Fatty slab from Brisketlab. [Photographs: James Boo]

"I don't understand why there's so much mystery around barbecue," notes Dan Delaney, about to open his first barbecue restaurant BrisketTown on November 15 after his summerlong tour of Brisketlab. "Because it's not hard. It's really not. It's not hard, but it takes an unbelievable amount of patience and focus. Hard is building an atomic bomb. Smoking meat is not that."

Dan Delaney, the founder of VendrTV and producer of 100 cooking videos for a daily web series called "What's This Food?" is a home cook who started running a barbecue supper club from his living room in 2011. Now stretched by the demands of opening a brick-and-mortar barbecue restaurant at breakneck speed, his mood is anxious. Even after winning over the hearts and bellies of New Yorkers who've paid $62,500 for 2,500 pounds of brisket since he started the Brisketlab project, the 26-year-old entrepreneur worries that his single-minded mission won't translate to a successful business.

The one thing that doesn't concern Dan is the brisket itself, which has only gotten better over time. Intensely juicy, crusted with a simple black pepper rub, and smoked entirely with hardwood, the rich cuts of brisket to be served at BrisketTown have won much praise (see our previous report).

What exactly makes this brisket (and any barbecue) legit-texas-barbecue.html">too legit to quit? Barbecue pilgrims and local loyalists tend to describe barbecue in terms of regional authenticity. Barbecue cooks and the technically minded often break the food down to skill and science. The debate over what makes good barbecue touches so many topics that even the word itself is subject of contention.

Brisket can be particularly tough to crack, especially for those who demand well-rendered, full-flavored slices from a chamber filled with smoke. But when asked about the challenges of Brisketlab, Dan cuts through his own hype machine without hesitation.

"I thought it would be much more intricate," he notes. Having taught himself how to cook brisket in an 18-foot smoker he drove from Austin to Jersey, he doesn't discount the difficulty of the craft. But he doesn't make himself out to be a savant of smoke—what gives Dan the advantage is an inestimable amount of effort.

Dan Delaney takes his 123rd call of the day as he readies BrisketTown for opening day.

The new restaurant aims to sweat every detail, including from-scratch loaves of Pullman white bread. Pit operations will never be automated. The service counter might recall the feel of eating at Kreuz Market in Lockhart, while the stage at the front of the house will evoke Dan's fond memories of dining to live music in New Orleans. The furnishings take cues from of his favorite restaurants in Williamsburg, where he is an unmistakable regular.

"It's just, like, pay attention to it. Don't walk away. Don't click a button," Dan emphasizes matter-of-factly. He's talking about brisket, but he applies this mantra to pretty much everything. His stubborn attention to attention makes a case for what makes good barbecue: a seriously devoted pit master.

"I think that barbecue... there's a lot about it that I feel is harmonious with the business that I would want to run." His attitude reminds me a bit of pit masters like Ed Mitchell and Rodney Scott, Ollie Gates and Bruce Jones.

New York has plenty of high-profile barbecue restaurants that import styles of barbecue for all to enjoy, but BrisketTown is trying to succeed from a homegrown spirit.

"I'm not ignorant to the fact that what I'm trying to do with barbecue might only have been able to happen in 2012, in New York, where people are now traveling an hour to wait in line two hours to eat pizza at Roberta's."

The prospect of paying $25 for a pound of barbecue is something I've just started to warm up to, myself. But while BrisketTown is in the same league of Brooklyn restaurants that gave us Diner and DuMont, Dan looks up more to Brooklyn restaurants like DiFara and Peter Luger. His straightforward challenge is to make some damn good meat, one fatty brisket at a time.

"It's like a Jeopardy question: I have the answer, I just have to figure out the question. I have to figure out how to get there. I like that."

BrisketTown
359 Bedford Ave, Williamsburg, Brooklyn (map)
delaneybbq.com

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings here at Serious Eats, and check out his food-and-travel blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photograph: James Boo]

Santa Maria is best known for tri-tip, which became the signature of Central California 'cue during the 1960s. Taken from the bottom of the sirloin, tri-tip is a versatile cut of beef that can be transformed into a roast, a burger, or a steak, depending on how it's prepared.

Fantastic grilled tri-tip is rare, juicy beef with a wood-kissed char. I sampled two of the area's eminent tri-tip sandwiches to see if "the Santa Maria steak" can ride with the best of barbecue.

Should Tri-Tip Be Smoked?

Tri-tip barbecue at Skip Gibson's in Santa Maria.

Tri-tip is at odds when faced with a career as barbecue. Being a relatively low-fat, low-collagen cut, it isn't well-suited to the long cooking times used to coax the juices out of a heftier cut like brisket.

This seemed to be the case at Skip Gibson's in Santa Maria. While the popular smokehouse turns out a decent, oak-smoked, thin-sliced tri-tip, the meat I sampled during my brief visit seemed like an unremarkable alternative to brisket—not particularly flavorful or juicy, but not particularly bland or dry. The sandwich mainly left me wondering: Is tri-tip is a cut of meat worth taking to the pit?

A whole tri-tip does start off with a generous fat cap, and the meat beneath is plenty rich. Tri-tip's transition in Santa Maria from toss-off to local specialty also tells a familiar story in barbecue foodways: cook matches unpopular meat with local wood and lots of patience. Cook adapts. Satisfaction ensues. As with a lot of great 'cue, perhaps the answer lies with the right cook in the right house.

Rancho Nipomo's Cal-Mex Tri-Tip

The tri-tip sandwich at Rancho Nipomo: BBQ Fusion

"Most people here wouldn't know what to do with a brisket," notes Richard Cowell, owner of Rancho Nipomo, a relatively new smoke joint that sits at the corner of US-101 and CA-166, just shy of Santa Maria.

Cowell's tri-tip is worthy of an extended pit stop. Well-marinaded and smoked just thoroughly enough to pick up a lick of oak and sandwiched in half-pound portions, it has a heartier texture and a meatier flavor than your typical lean brisket. Cowell praises the cut for its practicality in cooking, but when his tri-tip is matched with a mild Santa Maria salsa on a freshly baked Mexican telera (the standard bun for tortas), the conversation turns to flavor.

This is where Rancho Nipomo shines. Tugging on the Spanish, Mexican and Western strands of Californian history, Cowell's matches pulled pork with telera and leftover rib meat with chile colorado, incorporating family recipes and experimentation into a menu that offers nopales and pinquito beans alongside something called "The Dummy Burger."

"We call it California style," says Cowell, who built Rancho Nipomo with an express intent to bring people together over food, music, and relaxation. A lifelong Californian with multinational heritage, Cowell talks about his kitchen and his picnic tables with a soft Latino accent and an implied smile—like Edward James Olmos, if he had become a friendly tiki bar owner instead Admiral Adama.

"It's not authentic Mexican food," he warns, peppering his commentary on cooking with a historical facts on immigration into the Central Coast. "We're Californian. We're Hispanic. We're other cultures. We're multicultural."

However many flags they fly, the folks at Rancho Nipomo make a tasty tri-tip—and a fine contribution to the United States of Barbecue.

Skip Gibson's BBQ

241 Town Center West, Santa Maria, CA 93458 (Map)
805-361-0435

Rancho Nipomo

108 Cuyama Lane, Nipomo, CA 93444 (Map)
805-925-3500
ranchonipomobbq.com

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photographs: James Boo]

How do you measure good barbecue? Does the meat have a smoke ring? Is there a pile of wood out back? Does the cook look anything like this guy? My favorite "rule" of barbecue is the parking lot test. Apparently, if you pull up to a smokehouse and notice a BMW parked next to a hooptie and a pickup truck, then the odds favor great barbecue.

If you pull up to a smokehouse and notice a hooptie parked next to a pickup and a minivan, the odds stumble just a bit—though they'll bounce back if you spot a pyramid display of white bread from the entrance. If you pull up to a smokehouse and notice a BMW next to two other BMWs, you may actually be at the local BMW dealership (note to self: look up definition of "slight left").

When I pulled up to the steakhouses of Santa Maria, California, I found pickup trucks next to pickup trucks. That's what you get for a farmtown near the central coast.

First, Some Santa Maria History

Santa Maria's claim to culinary fame is a type of open-flame grilling that dates back to the 19th century. Despite its association with colonial Spain's vaquero culture, this approach was not too different from most American barbecue of the time—a process with three general steps: "Dig hole. Light coals. Apply carcass."

Today, the iconic Santa Maria BBQ rig is not a smoke-filled enclosure of brick or tin. It's a cast-iron grate hoisted over a fire pit by two thickly laced chains. Red oak logs smolder below the grate, cooking the meat and vegetables lying above and bursting into an expressive flame whenever the cook adds a hefty splash of red wine.

The Hitching Post: Casmalia, CA

Since the origins of the word "barbecue" reflect this style of cooking, the "grilling vs. barbecue" debate wasn't on my mind when I took a seat at The Hitching Post in Casmalia. What did catch my attention was the sight of an open pit just feet from the dining room, an occasional wisp of smoke escaping from the hearth.

Watching the pit cook quickly pointed my thoughts to a more important question: rare or medium?

Three orders of "medium rare" at The Hitching Post returned three spot-on steaks, seared-to-black edges revealing a tender, rosy center. Each thick slice of grain-fed top sirloin, the original cut of choice for Santa Maria's outdoor pit barbecues during the 1800s, had been dry aged; rubbed with salt, garlic salt, and black pepper; and basted with butter and red wine on the grill. The deep flavors, complex textures and hint of wood smoke made this a steak to savor.

Grilled linguiça, with a wood-kissed natural casing and juicy filling, was just as memorable. The snappiest link to Santa Maria's Portuguese heritage, this spiced pork sausage is available for purchase (cooked or uncooked) all over town. It's a welcome addition to a local barbecue stable dominated by beef.

The Hitching Post is one of several steakhouse "taverns" that have been Santa Maria institutions since the 1950s (in fact, the Hitching Post is an official Santa Barbara landmark). Running the gradient between family-friendly restaurant and western saloon, each house boasts the same constants: red oak pits, awesome signage, and a thing for red meat.

While the ranching roots of the region have long since diminished (many steaks served here are imported from the Midwest), their dens and dining halls have grown into local legends and reliable roadside destinations.

Shaw's Restaurant: Santa Maria, CA

A stop at Shaw's Restaurant, one of the only steakhouses actually located in the town of Santa Maria, rewarded us with a fantastic heap of tri-tip. Like other signature specialties in regional 'cue, tri-tip didn't take center stage in Santa Maria until the 20th century. It's since become synonymous with the style, whether grilled and served rare or slow-smoked like a beef brisket.

A classic serving of Santa Maria tri-tip involves toasted garlic bread, a bowl of pinquito beans, and a side fresh red salsa. Shaw's tri-tip sandwich did well by all three (plus fries), but the meat alone would have been worth the $17 price tag.

It has just the slightest hint of a char but each thick slice retains that smoky flavor. The beef, cooked medium rare, was extremely tender and ripe with jus. Strands of almost-rendered fat—robust with the flavors of garlic and salt—made every bite pop.

