The annual Green City Market’s Chefs’ Summer BBQ Festival is a gourmet grazer’s dream, the eating extravaganza The Taste wishes it was. But since your trusty Eat Out reporters have been many times in years past, we sent the intern off to get her take on the event. Below is her report:

I was greeted first by Stephanie Izard, flanked by Valerie Bolon (Remember her? Antonia threw her under the bus for the disastrous blini on episode 2?), who handed me a small plate of coleslaw topped with braised pork, and greeted second by the creature itself: a whole pig, sprawled out across A Mano’s station, nestled in a hut of baguettes. Not long after, I encountered two severed pig heads, glaring at me from behind a pile of pickles, at the Boka/Perennial/Landmark station, where Landmark chef Benjamin Browning introduced us to this poor fellow on the left, Wilbur. I then proceeded to eat Wilbur, in porchetta form, that is, herb-stuffed and roasted then sandwiched between a pumpernickel roll spread with spicy whole grain mustard. “That’s the pig, right there, that I just ate?” I asked, wishing Browning would retract. “Yup.”

It was time for a drink. Death’s Door Spirits mixed up a refreshing Ramos Gin Fizz—based on the recipe from Sepia’s Peter Vestinos—but the ladies huddling around the station were looking for something a little lighter. “Gin makes me crazy,” they said in unison. Drinking light was not, however, the general mood. When I walked up to see what North Shore Distillery was pouring, the woman behind the table was shooing away a pair of older men, commenting “It’s a tasting, sir. You’ve already been up here multiple times.” I veered for the sparkling rosé from August Hill Winery—located in Utica, IL. “It goes great with pizza,” the server told us. After a delicious smoky porter from Piece and one seriously hoppy IPA from Flossmoor Brewery, I had to pull myself away from booze central.

Plus my sister was getting impatient. She had come to the fest with one prize in mind: Barry Sorkin. “Where is he?” she had started whining as soon as we got through the gate. Finally we found the Smoque owner and Adrian Brody–doppelgänger (well, according to my sister at least) on the far east side of the fest, turning out ribs while Ina Pinkney greeted the crowd. “Where’s the brisket?” we asked Ina. “Not tonight, not tonight—you’ve got to come in for dinner!” My sister planted herself within close distance of her eye candy, but when I came back a few minutes later, she gave me the bad news: “He’s married.” And worse: they’d run out of ribs. They weren’t the first: Green Zebra gave away their last sheep’s milk ricotta ravioli halfway through the night, and Greg Christian Catering had closed up shop around then, too. It didn’t matter: the best dessert of the night—a cherry-chocolate focaccia from Fox and Obel—was only a few tables away.