Pit smoked BBQ is hard to beat
I do not claim to be a virtuous man. I have only a few vices. One, I will admit to possessing, is a love for pulled-pork, pit-cooked barbecue. Nay, I will confess it is an addiction. I am an aficionado of barbecue and carry a little black book with lists of and directions to pits, bars-and-grills, family diners, and upscale eateries. All have garnered reputations and recommendations for gustatory excellence in the art of smoking meat.Folks have learned not to challenge me with the question: “Where is the best barbecue made?” I will whip out my book and recite, chapter and verse, the name and location of pits, best dishes, and often the pedigree of the cooks.
A friend and professional acquaintance from North Carolina likewise studies barbecue and misses no chances to sample regional specialties while on his travels. We have compiled, over the years, a “best-of-the-best” list. It continues to grow.
So, where is the best barbecue made?
Ahhhh . . . The readers of this column in a certain West Tennessee community along Highway 100 east of Memphis already know the answer. Henderson and Chester County, Tenn., comprise the whole hog pit barbecue capital of the world, with more master barbecue cooks per square mile than anywhere.
Home to an annual barbecue festival in September, written up in culinary magazines, and producer of a barbecue chef invited to the Smithsonian to demonstrate his prowess, this area has more pits per ratio of population than even Texas, I suspect.
Seldom when I worked in Henderson did I fail to smell and appreciate (with mouth-watering anticipation) the hickory-smoke-and-pork-grease aroma wafting from various small restaurants around town.
This was the type of barbecue on which I was raised: shoulders or half hogs slow-cooked over hickory charcoal, mopped with a red pepper vinegar basting sauce, and pulled off the bone while steaming hot to be mounded on buns or plates, topped with dollops of vinegar slaw, and served with a side of fries or baked beans.
To name one pit over another in Chester County would be suicide. They are all in my little book. But, if Highway 100 is an east-west axis for pit barbecue greatness, surely I-65 is the north-south corridor. Let’s drop down to Decatur, Ala., and visit Big Bob Gibson’s. Big Bob’s is a North Alabama tradition, famous for its commercially-sold sauces; but the pulled pork plate does not exceed the level of excellence achieved by pits in West Tennessee. It comes close.
Where Big Bob’s sets itself apart is with a unique loaded baked potato and a remarkable Brunswick stew, in my humble opinion. Imagine a baked ‘tater the size on a NFL pigskin, split and loaded with your choice of barbecue meat (pork, chicken, or turkey… or maybe some of each), cheese, bacon bits, chives, sour cream, and sauce. I still dream about sliding into a Big Bob’s booth on a cold winter day and spooning from a bowl of simmering stew, made with smoked meat, with a side of cornbread and a piece of homemade pie for dessert.
I can also recommend Whitt’s and Woodall’s in the Tennessee Valley, but a cut above both is Green Briar Catfish on I-565 near Mooresville. What makes Green Briar so good is an adequately done pulled pork platter, but when combined with the fried catfish and homemade hushpuppies… well, grown men have cried for less reason. That’s right. I order the barbecue-and-catfish combination plate. It’s a lot to eat, but one of the few paths to redneck nirvana. The hushpuppies themselves are worth a side trip to Green Briar for a bag to munch while driving.
Trekking north and south along I-65 brings you to legendary barbecue joints in Nashville and Birmingham, but the absolute topper is a hole-in-the-wall pit near Elkton, Tenn., known far and wide as “Bo’s.” Just get off at the World Famous Booby Bungalo Club/Shady Lawn Truck Stop interstate exchange and head east.
It’s a tiny place: an enclosed pit, a kitchen, and a cramped sit-down dining area. The walls are stained; a cloud of hickory smoke fogs the room; the furniture is dilapidated. But, when the Lord returns to earth and if he’s hungry for barbecue, He will most certainly stop at Bo’s for a heaped serving of pulled pork shoulder.
Don’t expect to sit and be waited on at Bo’s. You wait beside the counter at respectful attention until one of the ancient black men, expert barbecue cooks, brings a laden tray of shoulder joints, fresh off the pit. Point to the meat you want: inside, outside, crisp-skinned, etc. Watch him cut the joint with an old butcher knife and pile on the meat. Next, serve yourself from a cooler in which cups of Bo’s famous Christmas slaw are stacked, along with potato salad and other sides.
The Christmas slaw is made of red and green cabbage in a sweet tangy vinegar base. It’s the perfect accompaniment to Bo’s famous pork, either on the plate or enclosed in extra large buns.
Bo’s is where the county’s road employees eat barbecue at lunchtime. On Saturdays, the parking lot is packed with motorcycles. Riders come from as far away as Atlanta to dine on Bo’s barbecue.
Finally, my son says it would be remiss not to mention Bunyan’s Barbecue in Florence, Ala., on West College Street. In this university town full of restaurants, Bunyan’s is where the chefs, waiters, and other eatery owners go when they want barbecue pork. Mr. Bunyan still oversees the pit every day except Sunday, when the business is closed so employees can attend church.
I add regularly to my list of best-of-the-best barbecue joints. One day, I might even find a real southern-style pit north of the Mason-Dixon . . . and when this happens, I will trumpet it to the nation. So far, my barbecue craving has gone unsatisfied anywhere above the borders of Kentucky or West Virginia. I have heard about a place in Chillicothe, Ohio, however, and plan to check it out.