Santa Maria barbecue, like Maryland Pit Beef, doesn't adhere to contemporary rules but after spending a day at the region's taverns and steakhouses, I could taste about a century of tradition distilled into the craft of seriously delicious wood-smoke grilling.

The Hitching Post

3325 Point Sal Road, Casmalia CA 93429 (map)
805-937-6151
hitchingpost1.com

Shaw's Restaurant

714 S Broadway, Santa Maria CA 93454 (map)
805-925-5862

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photographs: James Boo]

The state of Maryland practices barbecue in a rare form. I discovered this for myself on a grassy road outside of Baltimore, in front of a truck that had been built around a barrel-shaped smoker and decorated on all sides with the words: "PIT BEEF." After taking my order, the ladies of Bull on the Run picked up a rested round roast and nestled it into their deli slicer, carving away thin, pink ribbons and piling them unceremoniously onto a roll.

The result was Maryland pit beef, a regional specialty whose juices run across Maryland and sometimes spill up north to the Pennsylvania border. Frequently served alongside other meats under the umbrella of "pit BBQ," pit beef is typically a top roast that's been minimally seasoned, grilled directly over charcoal, and sliced deli-style to produce a sandwich that would make Arby's eat its hat.

Prepared from a lean cut and often served rare, pit beef is not a mascot for long-haul barbecue. A pile of wood cords lay at the base of Bull on the Run's smoker, but it was used to fuel the fire rather than impart flavor. Horseradish, mayo, and thin-sliced raw onion were on hand to complete the sandwich, which usually isn't much more than a fresh but familiar roast beef.

Pit beef's familiarity, however, doesn't make it easier to perfect, and placing an order cooked to a specific degree of rarity always carries a degree of risk. I was reminded of this at Expressway Pit Beef in Odenton; while pleasantly smoky on its edges, the pit beef I had ordered medium-rare arrived mostly medium and unpleasantly tough in a few spots.

You can clear this hurdle by asking to see "the rare for today," a simple test I learned from an old-timer while standing in line at The Canopy in Ellicott City, then gauging your request accordingly. The almost-rare meat I sampled in this way struck a nice balance of flavors, dropping hints of smoke, salt and pepper amidst the mild taste of roast beef. At the top of its game, Canopy's sandwich was a pit-perfect execution of the same standard served at Expressway and Bull on the Run: tender, precisely-cooked roast beef with a peck of smoke and grit.

Pioneer Pit Beef in Woodlawn, on the other hand, takes its competitors to Bovine University with its pit beef, which is intensely smoky, forcefully seasoned, and seared to a char. The slicer, who takes every order, cuts a single slice of beef from the round, still steaming, and hands it over to the customer for approval before sandwich construction begins.

When asked about the joint's cooking process, the slicer at Pioneer that afternoon gave up one response: "If I told you anything, my boss would fire me."

That said, I can't say exactly how Pioneer makes its pit beef as juicy as it is, but even the well-done slices mixed into my medium-rare sandwich were surprisingly moist. Pioneer also offers its sandwiches au jus—with all the juices, a dash of black pepper, and smear of horseradish, you have a salty, smoky, county take on the French dip.

Pioneer's hand-cut fries splashed with brown gravy are an ideal complement to the pit beef. Crisp at first, the fries turn into mashed potatoes sopping up gravy by the end of the meal.

This rare treasure will have you pulling over to the side of the road.

The Canopy

9319 Baltimore National Pike, Ellicott City MD 21042
443-288-1400

Expressway Pit Beef

1352 Odenton Road, Odenton MD 21113
410-674-7016

Pioneer Pit Beef

Johnnycake Rd. and N Rolling Road, Woodlawn, MD

Bull on the Run

3700 Washington Boulevard (off I-695), Halethorpe MD

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photographs: Robyn Lee]

What good is a guide to American barbecue sauce styles if you can't actually try any of those sauces?

Thankfully, most regional styles of barbecue sauce are available via mail order. But even if shipping and handling fees are cheaper than airfare across the country, is this option really worth the cost?

If you're one to argue that that barbecue is not defined by sauce alone (and I am), then perhaps not. Many of the country's best barbecue sauces are inseparable from the local barbecue they adorn, and many more aren't even available in a shelf-stable form. Still, if you've never tried northern Alabama white sauce or want to see what the most infamous mustard sauce in South Carolina is all about, mail-order is the easiest way to get sauced.

Here's a handful of options for the armchair baster:

Carolina Sauces

Perhaps the most direct way to get a taste of basic vinegar sauces is through the North Carolina Barbecue Company, a delivery business with a basic Eastern Carolina vinegar and pepper sauce and a basic Lexington-style vinegar and pepper sauce.

Scott's of Goldsboro: Scott's of Goldsboro (not to be confused with Scott's of Hemingway) delivers its classic Eastern Carolina sauce nationwide. Renowned for its intense punch of cayenne, it's not for the faint of heart. The extremely thin body and strong vinegar flavor makes this one a tough match for anything but pork shoulder, but it's an unfiltered taste of barbecue history. Order here.

Bone Suckin' Sauce: This isn't a traditional Lexington-style sauce, but it's a nice twist on the western North Carolina style, lacing its vinegar, tomato and pepper trio with mustard, horseradish and chopped garlic. Those who enjoy sweeter sauces will dig this one over a bare-bones formula like Scott's. Available at select grocery stores, or order here.

Bessinger's: Carolina Gold is sweeter than most sauces (notice a trend here?) in the Mustard Belt of South Carolina. If you're OK with that, this is one for the history books, with its own controversial boycott to boot. Order here.

White Barbecue Sauce

Big Bob Gibson: BBG's award-winning white sauce is the standard for this creamier style, and pit master Chris Lilly wastes no energy in spreading that reputation. While it looks like Ranch dressing, this sauce pours relatively thin. Tangy flavors of lemon juice and vinegar are accompanied by a mild kick from black pepper, and the sauce is just creamy enough to create a sense of richness. Order here.

Memphis

The Bar-B-Q Shop: This sauce from Memphis is one of my favorite spicy barbecue sauces. Bottled and distributed under the name Dancing Pigs, it has a blunt one-two punch of sweet and tangy, with a powerful wave of spices behind it.

Rendezvous can be a polarizing sauce among 'cue enthusiasts, but there's no denying that the name rings out in the world of ribs. So do its seasonings: The Rendezvous' dry rub—which is dominated by celery seed, pepper, and paprika but includes a fistful of other spices, including coriander and allspice—is the most famous dry rub in the country. Order here.

Mike Mill's Magic Dust: Not to be outdone is Memphis in May champion Mike Mills' Magic Dust. Vibrant and intense, this rub activates all the taste buds with an intense yet indistinct shock of flavors if eaten dry—like MSG without the MSG. If you're looking to get into barbecue rubs this grilling season, this is a great place to start. Order it here.

Kansas City Sauces

Arthur Bryant: Bryant's original recipe is set apart from the rest of Kansas City by its spicy, tangy taste and gritty texture. "Sweet heat" is not the phrase that comes to mind when you pour this sauce onto a rack of ribs. Sweeter and thicker options, however, are available; all three of Bryant's sauces are available online. Order here.

Gates Bar-B-Q: This earned its fame by establishing pit-smoked Memphis barbecue as a fast food competitor. Gates and Son's sauce, while not as distinctive as Bryant's, is just as legendary. It's just as potent, balancing tomato, vinegar, and sugars with a strong peppery kick and the sharpness of celery seed. Order here.

Oklahoma Joe's: The Cowtown Barbecue and spicy "Night of the Living Bar-B-Q" sauces are both fan favorites in Kansas City. Those looking for a standard taste of Kansas City sauce, though, also shouldn't be ashamed of picking up a bottle of K.C. Masterpiece. Order here.

Texas

Black's: Almost none of the smokehouses in the Barbecue Belt of central Texas serve sauces with their barbecue, let alone bottle it. But Black's is one exception, having introduced its own brand of sauce to the smokehouse mecca of Lockhart after 50 years of cooking without it. That said, this sauce is hardly necessary, especially if you're interested in recreating the simple, sauce-less barbecue of the region. Order here.

There is, however, plenty of barbecue sauce in the rest of Texas. Houston's Goode Company, Luling's City Market, and The Salt Lick in Driftwood are just a few of the Texas heavyweights that not only serve sauce with their 'cue, but also ship it all over the country.

Greetings From New York!

Dinosaur BBQ: I couldn't put together this roundup without including a shout-out to one my favorite barbecue sauces in the Big Apple. Dinosaur BBQ's Sensuous Slathering Sauce is a bolder, sweeter take on the Memphis style. Almost salsa-like in its use of crushed tomato, onion, garlic, and bell pepper, it adds layers of flavor and goes well with pretty much everything. Purists beware: This is not your granddaddy's barbecue sauce, but if you're down with throwing regional pride out the window once in a while, this is a good bottle to have at your side. Order here.

Feeling Saucy?

While I've tried to round up the usual suspects in regional barbecue, the availability of mail-order options doesn't change the fact that barbecue is a local food. The same goes for its sauce, which can always be taken home from the smokehouse itself.

With that in mind, what's your favorite regional barbecue sauce or barbecue sauce recipe? Let us know in the comments, because no bottled sauce can represent an entire region. And as our exhaustive collection of sauce coverage this month has shown, it's probably best to to just make your own.

Full disclosure: Ford's Foods (Bone Suckin' Sauce), Scott's, Big Bob Gibson, Dancing Pigs, Gates, Rendezvous, and 17th Street Barbecue contributed free samples of their sauces and rubs to be photographed and tasted for this story. Furthermore, the connection of Bessinger's of Charleston, whose sauce is featured here as an example of Carolina mustard sauce, to Maurice's BBQ, whose sauce has a history of controversy, has been stricken from this post as a reporting mistake. There has never been a boycott of Bessinger's Carolina Gold; the controversy referenced in the story's original form was directly related to Maurice Bessinger.

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

More on Barbecue

Regional Barbecue Styles »
Ribs of the World »
All the 'Cue Coverage »

In the 19th century, the French declared the mother sauces. Bechamel, veloute, espagnole, tomate, and hollandaise all became the bases for other sauces in classical French cuisine. Barbecue sauce is sort of the same deal. Key ingredients such as vinegar, tomato and mustard have all come to define regional barbecue in the United States.

While sauce on its own is never enough to save bad barbecue, it can perfectly complement the flavors of good barbecue, giving it an identity and elevating it to greatness.

So, what are the "mother sauces" of barbecue?

Basting Liquid: Barbecue's First Sauce

During the 19th century, when barbecue took root across the nation as a culinary tradition, cooks basted their meats with some mixture of butter, salt, pepper and vinegar. Some cooks even relied on a combination as simple as water, salt, and pepper, mainly to add a bit of moisture and secondary flavor to their smoked meats.

