There were booths along the wall of a big room, with red vinyl chairs around tables on the bare concrete floor in the middle. The buffet ran along one side of the wall and was groaning with dishes, laden to overflowing. We grabbed polystyrene plates and filled them with pulled pork, onion rings, chicken and dumplings, collards and a lot of other mushy looking food for which my British brain had no word. Slopped on their own BBQ sauce and sat to eat, briefly transported to heaven.
We overheard people saying that the sermon must have gone long that day, and didn't figure out what that meant until we looked up from our delicious food and saw the stream of cars lining up to get in the car park.
Car after car of smartly dressed people came through the door and greeted the servers and each other.
They had left one church to go worship at the other church in town: Dukes BBQ. And who could blame them?