The roadside shack is the rude (and much beloved) little brother to the full-fledged joint. Imagine a tin-roofed shed, constructed from cinderblocks and cast-offs. Unheralded by signage. Shrouded in smoke. No hours are posted. The owners open when they see fit.
The late Lawrence Craig of DeValls Bluff, Arkansas, got his start, in the early years of the 20th century, working a roadside barbecue shack. Along with friends, he dug an earthen pit by the highway, near an intersection that buses often passed. He laid in wood, refashioned a metal bedspring as a grill, and capped the pit with a sheet of roofing tin.
In time, he built a restaurant. But, in conversation, Craig always spoke fondly of that roadside shack.
I realize I’m drifting toward sentimentality. Barbecue has that effect. Plus, I’m still in the thrall of the barbecue shack I stumbled upon a couple weeks back. It fit all the criteria. Lean-to construction? Check. Tin roof? Check? No sign? Check. Shroud of smoke? Check.
But none of those tropes would matter if the pork shoulder hadn’t been gobsmackingly good. More illustratively (and hyperbolically), the barbecue was smoky as the devil’s anteroom. And the vinegar sauce was hot as Slew Foot’s mouthwash.
Really, it was great. A worthy inheritor of Craig’s legacy.
I didn’t catch the name of the pitmaster. But I continue to sing his praises like a choir. If you want to make a pilgrimage, it’s on Tennessee Highway 18, five or six miles south of Jackson. And it’s only open on Saturdays.
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