Texan smokehouses like Cooper's have held onto this basting tradition longest, using meat drippings as a base and spiking recipes with a range of ingredients like ancho, chipotle, garlic, lemon juice, and Worcestershire sauce.

Vinegar

[Photographs: James Boo]

Vinegar sauce, the first evolution from barbecue basting liquid, remains barbecue's most basic condiment. At a minimum, it is limited to white or cider vinegar and dried red pepper flakes, producing a tangy, spicy baste meant to cut through the smoke and fat of traditional barbecue.

Over time, pit masters have adapted vinegar-and-pepper sauces to their own ends. Lexington-style barbecue adds a bit of tomato paste or ketchup to thicken and sweeten its vinegar-based "dip." Pit masters who love a good kick with their 'cue tip the balance in favor of red pepper.

Vinegar sauce is best served with whole hog and pork shoulder, especially the good stuff from the Carolinas. The sweetness and smokiness of pork barbecue is complemented perfectly by vinegar's acidic tang, and the subtleties of the meat won't be buried by this sauce's thin consistency.

Tomato and Vinegar

Tomato-based barbecue sauce became the new standard of American barbecue in the mid-20th century, but this sauce tempers sweeter tones with the bite of vinegar. Most prominent in Memphis and St. Louis but also all over the country, tomato and vinegar sauces have a runny consistency, sweet-and-sour flavor, and often include a kick of pepper.

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

Tomato and vinegar barbecue sauce is the perfect partner for a rack of pork ribs, a basket of rib tips, or a chopped shoulder sandwich. It's especially great with barbecue that's developed a smoky, substantial bark, since the more subtle flavors of pulled pork or whole hog can be obscured by the lingering sweetness of tomato-based sauces.

Tomato and Sugar

Thanks to Heinz, K.C. Masterpiece and the other bottled sauce brands that Americans have grown up with, tomato and sugar sauces (or just "heavy tomato" are by far the most recognized style in the country. It's a rich, thick sauce made with sweeteners like molasses, honey, and brown sugar, with inflections of vinegar, pepper, and other ingredients as the cook sees fit.

Whereas vinegar-based sauces are essentially refined basting liquids, heavy tomato sauce can be just as much an attraction as the barbecue it coats.

For this same reason, heavy tomato sauce can also ruin good barbecue by overwhelming the palate. The best way to approach one of these sauces is to ask for it on the side and apply as you like it. Its best use is on equally hefty Kansas City classics, like a meaty rack of spare ribs, slices of smoked beef brisket, or a plate of smoky, fatty burnt ends.

Mustard

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

Mustard-based barbecue sauce dominates South Carolina's "Mustard Belt," where whole hog is pit-smoked, chopped, and sauced with this intense concoction of yellow mustard, vinegar, and seasonings. At its best, a rich, tangy mustard sauce complements sweet, smoky pulled pork or whole hog in a way that's much edgier than its tomato-based cousin.

And like heavy tomato sauce, mustard sauce is best served on the side. Too much "Carolina gold" can turn the best barbecue into an acrid, sour glop.

Mayonnaise (AKA "White Sauce")

[Photograph: Julia Frost]

Made famous by Big Bob Gibson in Decatur, Alabama, white barbecue sauce is made from mayonnaise, vinegar, and lemon juice, and boosted by black pepper. The consistency ranges from a thick dressing to a thin drizzle. Like mustard sauce, this style hasn't become a household name, but the blend of creamy, tangy and peppery flavors has cemented its status as a regional signature.

White barbecue sauce is an excellent match for pulled pork, or a great baste for smoked chicken. In Decatur, whole birds are dunked into vats of white sauce, allowing it to drench the exterior and sink into the meat.

Barbecue Brothers From Another Mother Sauce?

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

Barbecue's popularity, especially when it comes to competition cooking, has led to the development of signature sauces. Fruit, smoked peppers, maple syrup, and all other manners of flavor put a new spin on classic styles.

If you're looking to put your own spin on barbecue sauce, then stay tuned! SE Barbecue Bureau member and Grilling columnist Josh Bousel will be exploring regional barbecue sauces in his column, Sauced. He'll also include tips on how to give your 'cue the perfect finishing touch.

Barbecue Sauce Recipes

Basic Barbecue Sauce »
North Carolina Vinegar Sauce »
South Carolina Mustard Sauce »
White Barbecue Sauce »
Stout Barbecue Sauce »

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

Ribs are central to barbecue, but they're also part of cuisine traditions all over the globe. The SE team wanted to stop and appreciate all the ribs out there, from Pinnekjøtt in Norway to Cantonese char siu spare ribs to baby-backs (I want my...). Here are the international highlights. As it turns out, the world is boned.

Pork Ribs

[Photograph: James Boo]

American barbecue pork ribs: These might come to mind first when you think "ribs." Commonly prepared from meaty, fatty spare ribs or lean, tender baby back ribs, they're rubbed with a mess of seasonings and smoked for several hours over low, usually indirect heat. Flavor profiles vary according to the cook, as does the sauce type. As a barbecue freak, the ribs that have stood out to me use sauces sparingly, basting ribs with light coats for an extra blast of flavor.

[Photograph: Food in Mouth]

Cantonese char siu spare ribs: Hacked into palm-sized hunks and oven-roasted, these spare ribs are an American favorite of their own, loved for their sweet, caramelized edges. Contemporary preparation involves a marinade based in hoisin, soy sauce, garlic, rice wine or sherry, and five spice. Many recipes, including Josh's take on char siu, add a few drops of red food coloring to get that iconic red glow.

[Photograph: I-Hua Lin]

Pai guat (spare ribs with black beans): A dim sum mainstay. After marinating the rib hunks in a mix of black beans (or black bean sauce), garlic, ginger, rice wine, and soy sauce, they're steamed until tender and fragrant.

[Photograph: Harris Graber]

Costillas: "Ribs" in Spain and Latin America. These can be prepared in a number of ways. One Mexican approach to costillas is to simmer pork ribs in a spicy salsa. Costillas (beef and pork) can also be grilled or braised, then shredded or chopped and served in tacos. (I've heard of deep-fried costillas in Puerto Rican cuchifrito joints.. can anyone verify?)

[Photograph: Charles Haynes]

Bak Kut Teh (pork bone tea): This Chinese dish has become a staple in Singapore and Malaysia too, especially for breakfast. Recipes for this rich, slowly extracted bone broth vary. Some are more herbal and medicinal while others are purely savory. Cooks may add offal, chilies, or Chinese cabbage to their mixture of herbs and spices. In the end, the glory of dissolved collagen pooled around spare rib chunks remains the baseline of bak kut teh, which is now on the top of my many, many reasons to visit Southeast Asia.

Spuntature al sugo (ribs in sauce): An Italian dish centered on back ribs or "country style ribs" (cuts of loin that sometimes have bone attached), but these aren't limited to pork. The ribs are braised in a tomato-based sauce and reduced to a rich consistency. Pairs nicely with polenta.

Beef Ribs

[Photograph: Josh Bousel]

American barbecue beef ribs aren't nearly as common as their porky counterparts, but in certain parts of the country (OK, maybe just in Texas, though I'm loathe to accept the Lone Star monopoly on all things beef) beef ribs are the sparingly seasoned, wood-smoked alternative to pork spares and baby backs.

Smoky, fatty, salt-and-pepper beef ribs (especially short ribs) can be an epiphany of barbecue if cooked long enough to break down their connective tissues into succulent juices.

[Photograph: Chris Hansen]

Galbi (grilled beef short rib): Like char-siu ribs, these have claimed a beloved place in American immigrant cuisine as they have in their native Korea. The centerpiece of Korean barbecue, galbi, begins as the chain-link ribbons known as flanken-cut short ribs. After steeping in a marinade of soy sauce, pear juice, rice wine, garlic, sesame oil, sugar, and onion, the ribs are tossed on a charcoal or gas grill and cooked over direct heat. They're a great addition to the summer grilling menu.

[Photograph: KayOne73]

Galbi Jjim (braised beef short rib): The Korean rib preparation is less common in the States but no less delicious. It involves heavier cuts of short rib cooked in a sauce not radically different from galbi marinade along with root vegetables and nuts. The result? A pot full of comfort food that will make your kitchen smell like meat-eaters' heaven for one night (and one morning if you end up with leftovers).

[Photograph: Marcos Lana]

Asado de tira (barbecue beef ribs): Prominent in Argentina, this is something of a parallel to Korean galbi. Cut flanken style and dressed in little more than salt, beef short ribs are thrown onto the parilla (no, not that parilla), grilled over charcoal or wood coals and served with a spicy chimichurri.

[Photograph: Julio Lopes]

Costelas de boi (spit-roasted beef ribs): Part of Latin America's churrasco tradition, you might find these at a modern Brazilian churrascarias. They traditionally consist of full racks of beef long ribs rubbed with coarse salt and skewered on upright metal stakes to roast above live wood coals (you may recognize this style from Kenji's piece on Colombian llanos barbecue). Served without sauce, these costelas are quite similar to the salt-and-pepper long ribs found in the smokehouses of Texas.

[Photograph: Kerry Saretsky]

Pot au Feu (pot on the fire): A classic one-pot meal, this French comfort dish combines bone-in cuts of beef, beef marrow bone, root vegetables and the cook's bouquet garni into a slow-cooked stew that's especially comforting on a winter's day.

Lamb and Mutton Ribs

[Photograph: j_bary]

Lamb rib kebab is prevalent (among other places) in the Bukharan restaurants of "Queensistan," New York. An import from Central Asian cuisine, these fatty chunks of lamb rib are skewered, grilled over charcoal, and served on the bone, sometimes with a topping of fresh onion. If you can get behind the triple threat of smoky, gamy and greasy, you'll like these. They go well with a plate of plov (rice stewed and seasoned in meat stock). Or lamb fat kebabs, but that's a story for another appetite.

Cumin lamb ribs and lamb kebabs: Sizzling across the border in China, these ribs are even bolder than their Central Asian counterparts. Xinjiang cuisine comes to mind at first mention of this specialty, but cumin lamb has a place in other regional cuisines as well, reaching as far as Dongbei. Cumin seeds and dried chili flakes crust these fried or charcoal-grilled ribs and kebabs, clearing the way for each bite of lamb with a punch of aromatic spice.

[Photograph: Mark Wiens]

Nyama Choma (charcoal-grilled ribs): The translation is "red meat roasted." A favorite among meat eaters in Kenya, the phrase extends to the grilling of offal (such as tripe, stomach and intestine) but among the most popular choices today are goat, beef and lamb ribs. Contemporary recipes marinade the meat in lemon juice, garlic, coriander, pepper and other spices and grill them over live coals. Nyama choma is often served with a relish of onions, tomatoes, chilies and cilantro that isn't too far from Mexican pico de gallo.

[Photograph: Nesrin Özay]

Kaburga dolmasi (stuffed ribs): This is how you turn an entire rack of lamb or sheep ribs into a cooking vessel. The rack is cut open and stuffed with uncooked rice, minced onion and other seasonings, then sewn shut. Browned then slowly roasted until the meat is well-done, the rice inside the rack becomes a savory pilaf. Once done, the strings are cut, pilaf excavated, and the meat is pulled from the rack to create a hearty pile of rib meat over rice.

