Founded in ‘57 as an elitist supper club, the Continental Club’s velvet curtains and painted tin ceiling have morphed from 1950s swank to rockabilly dank. Fellow moto-journalist Billy Bartels and I were pulling back Shiner Bocks at this gritty Austin music club, eyeballing the crowd of trucker-capped blue collars, polyester blue hairs, and hipster hillbillies in ragged-brimmed straw cowboy hats and aviator sunglasses. I spotted a hand-scrawled cardboard sign in the back of the club that read, “BBQ Sandwiches.” About two hours before, Billy and I had consumed enough smoked pork and beef to incite a PETA riot. No matter—we were on a Mission. A beer and a half later, I pushed my way through the horde to the other side of the club, intent on injecting more beef into my overtaxed system.