By Puffer Thompson

An Unplanned Pilgrimage to BBQ Heaven, On a Purposeful Trip to See a Nephew

Daddy was blessed with three outstanding brothers, each an absolute hoot in their own hilariously different Thompson way, always overflowing with love and generosity towards their brother’s only son. So yeah, I was uncle’ed up pretty good growing up. Not quite fathers, but more affectionate than mentors, they were the tallest men on earth to me. One still is. The others are with Daddy now. 

During “the clueless times” (i.e. college), I spent a whole weekend with an uncle who graciously carved time away from running his advertising agency to take me out to his lake house. In reality, he was helping me figure out what to do with my life. Launching a ski boat, he helped launch my career. 

Except for the timesheets, I’m eternally grateful. He and I are currently trading calls and texts about the West Indies Salad for Thanksgiving. Should we use his mother’s recipe in our Thompson Family Cookbook, or the original version from the Junior League of Mobile Cookbook? We’ve tweaked it over the years. I hope Mr. Bayley doesn’t mind. We always use the coldest ice water possible to keep him from turning in his grave, and always get the crabmeat from Ahi Seafood in Fairhope. 

Another uncle made sure to call every Christmas Eve with the most wonderful news of the year, letting me know he’d just seen Santa’s sleigh soaring south over Clarksdale, down through the Delta towards my home in Yazoo City and on to the Gulf, skipping Hattiesburg because Southern was there. (Sorry not sorry, we’re rabid Ole Miss and Mississippi State fans). 

He also taught me the proper way to shake another man’s hand, same as you would a lady’s—firmly, eyes focused on theirs. Legend has it this same uncle, a lawyer, once showed up late to court because he was driving through Alabama and saw a restaurant bearing the name of Dale’s Steak Sauce. Could it be? Only one way to find out. He swung around to grab lunch, the justice system be damned! I could call my cousin to see if this really happened, but I’d rather not know the truth. Couldn’t handle it, as they say. But it’s a known fact this same uncle of mine once left his table at Middendorf's in Manchac, Louisiana, and barged his way into the kitchen demanding to know how they served their catfish so thin. A hero for the ages. 

My other uncle had a special knack for explaining things in hushed tones, leaning in to make the simple seem extraordinary. It didn't matter what it was. Being told why the sky is blue, or why John Deere tractors were better than International, felt like hearing Rhett Butler tell ghost stories with a happy ending. He had a gift for imparting wisdom slowly, methodically, mysteriously. But one of his greatest gifts was his BBQ sauce. It garnered awards galore (some of them for advertising and graphic design thanks to lake house uncle). 

I could make it if I wanted. A cousin of mine once signed a 7-page, 20-year NDA to get the recipe and I could probably do the same. But somehow, I don’t feel worthy. It belongs to his sons now. So only my cousins make it these days, as it should be. Besides, this gift of his tastes better as a literal gift. The lucky ones get a bottle at Christmas. 

I got to be an uncle recently.

For awhile now, I’d been wanting to call my nephew in Fort Worth and talk with him about some life stuff he was figuring out. After thinking about it a minute—seconds, really—I thought well this is just ridiculous. I work from home. Why not work from my sister’s house? She lives in Fort Worth, too. I’d wedding’ed there before (my nephew’s) but that doesn’t truly count as being there. Not natural enough, too much like a holiday or vacation. And nope, a phone wouldn’t cut it either. He needed a visit, not a call. Besides, my nephew’s wife and parents, wonderful as they are, can really only “be there” for him so much as a wife, mom, or dad. Borrrrring! The boy needed time with his uncle! 

Naturally, food was involved—Thai, Italian, Cowboy Chinese, taquerias, and plans for lunch at some BBQ joint. I’m in Texas, after all, might as well see what all the fuss is about. My nephew’s father had written the restaurant’s name on a Post-It Note along with other suggestions for the week. Better Google it. Curious about where my next feast would take place, I began to realize this was no mere “restaurant.” This was sacred ground for BBQ aficionados willing to travel across state lines only to spend the night on a rickety porch in a dusty Texas parking lot to enjoy.

It was named the number one BBQ joint in Texas by Texas Monthly in 2021, no small feat. I started to understand what I was getting myself into for lunch the next day. You don’t eat this BBQ. You immerse yourself in it, relish every moment with it. Dare I say worship it? Was I ready for this? Thankfully, I’ve lived in Memphis and North Carolina—been there, eaten that—so I’m a pro, right? Right? I fell asleep confident. Pillow, meet drool. 

It’s breakfast time. Time to leave for lunch barely 20 minutes away.

I’m racing down the highway with my nephew in Forth Worth and we aren’t feeling the least bit hungry. Knowing our destination, we know the feeling won’t last. We arrive at precisely 9:32 am. If stupid Siri hadn’t nearly derailed our pilgrimage, serving up sloppy map info and making me miss a turn (my nephew blamed road construction not the driver BTW), it would be 9:19 am like she promised. Never trust lunch to a bot.

Every minute counts here. Rise & shine. Up & at ‘em. The early bird gets the burnt ends. Stay focused. Spot the brisket, spot the brisket. 

We’re at Goldee’s BBQ on one of those glorious 68-&-sunny days, sans humidity, a rarity in these parts except during the “winter” months. Our eventual spot in a quickly growing line— already nearly 40 sojourners deep—landed us directly in the hot sun. Unable to possibly care less, we welcomed the thought of getting a coastal Lower-Alabama-Scenic-98-like tan right here in the heart of Texas dreaming of meat instead of seafood for a change.