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

Pinnekjøtt (cured, dried lamb ribs): A Norwegian preparation of lamb or sheep ribs that's often served at Christmas dinner. The ribs are brined, air-dried, and sometimes smoked. In the cooking stage, the ribs get soaked in water then steamed, traditionally over water and birch twigs. The resulting ribs aren't terribly funky, but they are very salty, with a bit of chew to their tenderness.

[Photograph: Wikicommons]

Tabak maaz (fried ribs): A specialty of Kashmir that typically involves a yogurt-based marinade and two cooking steps. First, lamb ribs are cut into pieces and par-cooked in a a solution of milk, water and spices (including but not limited to cardamom, fennel, turmeric, and dried ginger). The par-cooked ribs are then pan-fried or deep fried in ghee (clarified butter) and served when their edges are browned and crisp.

More Bones to Pick

This ad-ribbed whirlwind tour has spanned five continents of cuisine, but it is quite far from a world index of ribs. Got anything to add, Serious Eaters? What delicious rib dishes have you encountered in your travels abroad? Let us know in the comments!

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

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If you're a barbecue hound, you're probably not shy about expressing your loyalties to certain regional barbecue styles. That's a polite way of saying that people have been fighting over what barbecue reigns supreme since pitmasters first developed these regional styles.

Serious Eats doesn't really have a dog in this fight: we love Kansas City burnt ends as much as we love a perfect chopped whole hog from Eastern Carolina. That said, we decided it'd be useful to define the distinct regional styles across America.

Now, on to the 'cue!

Peep the gallery above and get educated! »

North Carolina

Over the years the Carolinas have developed two of the country's most distinct barbecue cultures. There have been entire books written about both states' 'cue. On both sides, the hog reigns supreme. The disagreements focus on the parts of the animal cooked, the use of wood smoke, and the type of sauce.

James Howell and a hind quarter of hog at the Skylight Inn in Ayden, NC. [Photographs: James Boo]

Eastern Carolina barbecue just might be the most literal interpretation of the phrase "pig out." It typically consists of whole hog, chopped and mixed with bits of cracklin' (the crunchy, smoky skin of the hog).

Many barbecue restaurants in eastern North Carolina have switched to cooking with gas, but places like the Skylight Inn and Wilber's— supported by grandfather clauses and other exceptions in local ordinance, not to mention a tenacious sense of duty—continue to smoke their pigs over hardwood coals. Eastern Carolina 'cue is often served with a light, mayo-based slaw and dressed with a minimalist sauce made of vinegar and pepper.

Lexington-style chopped barbecue at Stamey's in Greensboro, NC.

The Lexington style, also referred to as Piedmont barbecue and Western Carolina barbecue, is centered in Lexington, North Carolina, a town of about 20,000 people and nearly 100 barbecue joints.

This style is dominated by wood-smoked pork shoulder, ranging from sliced to very finely chopped, and served with finely minced cabbage. Lexington-style barbecue sauce, mixed with the cabbage to create barbecue slaw, is tangy and sweet, incorporating a bit of ketchup or tomato into the stripped-down vinegar sauce of its eastern counterparts.

South Carolina

South Carolina barbecue is best represented by wood-smoked whole hog.

Mustard-sauced barbecue at Shealy's in Batesburg-Leeville, SC.

The "Mustard Belt" of central South Carolina boasts the country's most pronounced use of mustard-based barbecue sauce—a strong, thick blend of sweet, sour and tangy. Barbecue restaurants in the midland region are also partial to all-you-can-eat buffets with large steam trays of pre-sauced pork and small mountains of fried chicken.

Vinegar-and-pepper-sauced whole hog at Scott's in Hemingway, SC.

Eastern and Western South Carolina barbecue, similar to their neighbors in North Carolina and Georgia, feature vinegar-based and tomato-based sauces over South Carolina pork and hash.

Kentucky

Mutton barbecue from the Moonlite Bar-B-Q Inn of Owensboro, KY. I dream of the day that immigrants from northern India merge mutton kebab with Kentucky's mutton barbecue to create the world's next great barbecue sandwich.

Mutton is no oddity in many barbecue regions, but no town has a better reputation for smoked mutton than Owensboro, Kentucky. The combination of wood smoke and sheeps' meat is among the more complex flavors in barbecue.

Tennessee

Wet pork ribs at Central BBQ in Memphis, TN.

Pork ribs are the most iconic Memphis specialty, and though the most famous ribs here are served dry, "wet ribs" doused with red barbecue sauce are always an option. Memphis sauce tends to be tomato-and-vinegar based, with a sweet flavor and slightly runny consistency. Certain Memphian cooks (I'm looking at you, Bar-B-Q Shop!) aren't afraid to crank up the spice factor.

The chopped pork barbecue sandwich of Payne's in Memphis, TN.

Memphis doesn't stop at ribs. From chopped pork sandwiches to smoked bologna to barbecue spaghetti (you heard me), Memphis barbecue excels at all forms of pork. Beef is much less popular, except for once a year when brisket and beef ribs hit the grill at the World Kosher Barbeque Championship.

Whole hog at B.E. Scott's in Lexington, TN. [Photograph: Peter Engler]

Rural Tennessee barbecue has earned a reputation in the barbecue community as the purest form of wood-smoked, whole hog 'cue outside of the Carolinas. These joints tend to be weekend-only operations, smoking as few as one whole hog per day for as long as 20 hours before pulling, chopping and slicing it up with a thin, vinegar-based sauce. Barbecue scholar John T. Edge has testified that further to the north and extending into Kentucky, Tennessee barbecue also includes pork shoulder served over skillet-cooked hoe cakes.

Recent chatter on the LTH Forum suggests that some of the popular joints in this tradition have stepped away from whole hog due to a lack of local supply, but B.E. Scott's in Lexington, Tennessee, is still putting out a tremendous volume of whole hog 'cue each week. And at Martin's Barbeque Joint near Nashville, pitmaster Patrick Martin smokes does an outstanding whole hog on special order.

Missouri

A pork rib sandwich from Arthur Bryant's in Kansas City, MO.

Calvin Trillin, who infamously declared in The New Yorker in 1974 that "Bryant's is the best damn restaurant in the world," put Kansas City on the map as a serious eating destination. Almost 40 years later, the original Arthur Bryant's still serves lard-fried potatoes and barbecue to a packed dining room at lunchtime, while relative newcomers like Oklahoma Joe's keep the city's legacy alive for a new generation of barbecue fans.

The Kansas City Barbecue Society has set the most dominant standards for slow-cooked barbecue in the country at the Jack Daniel's World Championship Invitational Barbecue in Lynchburg, TN.

Burnt ends = barbecue gold.

Kansas City is known as the melting pot of barbecue. Walk up to a counter and you can find just about anything. Pulled pork, pork ribs, pork steak, beef brisket, smoked mutton, smoked chicken, and sliced turkey are all typically served with the city's signature barbecue sauce: the thick, sweet, tomato-and-molasses based concoction that has become an American standard.

This town's gourmet choice, however, is a good plate of burnt ends. Taken from the tips of a fully cooked brisket and sometimes thrown back into the smoker to crisp, these are nuggets of pure barbecue gold.

St. Louis-style ribs at Paul Kirk's Righteous Urban Barbecue in New York, NY. [Photograph: Nick Solares]

On the other side of Missouri, St. Louis has made its own seminal contribution to barbecue: the neatly trimmed St. Louis style rib (the ends are trimmed before cooking). St. Louis also offers a unique dish in the thick-cut barbecue pork steak: it's seared, smoked, and basted with a tomato-and-vinegar-based sauce as it finishes cooking.

East St. Louis is home to the snoot, a pig's snout and its attached facial skin cooked over hot coals (these days, snoots are often boiled and fried, rather than grilled) until the copious fat is rendered and the skin gets thoroughly crisp. Pulled pork, sausages and other standards are cooked alongside the St. Louis specialties, but when it comes to local favorites, sauced snoot sandwiches win by a nose.

Chicago

This rack at Lem's Bar-B-Q in Chicago is only built for Chicago linx. [Photograph: Amy C Evans, Southern Foodway Alliance]

According to Lolis Eric Elie, author of the essential Smokestack Lightning: Adventures in Barbecue Country: "Chicago is an animal unto itself," particularly Chicago's South side, where the reputation for ribs began to grow during the 1950s. Pitmasters here, adapting rural Southern tradition to urban business, tend to smoke with charcoal or wood coals and cook for a relatively short period of time, yielding simple, "backyard-style ribs" that are firmer than their cousins down south.

A rib tips sandwich at Honey 1 BBQ in Chicago. [Photograph: Robyn Lee]

While by no means exclusive to Chicago, rib tips are the city's most glowing contribution to the barbecue map. They are the byproduct of St. Louis-style ribs, literally cut from the ends of spare ribs and transformed into a pile of chewy, cartilage-rich chunks. When served by Lem's Bar-B-Q in the early 1950s, they were simply a good way for the Lemon brothers to make money from wasted meat. They've since become a Chicago staple.

Chicago has carved out a notch in barbecue technique with its aquarium smokers. Honey 1, Uncle John's, and any other smoke joint dedicated enough to cook with these formidable, wood-fired fish tanks, have come up with some of the best barbecue in the country. The relatively high cost and effort required to operate these beauts has led to their increasing use as a display case for gas-cooked meat, making the genuine article even more of a Chicago treasure.

Texas

The Lone Star state is the only member of the Union that rivals the Carolinas' unyielding, outspoken pride in barbecue. All the better for serious eaters, because that pride has given us Texas-sized portions of regional flavor.

Beef brisket barbecue at Smitty's Market in Lockhart, TX.

In central Texas, the brisket, handmade sausage, and pork ribs are seasoned with little more than salt and pepper. Smoked over oak coals, it's served market-style without a lick of barbecue sauce. But when there is sauce, it tends to be a thin tomato-and-vinegar mixture.

East Texas barbecue, stretching from the state's eastern border to as far as Houston, is a direct descendant of the South's barbecue, brought to the region by slaves who arrived to farm cotton in the 1800s. Pork shoulder, sausage, brisket, and pork ribs are commonly smoked and sometimes served with a sweet, tomato-based sauce.

Open Pit Barbecue, according to Texas food guru Robb Walsh, is largely a thing of the past. At one point all American barbecue was pit barbecue, cooked low and slow over wood coals in the ground, but West Texas held out longer than most, still holding open pit cookouts through the 1960s. These days Cooper's Old Time Pit Bar-B-Que is the most prominent place to pick a rack of ribs, slices of brisket, and more straight-off-the-rack 'cue from an outdoor pit.

Near the state's southern border with Mexico you'll find beef barbacoa, or pit-smoked cow's head.

