it turned out worse than could have been imagined.
After a suitable period of time, the waiter delivered a greasy, gray slab with a puddle of catsup on the side.
Aghast, I asked the waiter, "Er, have these ribs, by any chance, been...er..., ah, boiled?". His face was as quizzical as mine. He said he'd find out.
Upon his return, he reported, "They're boiled. The chef's from Philadelphia. He says that's they way they do barbecue ribs there." We both rolled our eyes...