Just as I was about to do a story on it too. Snowflake was the ideal hood barbecue joint, simply a window through which passes cheap, savory, smoked goodness. You could get a rib sandwich, two ribs bones and all between two piece of white bread for $2.50, the way the prophets ordained it. There were no tables, so you either ate on the hood of your car, which I have done, or carefully in the passenger seat of your friend's car, which I did just this past Tuesday, cursing the white shirt you inexplicably chose to wear that day.
Looking into the brown bag, seeing a rib sandwich looking back up at you was akin to viewing life through just enough of a lens to offer perspective. From a functionality standpoint, a rib sandwich with the bones in tact is a daft idea, but in the experiential, it is participatory and complete. You have to strategize how you are going to do this; none of your training has prepared you for this moment. Will it's enjoyment executed with grace, or will you at one point leave a tangy sauce handprint on your friend's glovebox, like a warning from an enemy tribe? The reality is somewhere in the middle, where it always is.
I ran into one of the Snowflake cooks this morning as I dropped my daughter off at school, she apologized for the restaurant's closing, like it was any of her doing. I'm sorry it took me all these years to make it out there.