Regional Barbecue Beyond the Capitals

Competition-grade pork shoulder by Big Bob Gibson's of Decatur, AL.

The states of the Deep South support a wide range of restaurants, community cookouts, competitions and local recipes.

In Decatur, Alabama, Big Bob Gibson's is known for its pulled pork shoulder, which our man Ed Levine has declared "the finest pork shoulder sandwich on the planet." This barbecue shrine is also famous for smoked chicken served with a mayo-and-vinegar-based white barbecue sauce invented by Bob Gibson during the 1920s. White sauce is Alabama's most peculiar barbecue innovation, but you can find just about any kind of 'cue up and down the state.

Santa Maria-style tri-tip at Rancho Nipomo in Nipomo, CA. [Photograph: Nubby Tongue]

The Santa Maria style, born in California's central coast, is part of the state's Spanish heritage. Prepared mainly in the forms of tri-tip and top sirloin steak, Santa Maria barbecue is seasoned with salt, pepper and garlic and grilled over hot wood coals. Over the years this style has shifted from pit cooking to grilling.

Restaurant Barbecue

Brisket two ways at Fatty 'Cue in Brooklyn, NY

New York, America's restaurant capital, is exhibit A in the "noveau 'cue" experience. Each in its own way, establishments like RUB, Daisy May U.S.A., Blue Smoke, and Fatty 'Cue recreate and re-imagine barbecue country in the big city kitchen.

Competition Barbecue

Hobson Cherry, one of several pit masters at The Shed, checks on the restaurant's trophy-winning whole hog at Memphis in May.

Anchored by the hands-on, democratic approach of the Kansas City Barbeque Society and the Memphis Barbecue Network, competition 'cue exists on a different plane from regional barbecue. While towns like Lexington, Lockhart and Owensboro are all about the preservation of local tradition, the net effect of national and state sanctioning bodies is the unification of barbecue under serious standards of technique. The flavors of top competition 'cue have changed over the years and will continue to change as top teams strive to outdo each other on the barbecue field.

Baby back ribs from 17th St. Barbecue of Murphysboro, IL. [Photograph: Nick Solares]

It's not uncommon for competition teams to run their own businesses, contributing to the growth of restaurant barbecue. Their patron saints include Mike "The Legend" Mills and Paul "K.C. Baron of Barbecue" Kirk. Their years of cooking, competing, judging and restaurant building have not only produced some of the finest baby back ribs in the country, they've also set standards for the new wave of barbecue restaurateurs on a similar path.

Backyard Barbecue

Supreme Thanksgiving grilling with SE columnist and Meatwave mastermind Josh Bousel. [Photograph: Josh Bousel]

Drawing from stylized ideas of West Coast living and backed by the invention of small-scale grills, backyard barbecue took the country by storm in the decades following World War II.

The form is dominated by burgers and dogs, but as more cooks have discovered the craft of smoking, backyard cookouts have taken on more ambitious dishes, including beer-can chicken and Thanksgiving turkey.

These last two forms are closest to the community-based traditions that dominated American barbecue from the early days of the English colonies to the development of regional styles. Die-hard regional partisans may snub backyard barbecues as nothing more than "grilling," but when you trace its roots, there's no denying that your dad's Weber has a special place in barbecue history.

Florida..?

Proof that Florida will tip the scales of barbecue? [Photograph: State Library and Archives of Florida]

According to Serious Eater bkhuna, central Florida is the "land of no barbecue." Having only ever associated the entire state with gators, Scarface, and Stick Stickly, I'll have to take this one on faith. If any other Florida 'cue heads are in the house, I'm sure we'd both love to hear your thoughts on the Florida style.

You've Made It This Far!!

The same offer goes for other states. If you've got something to add about the barbecue style of your region, let us know in the comments!

Extra Credit Reading

Legends of Texas Barbecue Cookbook by Robb Walsh: Robb knows more about Texas barbecue than anyone. He wrote the book, didn't he?

Smokestack Lightning by Lolis Eric Elie and Frank Stewart: Lolis and his photographer buddy Frank researched this book while they were on the road with Wynton Marsalis. More impressionistic than encyclopedic, Smokestack is an invaluable resource and a pleasure to read and look through.

Real Barbecue by Vince Staten and Greg Johnson: These two barbecue freaks wrote the first edition of this book in 1988, when were reporters at the Louisville Courier Journal. Back then and still in 2007 it is the only comprehensive, cross country guide to barbecue. They have missed a few spots here and there, but anyone's who's ever written a book like this knows that that's going to happen.

Holy Smoke: The Big Book of Carolina Barbecue by John Shelton Reed and Dale Volberg Reed: Since North Carolina has such a complex relationship with American barbecue, there needs to be a book on it. And thankfully the Reeds, along with Carolina BBQ Society founder William McKinney, wrote it!

Peep the gallery and get educated! »

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

Classic barbecue at Allen and Son in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. [Photographs: James Boo]

When thinking about how to organize this guide to American barbecue styles, I recalled how many ways you can cut a rack of ribs alone—not to mention pork shoulder, smoked sausage, beef brisket, sliced bologna, chopped mutton and every other type of meat that gets the low-and-slow barbecue treatment all over this country.

This is meant to be a general guide, not a restaurant directory. While it does include some shout-outs to specific smokehouses, you're better off picking up a copy of Vince Staten's Real Barbecue if you want a starter guide for your own pork-fueled pilgrimage.

Before getting into the regional breakdown, let's talk metrics of meat.

The Barbecue Sandwich (Handheld)

Sliced and chopped pork shoulder sandwiches in Lexington, North Carolina.

As a standard unit of barbecue, the sandwich tends to be a sensible serving at a low price. Pork, whether its chopped, pulled, or sliced, is the most iconic filling for a handheld barbecue sandwich. Little more than smoked meat on a simple bun, it's the food's most accessible vehicle. A good number of cooks add some kind of dressing (the most common being cole slaw). In fact, some of the most memorable sandwiches are those that perfectly balance fine-tuned variables of meat, sauce, slaw and bun.

The Barbecue Sandwich (Freestyle)

A pork rib sandwich at the original Arthur Bryant's in Kansas City, Missouri.

Freestyle sandwiches really aren't sandwiches. They're sandwich-sized servings of barbecue with slices of soft white bread—what to do with that bread is up to you. I tend to use them as edible napkins.

The open-faced design of freestyle sandwiches make them a natural fit for ribs, sliced brisket, burnt ends, and pretty much anything that can't be served with an ice cream scoop. If you find yourself mulling over the brisket tray and the brisket sandwich, make sure, before committing, that the only difference is the unmarked loaf of prefab bread next to the register.

Barbecue Plates and Trays

A half-pound tray of whole hog barbecue at Scott's in Hemingway, South Carolina.

Riding the fence between takeout and sit-down, the barbecue plate (or tray) is meat without the bread distraction. Barbecue plates are not uniformly larger in serving size than their sandwiched sisters, but they are are often served with a side dish or two, and thus more of a full meal. It's not uncommon for regular smoke joints to offer small trays for $4 to $5.

In more upscale barbecue restaurants, the plate assumes the more conventional form of a full sit-down meal. One big upside is the quality of the side dishes—it's not uncommon for a smokehouse to serve great barbecue but terrible sides, which is usually unthinkable at a full-service restaurant.

Barbecue Ribs

Competition pork ribs at the Jack Daniel World Championship Invitational Barbecue. [Photograph: The Jack Daniel Distillery/Ed Rode]

A well-cooked rack of ribs is probably the most fun thing to eat in the world of barbecue. Pork spare ribs, the most inexpensive cut, are the most common. Many restaurants, including but not limited to those in St. Louis, Missouri, trim extra meat, bone and cartilage from their spare ribs to achieve the St. Louis Cut.

The seasoning and smoking of ribs vary significantly from region to region—from the sauceless salt-and-pepper ribs of central Texas to the heavily seasoned and sauced ribs of Kansas City. Different cuts of meat require different tacks in seasoning and slow-cooking, so the world of ribs is well worth exploring.

In locales that specialize in whole hog barbecue, ribs are sometimes cooked along with the rest of the animal, then removed from the carcass and sold separately. These pork ribs, essentially discarded meat at a discount, are quite different from the racks of ribs prepared to be their own dishes. That doesn't mean they're in less demand. The $5 sacks of rib meat taken from every hog at The Skylight Inn in Ayden, North Carolina, tend to disappear minutes after they're bagged.

Beef short ribs and lamb ribs are less prevalent in the U.S., but when done right, they can stand toe-to-toe with the best of their swine-based counterparts. They're also more common in barbecue brought into American borders from abroad. A good plate of Uzbeki lamb rib kebabs, for instance, is a sublime experience that can be experienced in certain New York neighborhoods, and good Korean beef galbi (grilled beef ribs) is practically a thing of legend wherever Korean-American communities take root.

Market Service, or Barbecue by the Pound

Barbecue by the pound at Smitty's Market in Lockhart, Texas. Shiner Bock is not technically sold by the pound, but it's a fine partner to Texas barbecue.

Known best in central Texas, where the barbecue evolved from German meat markets, market service is a natural extension of barbecue menus throughout the country. While seminal barbecue markets like Kreuz's and Smitty's in Lockhart, Texas, sell virtually everything on the basis of weight, it's quite common for smoke joints in all states to offer by-the-pound takeout as an option alongside sandwiches and plates.

A barbecue hot link from Jim 'N Nick's Bar-B-Q, based in Birmingham, Alabama.

Not all cuts of meat are sold by the pound. A thin slice of brisket, sure, but picking up half a hot link or a quarter-pound of smoked pork chop is not going to happen, even if you are still paying dollars on the pound. And though cheek meat is certainly a prize, I pity the fool who tries to order a half-pound of cow's head barbacoa.

Prehistoric Barbecue

"Yabba Dabba Doo!" [The Flintstones™ by Hanna-Barbera Productions]

In order to fully appreciate this variant of barbecue, you must procure a time machine—preferably one powered by the comedic force of your own bare feet. You must also have absolutely no qualms about eating an animal that bears an eerie resemblance to your family pet and household appliances.

Stay Tuned: The United States of Barbecue

Kraft's color-coded guide to American barbecue is perhaps not the most authoritative map on the subject, but it is certainly the one that does the best job of existing at a width of 500 pixels or greater. [Image: Kraft Foods]

UPDATE: Check back in December for the next installment of our barbecue style guide!

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

Barbecue -- The History of an American Institution, by Robert F. Moss. [Images courtesy of the University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa.]

If you've ever wanted to know why American barbecue matters, Robert Moss' new book on the subject is nothing short of essential. Documenting its subject from pre-Republic times to the present day, Barbecue: The History of an American Institution is an accessible foray into culinary evolution.

It's no coincidence that Moss is referred to as a "food historian" and wrote this book with the help of the University of Alabama. The power of Barbecue comes from its use of primary sources to piece together a complete accounting of a food known for its ability to attract controversy.

In the process, Moss shatters several myths of barbecue—myths so dominant that they've come to define the food in American culture.

For example...

