Nobody is going to eat in a place called Dirty Fingers

Fair question.

The answer is pretty simple.

Nothing happened to Lucy.

She is still part of Dirty Fingers, and she always will be.

When Dirty Fingers first opened, it was not the place you see today.

Back then it was live music, cold beer, Tex-Mex, burgers, wings, a pool table, LOTS of tequila and a bunch of friends and tourists hanging out. I already had my steakhouse, so Dirty Fingers was really my man cave. It was the place I would end up after closing the restaurant, having a drink with old and new friends and playing the harmonica.

Lucy fit that place perfectly.

So did the name Dirty Fingers.

Matter of fact, people used to tell me, “You are crazy. Nobody is going to eat in a place called Dirty Fingers.”

Some thought we were just a bar.

Some thought we were a girly bar.

Some just kept driving.

That was okay.

We were having a good time, and to be honest, that is mainly what we were about.

Then something happened that I never planned.

I sold the steakhouse.

The smokers showed up out front.

The smokers changed everything.

People could see we were serious about the food before they ever walked through the front door. They could smell the meat cooking and see the smoke rolling before they even came inside.

Little by little, people stopped talking about the name.

And started talking about the food.

Funny how that works.

Lucy did not go anywhere.

She is still here, and she is not going anywhere.

She just stepped back and let the food tell the next part of the Dirty Fingers story.

Anyway, I just thought I would tell you that because every now and then somebody asks.

“Scott, why in the world would you call a restaurant Dirty Fingers?”

Fair question.

Truth is, when I came up with the name, Dirty Fingers was not really a restaurant.

It started because every now and then I got tired of Vietnamese food. I wanted a real burger, a taco, some chips and salsa and an ice cold beer. Back then there were not many places in Da Nang to have a western lunch. I also wanted a place to hang out after I closed my steakhouse in the evenings as well.

A cold beer.

Too much tequila.

Some live blues and rock.

A burger.

Some wings.

Friends sitting around solving all the world’s problems. Plotting against the public, and talking Tào lao.

That was Dirty Fingers. Just having fun, laughing and cutting up.

Back then, everything on the menu was meant to be eaten with your hands.

Not many folks were bothered by it. But then came my British buddies and they needed a knife and fork.

Matter of fact, for a long time knives and forks were not available.

Just chopsticks.

Living in Vietnam, that seemed to make perfect sense and fun.

Besides, chopsticks are really just an extension of your fingers.

People thought I was crazy.

“Nobody is going to eat in a place called Dirty Fingers.”

Maybe they were right.

But I was not trying to build a fancy restaurant.

I just wanted a place where people could relax, laugh big, eat good food and not worry about getting their fingers dirty.

The name stayed.

The restaurant changed.

These days you will find brisket, steaks, barbecue and a whole lot more than we ever imagined back then.

A little smoke on your shirt.

A little sauce on your fingers.

A wad of napkins on the table.

That has never bothered me.

In fact, I think that is exactly how Dirty Fingers should be.

Everything had fingers.

And I mean damn near everything.

The paintings on the walls were picked because of what people were doing with their hands. Guitar players picking. Singers pointing into the crowd. And of course Johnny Cash giving that famous middle finger.

Even the signs for the toilets were made out of fingers.

At one point I actually had an entire alphabet designed out of fingers. I was going to use it on the menus and everything else until I finally figured out nobody was going to be able to read the damn thing.

Then came the skeletal middle finger.

We put it on hats. Shirts. The bartenders wore it. Customers bought them and pretty soon giving somebody the finger at Dirty Fingers became more of a hello than an insult.

We even had a pool team called The Middle Fingers.

And damn if they didn’t win the first year.

That was Dirty Fingers back then.

We were more bar than restaurant, probably a little rough around the edges and probably pushed things a little too far sometimes. But it was clean, the service was good, and everybody was there to have a good time.

We weren’t trying to offend anybody.

We were just having fun with the name.

Eventually the restaurant changed and we toned some of that stuff down. The food became more important, the smokers moved out front, and Dirty Fingers grew into Vietnam’s Texas Smokehouse.

But those old hats, shirts and paintings are still part of where we came from.

And every once in a while somebody who was around back then will still walk in and give me the finger.

I usually give it right back.

“Scott, that’s bloody. Take it back and cook it some more.”

Here’s the problem.

That’s not blood.

The animal was drained of its blood long before that prime rib ever got anywhere near Dirty Fingers.

What you’re seeing is mostly moisture from the meat mixed with myoglobin, a protein naturally found in muscle. That’s where much of that red color comes from.

Prime rib is supposed to be cooked slowly at a lower temperature. That’s how we keep it tender, juicy and full of flavor.

Take a good piece of prime rib and keep cooking it because the pink color scares you, and eventually something happens.

The pink disappears.

Unfortunately, so does a lot of the juice and flavor.

Now, if you like your beef well done, that’s your business. We’ll cook it the way you want it.

We may not always agree with you, but you’re the one eating it.

At Dirty Fingers we’ll go out of our way to make a customer happy. That’s part of the deal.

But before you send that prime rib back because you think you’re looking at blood…

You’re not.

You’re looking at a piece of beef that’s still tender and juicy.

Cook it too much longer and it won’t be.

Truth is, I don’t really know.

Nobody ever taught me.

At least not the way people think about being taught.

I watched my grandmother. My grandfather. My mom and dad.

You picked things up.

How to make a little gravy. How to season meat. How to build a fire and move the coals around instead of putting everything directly underneath the meat.

Nobody was talking about techniques or temperatures or any of that stuff.

Hell, I didn’t even know you could thicken something with cornstarch. We used flour.

That’s just how we cooked.

I probably learned a hell of a lot more standing around watching than I realized at the time.