There used to be, many years ago, (I don't know if it's still around.) a rib joint in central Florida in a semi-rural area. It was literally on the 'wrong side of the tracks', and less than a hundred yards away from them.
Housed in a ramshackle, re-purposed old cinder-block garage, it was wildly popular. People would drive a hour or more just to get there, and the parking lot would be full of high status cars (Caddies, Beemers, Mercedes, etc.) with people lined up at the little hole in the wall, getting handed their slabs of ribs or half-chickens wrapped in old newspaper, by the wizened old black man who owned the place.
The window of opportunity was small. He'd open when he felt ready to, sell until he ran out, and close down for the day. You had to get there early and be patient.
He called the place ****** ["N" word] King's Barbecue.
Around the early '70s he started bottling his barbecue sauce by the half gallon, and in a nod to more easily offended sensibilities the label only read "King's Barbecue Sauce".
But if you asked any of the locals where to find the place (not easy), and called it "King's", they wouldn't have a clue what you were talking about. The full name was enshrined in local history, and spoken with reverence.