Myth: Barbecue is an Invention of the American South

While the proliferation of barbecue is intertwined with the history of southern states, Moss points out that this cooking style originally drew heavily from native American practices and took root as an American food in New England and the Mid-Atlantic colonies before storming the South and indelibly moving westward.

In tracing the evolution of community barbecues from the pre-Revolutionary period, he clarifies the act of assimilation that lies at its heart. In tracking the evidence of barbecue's spread, he reminds readers of its omnipresence, noting the importance of the West, the railroad era, the romanticizing of "the old South" and the rise of the fast food industry on equal terms. Not content to brand this food as an unalienable birthright, Moss recognizes that it is fundamentally tied to the art of reinvention.

Myth: Barbecue Has Always Been a Regional Food

It's highly arguable that barbecue's apex lies in its regional specialization. Every trumpeting of barbecue these days seems to respect the food's diversity -- just take a look at New York's Big Apple Block Party.

Still, narratives of the food too often lapse into rigid statements like, "There are four capitals of American barbecue," and "In Texas, barbecue is beef, not pork" (even I'm guilty of having fallen back on one of these tropes as a barbecue ambassador).

In fact, regional specialties in barbecue did not rise to prominence until the early 20th century. In pre-Republic, antebellum, and industrial America, barbecues were community events that served whatever meats the community could muster. Goats, oxen and squirrels were smoked alongside hogs and cattle at barbecues throughout the nation long before Memphis dry rub, Kansas City burnt ends and central Texan brisket came to embody the craft.

Like any regional food, barbecue's development was shaped by economic incentives and local conditions. By focusing on these factors, Moss demonstrates how the financial need for consistency and the spread of barbecue through an apprentice system gave birth to regional styles.

Myth: Backyard Barbecue Is Not "Real" Barbecue

I've hinted before in this column that backyard grilling is an offshoot of more traditional American barbecue. While die-hards deny that the definition of barbecue can go both ways, popular ownership of the word is of another mind.

Moss devotes an entire chapter to the connections between whole hog smoking and backyard burgers. His investigation uncovers when magazines sparked the spread of "barbecue" as an all-purpose term for cooking outdoors, illustrates the reasons why families were so eager to embrace the barbecue lifestyle, and explains how California played a pivotal part in redefining the word for the American populace. Even if his work is not enough to convince strict-constructionist stalwarts, it honestly engages a question that most barbecue books are content to shrug off as a distraction from their preferred narrative.

The menu at McDonald's Famous Bar-B-Q, circa 1943.

Barbecue Is a Story, Not a Recipe

For all the emphasis this review places on the academic glory of barbecue, Moss' book is not a thesis. Peppered with eye-opening clippings (did you know that the McDonald's menu once offered barbecue sandwiches?) and amusing anecdotes (including the tale of a Prohibition-boosting priest tricking hordes of liquor-loving Texans into attending an alcohol-free barbecue), it unravels a yarn that is as entertaining as it is informative.

Most importantly, this book once and for all replaces the repetitive talking points of television, magazines and lesser books with an engrossing set of well-researched stories. Drawing from ten years of research and a journalist's sense of style, Moss uses the smoking pit to highlight intersecting narratives in the history of the United States. His work examines barbecue as a reflection of its times and elevates this topic to a level that is truly and tastefully educational.

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

"Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the KCBS."

Newly anointed KCBS judges stand up to take their oath one day before the 2010 Jack Daniels World Championship Invitational Barbecue. [Photographs: James Boo]

"Would those of you who can tell the difference between a McRib sandwich and real barbecue please stand up and raise your right hand?"

At the behest of the Kansas City Barbecue Society and by invitation from the Jack Daniel Distillery, I pushed back my seat and joined a sizable crowd of barbecue lovers in Lynchburg, Tennessee, to become a newly minted KCBS judge. With hands in the air, we took the oath:

I do solemnly swear to objectively and subjectively evaluate each Barbeque meat that is presented to my eyes, my nose, my hands, and my palate. I accept my duty to be an Official KCBS Certified Judge, so that truth, justice, excellence in Barbeque and the American Way of Life may be strengthened and preserved forever.

The class we had just completed in order to receive our certification was just as rich an experience as The Jack itself. Ron Harwell, certified Master Judge and KCBS Competition Rep, led us through four hours of lecture, anecdotes, hands-on instruction and Southern charm to demystify the art of ranking ribs and penalizing pork.

Far from doctrinaire, Harwell's instruction demonstrated that subjectivity is inevitably a part of scoring. Knowing that marks for taste would be weighted twice as heavily as marks for texture and four times as heavily as marks for appearance, we were tasked with tempering our subjective understanding with an agreed set of technical standards and a good dose of faith—not only in the teams' ambitions and our own judgment but also in the rules of the game.

KCBS Standards and the Definition of 6

Harwell began with a discussion on the world of barbecue outside our classroom. Explaining basic barbecue cooking methods, reviewing the standards of other sanctioning bodies, and giving a rundown of regional barbecue flavors, he made clear that we were in Lynchburg to learn and apply KCBS standards in a prestigious competition, not to pronounce ourselves Jedi masters of barbecue.

Every step of our training was thus rooted in the question, WWKCBSD? (What would KCBS do?) Because marks cannot be changed, and entries must be judged and scored one at a time—going back and forth is not allowed—judges are told that even in the case of a clear disqualification, they must score as if no rule has been broken, then request that a KCBS rep make the call. Every entry is scored by one table of six judges, so consistency of behavior across all tables is essential.

When that fact was carried into the scrutiny of scoring, the paramount question became, "What is the meaning of 6?"

What Is the Meaning of 6?

According to the nine-point judging scale, a score of six is "average." A score of one is only given in the case of disqualification, and a score of two represents barbecue that is so bad, a judge would refuse to swallow it. Harwell wasted no time in calibrating our metrics with pointed questions and time-outs. As samples of chicken, ribs, pork shoulder and brisket hit the tables, he put us on the spot to justify our numbers, then offered litmus tests—for example, how to legalistically deem a piece of meat tender—to help us reach consensus on the de facto boundaries of judgment.

"I'm not telling you to score high," Harwell reminded us repeatedly. Still, it seemed essential that we all perceive a score of six as punishment requiring very concrete justifications, especially given the fact that every team in the upcoming competition had achieved grand champion status in their home states. While two to five would still be around to cover disasters in cookout country, it seemed pre-ordained that next to nothing we would face the next day could fairly be considered "average."

Not only could assigning a six sink a team's competitive edge, it would also increase the chance that my vote would be rendered moot -- in KCBS judging, the lowest of the six marks that comprise an entry's raw score is thrown out, only to be counted as a tiebreaker. I'm not sure this point was as salient to others—in my conversations with a handful of judges from my class, I discovered that scores of five and six appeared more often than the unwritten law would have it.

"This is The Jack," one seasoned judge declared, emphasizing that a high level of competition demands that judges be rigorous in the values we grant each number on the scale. "If you give a six," he warned, "you might as well pack up and go home."

Judgment Day

Having checked myself on numbers, I made it to the judges' tent with all intentions of wrecking myself on four hours of barbecue. The house buzzed with the feeling of a reunion, as barbecue royalty form all parts of the country partook in the tradition of signing each others' aprons before the feast of a thousand beer can chickens.

"Remember," announced a recording of reminders required to be given to judges before every sanctioned competition, "as a KCBS Judge, you are not judging by what you like but to the standards defined by KCBS."

After judging of sauces, my table broke into chatter over which entries we favored. The two veterans and I had awarded our highest rankings to a spot-on vinegar-and-pepper sauce and a perfectly balanced tomato-and-molasses sauce, taking points off of two other entries for being one-dimensionally sweet.

Another first-time judge admitted with a worried look that he was a fan of the sweet sauces, openly wondering if our contrasting marks would lead to an unfair score. With no litmus test on taste buds and no idea what tasting experience he was drawing from beyond a predilection for sweetness, I had no answer. After all, our class, like a tragic high school crush, had made it clear that sweetness in and of itself had no inherent value. Our goal was to draw a fine line between personal preference and personal judgment to score each entry on its own terms.

[Photograph: The Jack Daniels Distillery/Ed Rode]

As judging continued, the doubt that nagged most wasn't one concerning personal preference. Nor was it one concerning political bias, as KCBS uses a double-blind taste test to prevent judges and the table captains who serve them from knowing who cooked any given entry.

My biggest reservation as a judge was the fact that the final score of every entry submitted at this world championship event would be determined by the marks of six judges and no one else.

Is a single trial of five votes (the lowest score is ultimately excluded) a reliable way of doling out glory? While the ethos of consistency is admirably drilled during training, I can't help but worry that without larger tables, additional heats, or some other way of bringing more minds to bear on one brisket, the disproportionate influence of a single judge can throw these carefully qualified standards out of whack.

It's not as if the KCBS hasn't considered this; they wrote the book on barbecue judging and continue to revise their standards each year as new challenges arise. Allowing for more judges to score the same entry could present logistical nightmares strong enough to sink the organization's mission of building a barbecue nation. Under this tent, the balance between prize-fighting and proselytizing demands compromise.

Is "Best" Really as Good as It Gets?

In the end, there are many more questions to consider when it comes to fairness in judging barbecue—including the always valid, "What game was the ref watching?"

I walked away from my judging experience with my eye on a game that was more cooperative than competitive. As the far-reaching constituency and good will of The Jack showed, this event wasn't nearly as much about winners and losers as it was about seeding the soul of serious cooking.

And while it makes little sense to believe that the winner of any judged contest is undeniably the best in the world, this competition made good on the promise that in barbecue, everyone's a winner. You might call this statement a cliché. I call it two pounds of smoked meat and six servings of dessert in my belly.

On the eve of the contest, I stumbled upon the members of IQUE, The Jack's defending grand champions. Looking up from a late night poker game as smokers smoldered behind him, team member Ken Goodman offered perhaps the best way to consider the rankings of food.

"Don't over-think it," he said calmly before throwing his chips on the table. "We've got a good meat, a good program, a good smoker. The rest isn't up to us. It's up to six people."

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

VIEW SLIDESHOW: Judging the Jack Daniel's World Championship Invitational Barbecue in Lynchburg, TN

Competition spare ribs, ready for presentation. [Photographs: The Jack Daniels Distillery/Ed Rode]

Every time I mentioned to someone at the Jack Daniel's World Championship Invitational Barbecue in Lynchburg, Tennessee, that I'd been offered a seat at the judges' table, I received the same response: "This is the best barbecue you'll ever have."

But after my first experience as a Kansas City Barbecue Society judge, I can confidently say, this simply wasn't true. Many of the samples I tasted in my four hours of judging were undeniably good but still couldn't compare to the barbecue served at counters and restaurants throughout America. In taste and in texture, not one plate of pork shoulder or brisket that hit my table could stand up to what I've eaten in South Carolina and central Texas. Only the chicken and ribs seemed to live up to their high expectations—and even then, I couldn't use the words "best ever."