Still, there were no complaints when Providence swooped in with a staff member reshuffling of the queue (cue?), plopping us smack dab in the middle of a breezy, shaded section of the line. This won’t slip our mind when we say the blessing later. But something’s missing. There’s no smoke in the air, or suspiciously little rather. Should we be worried? I was raised believing under no circumstance should you enter a BBQ establishment lacking stacks of wood piled up and scattered about waiting to become the smoke you’re supposed to be looking for, too. 

No worries. Goldee’s specializes in the “long-wait” method of cooking. I won’t get into the particulars, but the approach goes something like this: “let the meat rest a long time and make the customers wait even longer,” which meant lunch had already been smoked the day and night before. “Come back around four,” the lady on a BBQ tour of America sitting next to us said, “and you’ll see plenty of smoke.” Lady, we’ll still be in a coma at four after the meal we’re about to eat. 

Conversations about proper ring color and bark texture and “this your first time?” floated around us, carried by the smell. Orders are nervously being discussed, strategies formed. My nephew and I are reminded of our yearly Thanksgiving attack plans. Just behind us, a fight nearly broke out over whether to order pork belly or pork ribs. Thankfully, they embraced the healing power of “and.” Lover’s quarrel averted.

Names of BBQ royalty were being dropped all around us—Aaron, Rodney, Myron, Tootsie, Big Bob—and I decided to drop one of my own: The Barbecue Princess, from Yazoo City. “Of course I know her!” some well-known stranger I’d just met proclaimed. One traveller from Denver discussed a broken friendship between two famous pitmasters, unreconciled to this day over different philosophies. Another studied for a medical exam he had just flown in from Boston to take. He did not stop by the hotel on the way from the airport. Would you? 

Complimentary water (and beer on lucky days) sat in a Yeti off to the side. Piles of dilapidated camping chairs in a creaky wooden bin dared patrons not to use them. Most did. Others brought their own. These weren’t those sturdy, blue-canvassed chairs found up and down our beaches. (Being free, they didn’t cost an arm and a leg either.) The first few people in line who’d been there since the day before used them as makeshift beds, propping them up against the wall as their heads bobbed up and down trying to stay awake after last night’s self-inflicted entry fee. My back hurt for a week after using these brutally uncomfortable sitting apparatuses, but the meal—excuse me, the memory—was worth every spasm. One day my nephew will understand the pains of growing old and the joys accompanying them if you allow it.

Eleven o’clock arrived with a lethargic shuffle of the line as hungry patrons began slowly jumping to attention, like bears the morning after hibernation. Go time. Time to focus, time to order, time to eat. My stomach was grumbling, but these weren’t hunger pangs. These were butterflies. I was legit nervous. When the moment arrived, would I go wobbly in the end? Would there be a soup nazi behind the counter? Would I order efficiently, without hesitation, without holding up the line?

Even more distressing, had we arrived in enough time to order what we wanted? The horrors! Siri, I will kill you if we can’t order what we want. What would the “Sold Out” sign say? Because once this place runs out of something, there ain’t no running back to the kitchen for more. 

We arrived at the front of the line just outside the door to study a hastily scribbled white board with parts of words and letters missing. Had they been licked? The separate “Sold Out” sign was graciously empty. For the 50th time, we discussed our order: “let’s get everything.” After crossing the threshold into one of earth’s finest-smelling rooms—like entering one of those Texas boot and leather shops, but with food—I noticed another sign above the counter featuring a weiner dog declaring “No Meanies.” Take that, meat nazis. 

Finally, it was our turn. We were greeted with a “where y’all from?” by a machete-wielding gentleman behind the counter. No meanies indeed! Gloved, his deliciously glimmering hands were covered in unctuous beef fat. Everybody gets the where-y’all-from question here. You never know. Somebody might be from Fort Worth or even Dallas.

Then we ordered. Oh, did we order! One pound of beef brisket (served in equal portions of fatty and lean to save some of both for others), a single beef rib, pork belly, pork ribs, the three daily sausage selections, slaw, cheese grits, borracho beans, potato salad, the best homemade white bread you’ve ever eaten, and banana pudding. In the end, technically we ditched our “let’s get everything” approach to ordering. We didn’t get the pulled pork or turkey. Why bother?

Barely able to carry the platter to our table, my nephew said he’d meet me there while I gathered three forests worth of paper towels. We sat down, thankfully sans sunburn and sweaty shirts, and proceeded to thank the good Lord above for creating shaded lines, cows, pigs, and trees. Then we got to work. 

I could tell you how it tasted, but some moments are best left private. Suffice it to say we moaned and groaned in ecstasy like everyone else around us. A text I sent back home to friends in Fairhope at the time sums it up: “That was hands-down the best barbecue I’ve ever tasted and the best barbecue experience I’ve ever had and I’m not even kidding.”

And I wasn’t. But not because it was Texas BBQ. It was hands-down the best because of who I was with and what I was doing—spending time with family and savoring it as an uncle enjoying a good conversation in a dusty parking lot with his nephew before breaking homemade white bread with him at some BBQ joint. I just happened to be in Texas when I ate it, and now that I’m back home in Fairhope, I think I’ll pick up the phone and give him that call now.