The plates hit the table with an enthusiastic thud. (I admit, for once, it wasn't just clumsiness. I couldn't help the theatrical entrance with this slice of heaven.) Goofy grin seeping across my face, I bent over the plates to take one last sniff before the inevitable feeding frenzy started. Oh, the way the sauces mixed together up close! A sweetness that would drive any bee into a jealous despair mixed with an insolent tang that hinted at sun-drenched beaches and margaritas. I slid the food tags under the plates so everyone could pick their poison. (Ummm ... that phrase just doesn't sound right for a picnic. Forget I said it.) The one plate said, "Honey Spareribs" but that would be calling Michelanglo a room painter. Boiled then grilled, the meat could slide off the bone with the merest of glances. The honey was made by the most pampered of bees who joyously buzzed all day long in an emerald sea of clover, tenderly coaxed out by a fourth or fifth generation bee-keeper. In the sun, each rib shimmered like the finest amber silk with rose red accents. The meat cooked up and away from the bone, politely allowed access to the bone for graceful handling. Each bite glided past the lips and waltzed with every taste bud before sashaying exiting towards the stomache. The "Red Chile Spareribs" were the fiery young sisters to the elegant honey ribs. A thicker, more athletic sauce brashly proclaimed their presence - a red, crushed velvet party dress adorned each rib. And what a party these ribs threw! A tingle on the lips, a teasing hint warned that these ribs weren't shy. No slow dances for these ribs, it was a celebratory tango all the way. But these ribs would not be forgotten - memories of the sauce laughingly tweaked the taste buds like a jealous ex-lover long after they were gone. A dab of sauce had wound up on my fingers and I surreptitiously licked them when no one was looking. I sprawled on a bench, satisfied that I'd gotten everything just right. Ummm ... did anyone remember to bring napkins?