I wasn't surprised.

What competition could honestly be expected to top the addiction-inspiring sandwich at Payne's or the earth-moving whole hog from Scott's? There are reasons why judges are explicitly told not to compare entries to their favorite barbecue in the world; one tantalizing memory could wreck the curve.

Judging six teams' chicken barbecue, KCBS style.

"The Jack"—a contest with 22 years of history, grand champion cooks from 10 different time zones, and the backing of major corporate sponsors—exists in a world distanced enough from destination dining to be its own culinary tradition. And while many competitive teams run their own barbecue shops and catering businesses, most of the revered masters of American barbecue will never get to enter the ring of a KCBS event.

More than anything, my trip to Lynchburg confirmed that competition 'cue is itself a distinct genre of American barbecue, one more closely linked to communal culture of barbecue than to its regional foodways. Hosted by the Jack Daniel Distillery and moderated by the KCBS, "The Jack" is at once a humble assembly of cooks and a grand exercise in branding this culture; the gravity of competition gives this two-day event its teeth, but the contest's greater impact is its hands-on evangelism of holy smoke.

The Polish BBQ Kings barbecue with international pride. [Photograph: James Boo]

Nowhere was this point clearer than in conversation with international teams. Gregorz Kazubski, captain of the Polish BBQ Kings, summed up the peculiar nature of competition barbecue in discussing judges' preferences and the practical restrictions they place on his creativity.

"The judges here are quite conservative about the flavors, and I think we miss a lot," answered Kazubski when asked how he intended to compete with the domestic champions. The Warsaw cook hinted at a lack of openness when it comes to judging the dimension of taste (which is done blindly and silently):

"Why garlic instead of shallots? Why shallots instead rosemary? Let's say we're using cumin, or in our way of cooking, we are using honey instead of brown sugar, which gives us a little bit different flavor. They should teach us how to cook here, but they should teach judges what Belgium, German, English, Polish are using...I think that with this kind of information, we should share."

Highlighting the global appeal of barbecue, Kazubski is a competition booster working with Europe's World BBQ Association to spread KCBS standards worldwide. While the team would like judges expand their palates, they still see KCBS competitions as the best forum for making that happen.

Canadian cook Susan Murray, of third-place rib winners The Black Pig BBQ, pointed to KCBS competitions as the primary source of barbecue in Ontario. As part of the Canada Southern BBQ Association, she is also a part of the effort to make KCBS competition standards the international spearhead for a greater barbecue enthusiasm.

"We're working on getting all our judges KCBS-sanctioned," she commented, "so we're gonna have consistency across the board. We're hoping that we'll get bigger, and more people will buy into it, and we'll kind of have a standard across the province. And eventually we'll want to expand across Canada."

Linnae Oxley, captain of second-place sauce winners Sugar's Barbecue, agreed that without the standards and the spirit that these events work so hard to cultivate, she, along with many others, wouldn't have realized her passion for the craft. "You need to have a starting place," she stressed. Hailing from Portland, she also acknowledged that the rapid spread of barbecue competitions has essentially homogenized regional differences under the KCBS umbrella.

"That being said," Oxley reminded, "people gravitate towards Kansas City, because Kansas City in and of itself, mind you, is a homogenization of different influences." An optimist, she was happy to characterize competition 'cue as a template, from which new regional traditions will someday flourish.

Opening ceremonies at The Jack include a formal procession of all competing teams to the distillery grounds. [Photograph: James Boo]

This writer's reservations about that outcome aside, there's no denying that competitions have become barbecue's bully pulpit. From the opening day procession of teams through Distillery grounds to the opening evening banquet at Barbecue Hill to the closing day ceremony of awards and congratulations, the community of barbecue played point throughout this wonderful weekend.

The Jack, then, is less a culinary pinnacle than a passionate vanguard of barbecue's democratic power. And in this way, perhaps more intimately linked to the history of food than its trappings let on.

Next week: What does a KCBS judge look for at the World Championship contest, and what does this mean for the idea of giving any meal a score?

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

VIEW SLIDESHOW: Scott's Bar-B-Q in Hemingway, South Carolina

Every city-dwelling rib fiend knows the urban legend of the barbecue shack. Out there, we're told as we reach for another moist towelette, is the true barbecue, a holy hole in the wall where Yankees dare not tread. Authenticity is best served in a sweaty cage of two-by-fours, piled on plain white bread by a Civil War veteran whose meat-smoking prowess has somehow kept him alive for the better part of 160 years. It's a fact, after all, that pigs tasted better before Antietam.

The weathered mantle of Scott's Barbecue in Hemingway, South Carolina. [Photographs: James Boo]

Seeking to preserve the legend of old-fashioned barbecue in practice, the South Carolina legislature voted a "Truth in Barbecue" law into the books in 1986, demanding that barbecue restaurants in the state inform their customers up front whether or not they cook their meat with wood smoke. If pork were involved, restaurants would also have to inform their customers whether or not they used the whole hog.

When it comes to truth, however, execution is rarely as empowered as declaration. A cursory search of the state house's code of laws turns up no such act in effect, and the observation that few if any restaurants have purchased the stickers proffered as a means of proving authenticity indicates that truth in barbecue remains the purview of pit masters in the Palmetto state.

One of those masters, Rodney Scott, appeared at this year's Big Apple Barbecue Block Party as part of the panel discussion on Cut/Chop/Cook, a Southern Foodways Alliance documentary about his take on true barbecue in the small town of Hemingway. Positively inflamed by the film and by the words of John T. Edge, I put Scott's at the top of my list before hitting the highway.

The road to South Carolina provided a surprisingly affecting transition. While there seem to be few practical differences between the Carolinas today, I had never felt so squarely in the country as I did during my jaunt to Hemingway. Part of this distinction lied in the fact that many of North Carolina's barbecue hot spots are not far removed from the contemporary ones. In Lexington, Raleigh, Greenville and Ayden, the smoke joint itself is cozy and modern, a place of service that has taken its cue from competition with fast food and the restaurant business.

Scott's Variety Store tells a different story. Standing at an unremarkable crossroads in a town with fewer than 600 residents, the building itself exists outside Main Street and Wall Street. It's a rickety thing on solid ground, a no-frills construction sustained by its owners just as much as by its customers. To say that Scott's is a relic is to underestimate the feeling that this is as real as it gets. Simply looking at it, you can't help but ask: Are the legends of barbecue true, after all?

As I approached the building, I realized that I had never noticed respect for the front porch as I have in South Carolina. In Charleston, million-dollar homes place their front doors not at the entrance to the house, but at the head of an extended covered stretch that flanks each luxuriant building. In Columbia, my hosts and I spent much of our time on their modest suburban porch, sipping beer, putting out cigarettes and indulging their retriever in the occasional game of fetch.

Scott's porch plays no less a role. A summer's bounty of watermelons lines one wooden bench. Locals and employees rest on the other, holding court beside the Pepsi machine as customers come and go. I might take my shock at this scene as proof that I've been successfully absorbed into the collective urban mind that is New York; even so, my own dandyism doesn't preclude the possibility that this place really is that special.

Scott's only serves whole hog barbecue on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. During those three days the stores sells 15 to 20 hogs' worth (between 2,000 and 2,800 pounds) of smoked pork, attracting visitors from miles around. The rest of the week, Scott's is not much more than a half-stocked, rustic convenience mart with doors that seldom open for regular business. Dated beverage coolers laced with rust lay dormant. A pyramid of pre-sliced white bread faces off with boxes of pre-made pork rinds and the candy counter that houses the store's only register.

On cooking days, customers line up at Scott's barbecue for a crack at the takeaway menu, limited only to the meats that were cooked over the past day. The measure of a meal stretches from half a pound of chopped pork ($4) to a whole large hog ($425) and is punctuated by the option of chicken, possibly as an appetizer.

I took my styrofoam tray across the street, where a few picnic tables act as placemats. Flipping open the lid, the unmitigated scent of pork leaped out, heightening my senses as much as the stinging bites from fire ants that had crawled up my leg to demand a taste.

If these ants had learned to fight for barbecue, I had the Scotts to blame—their whole hog was nothing short of perfect. Apportioned in moist chunks and tender strands with chewy bits throughout, the barbecue here was as good as any I'd ever had. The natural sweetness of pork was tempered with just a bit of meaty funk. A double kick of dry seasoning brought my tastebuds into focus. Underneath it all was a deep, smoky undertone from the homemade wood coals used to cook Scott's hogs.

Just when I thought lunch couldn't get any better, I uncapped Scott's spicy barbecue sauce, a mighty two-step of pepper, then vinegar in a region where vinegar, then pepper is the norm. Thin and front-loaded, it unobtrusively coated the pork, leading into rather than interfering with the meaty body and smoky aftertaste of whole hog. It was the perfect complement that sauce should be, introducing a forward tang with a hefty pitch of heat behind it.

When I walked back into the store to thank Mrs. Ella Scott for one of the best meals of my life, she immediately called her son, whose truck pulled up within minutes. He gave me a full tour of the smokehouse, which operated much less on the principle of a master than it did on the principle of family. About seven family members—including the Mr. Scott, Sr., Mrs. Scott, and several cousins—comprise the core of Scott's operation, and while Rodney plays point man, he leads a cooperative effort.

Rodney was happy not just to talk about barbecue but also to trade travel stories and issue a sly warning about the girls on King Street in Charleston. Just before I hit the road, he extended an invitation to the Scotts' Easter picnic, a Hemingway reunion and all-day party held in their vacant lot and fueled by all kinds of southern cooking.

Truth in barbecue is its own personal law, one that results not from categorical technicality but from holistic craft. The full experience of eating at Scott's spelled this out in terms of pure satisfaction—this meal was more than an idyllic mirage.

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his
narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

A whole hog on the pit at Sweatman's Barbecue in Holly Hill, South Carolina.[Photograph: Chrys Rynearson]

When South Carolina Barbeque Association president Lake E. High, Jr. curated a whole hog lunch for Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, he proclaimed that South Carolina is "absolutely the barbecue capital of the world."

This isn't the wildest claim a barbecue evangelist can make. I can count at least four barbecue capitals of the world in the American South, and to be perfectly honest I'd like to see at least 50 more vying for the title. The environmental toll of all that burning wood may be an overriding concern. Then again, I may be a hungry man.

High's claim was partly based on the fact that South Carolina is the only state with four prominent barbecue sauce traditions: tomato, light tomato, vinegar, and mustard. Since mustard sauce, served in a region stretching from the greater Columbia area down to the coast, is the only one of these four that is limited to the Palmetto State, I made it a priority on my recent barbecue road trip through the Carolinas.

Shealy's Barbecue: Batesburg-Leeville, South Carolina

The menu at Shealy's. [Photographs: James Boo]

The most monumental smokehouse I visited was Shealy's, a local favorite of my hosts in Columbia. It exemplifies the area's no-holds-barred barbecue service. While barbecue houses in North Carolina tend to offer small sandwiches and modest trays of food, Shealy's houses a complete Southern buffet, salad bar and dessert bar, all covered by the all-you-can-eat price tag of $10.80.

Locals exercise the all-you-can-eat option at Shealy's in Batesburg-Leeville, South Carolina.

In addition to two trays of pre-sauced whole hog barbecue—one doused in mustard sauce, the other in vinegar and pepper sauce—the buffet bar featured a full throttle of Southern sides and a particularly glorious mountain of southern fried chicken. Children swarmed and scattered—apparently, a beauty pageant had just gotten out, and from the count of tiaras, everyone aged four to 14 was a winner—as I cradled my tray through the bustle and sought a seat in one of many massive dining rooms.

Barbecue at Shealy's is slathered in mustard sauce before it hits the buffet table.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't call it the best place to sell someone on mustard sauce. Although the barbecue at Shealy's was plenty tender, there was so much sauce that mustard dominated all other flavors. I'm hesitant to adopt many barbecue rules, but sauce on the side is an option I treasure dearly. While sauce can certainly heighten the pleasures of well-smoked meat, it can just as easily overwhelm the subtle flavors that pit masters work so hard to achieve.

Barbecue hash at Shealy's.

Shealy's hash had the same overwhelming flavor: strong tang bordering on acridity. As with the barbecue anywhere, I remain hopeful for the quality of the cooking, but I worry that adding too much mustard hurts what could have been fantastic food. In addition to this imbalanced flavor, a more watery texture left this hash on the side of "OK."

After sampling the barbecue, I dove into the buffet bar's other options and discovered that fried chicken was the secret star of the house. Moist and hearty with a fluffy and crispy crust, Shealy's chicken was a simple Southern joy I'd be happy to relive.

Shealy's Barbecue

340 East Columbia Ave., Batesburg, SC 29070 (map); 803-532-8135

Jackie Hite's Bar-B-Q: Batesburg-Leeville, South Carolina

Jackie Hite's Bar-B-Que in Batesburg-Leeville, South Carolina

Just a few waddles away, Jackie Hite's feels like the polar opposite of Shealy's. Instead of interlocking dining halls, there are just a handful of tables, and the din of a communal barbecue gives way to the stark calm of an unadorned dining room.

The barbecue tray at Jackie Hite's buffet.

Jackie Hite's setup, however, is essentially identical to Shealy's. A buffet bar, smaller in its spread but no less bountiful in its offerings, houses full trays of whole hog barbecue, hash, cracklin', fried chicken, sides and dessert. Eager to try more of the regional specialty, I picked up a buffet tray and went to town on mustard-sauced pork.

The Hite family hog, which has been smoked low and slow over wood coals for over 50 years, struck me as an improvement over the barbecue at Shealy's. The saucing was still too heavy-handed for my tastes, but a strong smoky flavor permeated the meat and made it through the forward taste of mustard, giving Jackie Hite's an edge on the day I was lucky enough to try both plates back to back.

Jackie Hite's Bar-B-Q

467 W Church Street, Batesburg-Leesville SC 29006 (map)
803-532-3354‎

Sweatman's Barbecue: Holly Hill, South Carolina

The serene setting at Sweatman's in Holly Hill, South Carolina

Neither Shealy's nor Jackie Hite's—or most meals, for that matter—could compare to the experience of eating at Sweatman's in Holly Hill. Just getting to this legendary restaurant, a private residence turned barbecue lodge in the countryside of Orangeburg County, constitutes a visit to the rural roots of South Carolina's barbecue.

Taking the best of both buffets, the interior of Sweatman's houses multiple dining rooms, each approaching quaint without being too fussy about it. The buffet is even more minimalist than those of Shealy's and Jackie Hite's, offering whole hog barbecue, hash, slaw, cracklin' and (yes!) ribs.

Separating light meat from dark at Sweatman's.[Photograph: Chrys Rynearson]

One distinction of Sweatman's service is the separation of pork into "light" and "dark" portions. It's a brilliant move—diners can choose from the more tender inner portions, the greasy, chewy outside meat pulled from the edges of the hog, or a mixture of everything on the table. Both are pre-sauced just enough to add a bit of twang without overtaking the flavors of pork, fat and smoke. If you decide that lots of mustard sauce really is your thing, a water cooler full of the stuff rests above the buffet bar for dispensing into styrofoam cups.

Sweatman's dark meat is taken exclusively from the chewy, heavily smoked outside parts of the fully cooked hog.

Sweatman's "dark" meat carries the smoky taste of the oak, hickory, and pecan wood that fuels its cooking process. It's a chewy, porky, savory triumph. The quality of the barbecue here, accompanied by a small splash of the house's well-balanced mustard sauce, is something I hope every barbecue fan gets to try at some point.

Throw in the smokehouse's meaty, tender pork ribs and its stellar barbecue hash, and I'd say this is also a solid case for "one hundred mile" barbecue—food so good that I'd easily make a hundred mile pilgrimage (maybe even a 500 hundred mile pilgrimage?) to fall down at Bub Sweatman's door. As long as places like this wear the barbecue pants in South Carolina, the mustard belt will be one Hell of a fit—well, at least until closing time at the buffet bar.

Sweatman's BBQ

1313 Gemini Drive, Holly Hill SC 29059 (map); 803-492-7543

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his
narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.

A plate of South Carolina barbecue, served with the state's traditional barbecue hash over rice, at the now-closed Bo-B-Q in Cayce, SC. [Photograph: John Nelson]

Meat may be the undeniable core of American barbecue, but as long as American barbecue is part of the pantheon of southern cooking, it will not stand alone. From the saltine crackers and pickles of Lockhart, to the lard-fried potatoes (you heard me) of Kansas City, to the barbecue slaw of Lexington, the side dishes served with barbecue are often as exciting as the main course. I indulged in this fact on my recent trip through the Carolinas, looking forward to the $2 servings of local flavor that flanked each serving of smoked pork.

Brunswick Stew

A tame rendition of Brunswick stew at Stamey's in Greensboro, NC. [Photographs: James Boo]

As with pork, beef and sauce, barbecue sides can be deceptively diverse. The Brunswick Stew I sampled at Stamey's Barbecue in Greensboro, North Carolina, was but one bowl in a culinary tradition reaching from Virginia to Georgia. According to one local legend, the first Brunswick stew was born in 1828, when Jimmy Matthews of rural Virginia concocted a stew made from butter, onions, stale bread, spices, and squirrels he had just aced on a hunting trip.

Tracking the origins of the stew through this story and others emanating from counties and towns named Brunswick in Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia, Saddler Taylor of The New Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, Volume 7: Foodways places these recipes in the literal melting pot of African American and Native American foodways in the antebellum U.S. "Brunswick stew resulted from synthesis of shared food traditions," and depending on where you order it, Brunswick stew now counts any variety of meat and vegetable among its ingredients.

A very tasty take on Brunswick stew at Allen and Son in Chapel Hill, NC.

I wasn't surprised, then, to find that Brunswick stew varies within state borders. The stew I ordered at Stamey's in Greensboro was something of a vegetable soup, with whole beans, vegetable chunks, and shreds of meat sitting in a mild broth.

That mixture paled in comparison to the stew at Allen and Son in Chapel Hill. Teeming with the satisfying, ultra-savory flavors of slow-cooked pork and tomato, Allen and Son's stew had been cooked down to the point where every shred of food converged into one rich, umami-laden substance. While fans of chunkier, heartier stews can celebrate in the fact that the Brunswick umbrella has their tastes covered, I'll have this bowl in mind for many a future stew debate.

Hush Puppies

World's best hush puppies? Definitely a contender.

Even Allen and Son's stew, however, should be ashamed in the presence of the Allen family's hush puppies. After reading Chichi's glowing report on these deep-fried wonders, I made a point of including them on my Carolinas agenda.

Fried and baked cornmeal is a North Carolina regular, appearing alongside barbecue trays in the form of corn bread, corn sticks and hush puppies throughout the state. While always welcome, these sides are almost never transcendent; hush puppies in particular tend to be too dry to wolf down without a splash of Texas Pete.

Redefining the form, Allen and Son's spherical hush puppies have a crunchy-on-the-outside, moist-on-the-inside texture not too far from really great falafel. In place of Middle-eastern spice, however, is the subtle sweetness of corn. They're simple, refined and absolutely addictive—good enough to merit a visit on their own, but more often served alongside a barbecue sandwich.

The chopped pork sandwich at Allen and Son.

Even in a report on side dishes, I'd be remiss to exclude that very sandwich, a legend among University of North Carolina students. A step away from the pulpy, pork-shoulder barbecue I had just revisited in Lexington, the hickory-smoked chop here is chunky and uneven, with a smoky, porky flavor deeper than that of its brethren to the west. Dressed with a very light, slightly sweet, mayo-based slaw, Allen and Son's was among the more satisfying sandwiches of my five-day barbecue binge.

Barbecue Hash

Seriously addictive barbecue hash can be found at Sweatman's in Holly Hill, SC.

South Carolina's barbecue hash, like Kentucky's burgoo, is the Palmetto state's response to Brunswick stew, and it's just as localized. While the New Encyclopedia broadly defines hash as "a stew made from pieces of roasted meat of any kind, cooked down with onions, herbs and vinegar water," it notes a different variant of hash for each of South Carolina's three regions:

"Hash from the Lowcountry consists of several de-boned hogsheads, supplemented with organ meats like pork liver, cooked in a stock that favors tomato and ketchup. Vegetables can include onions, corn and potatoes. Hash from the midlands consists primarily of higher-quality cuts of pork, onions, and a mustard-based stock. Finally, Upcountry hash is largely beef-based, with no dominant ketchup, vinegar, or mustard-based stock." —The New Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, Vol. 7

I've had the good fortune of tasting barbecue hash from all three of these categories, and so far my favorite has been the sweet-and-savory rendition served from the buffet bar at Sweatman's Barbecue in Holly Hill.

Served over rice—a traditional South Carolina cash crop, and the most common serving base for barbecue hash today—the Lowcountry-leaning hash at Sweatman's seemed like the American South's take on Japanese curry. The stewed mixture of pork, potato, tomato, onions and liver tasted of pure comfort, with a gritty/silky texture that some would call slop. Heavenly, stuff-your-face-until-you-are-precisely-what-you-eat slop.

Though I had paid $10 for an all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet platter, I would have happily forked over that much for the chance to experience this magical taste of Hog Heaven. Sweatman's hash—along with Allen and Son's hush puppies, Lexington Barbecue's red slaw, and every other side dish along the way—did just as much to finesse the smokehouse's signature. In the end, it's delicious details like this that define road trips through the South.

About the author: James Boo has been a barbecue enthusiast since he embarked on a two-week road trip through the American South, eating nothing but barbecue from Virginia to Texas. He's learned a thing or two, but as Serious Eats' Barbecue Bureau Chief he's found that there's plenty more to discover about America's first food. Catch up with his musings on Fridays here at Serious Eats, and check out his
narrative food blog, The Eaten Path, for more journeys to the real meal.