Last May I went to North Carolina to eat pork bbq. The following images and rushed off text serve as journal of the experience.

In the (Pork) Belly of the Beast

For (American) Northerners there remains a number of unfounded misconceptions about the South. People are fat. People are rednecks. People are racist. Yes, they are, and some of us above the Mason Dixon line hit those marks too. Despite consistent bad mouthing and classist snobbery one thing is universally acknowledged as better down South — the BBQ.

An almost mystic pull to down home, no frills, dinning, brought me to North Carolina for a weekend in May. Having toured Texas BBQ and Memphis, and sampled a number of places throughout Virginia, I’d largely ignored North Carolina in the past. Yet, the style is the most frequently copied (and ruined) in my regular BBQ consumption. “Carolina Pulled Pork” sandwiches litter menus at bars and taverns up the Eastern Seaboard, and given this an opportunity to investigate the authentic origins of the ubiquitous dish proved impossible to resist.

Trips like this prove disastrous when billed as a “quest for the best.” Rather than fall deep into that trap, this three day excursion was organized to begin to understand one State’s BBQ heritage and localized traditions within. Food uniquely serves as cultural signifier, a point of pride and tradition and an inroad to core value systems. With the massive interest surrounding BBQ, there’s almost no better comparative food stuff in the nation. Rolling through North Carolina, it became obvious that while blanket statements can define the taste, technique, and texture, there’s no accounting for individual twists and turns in the make up.

Generally speaking, North Carolina BBQ is broken into two types – Western and Eastern. Western BBQ, also called Lexington Style, uses a vinegar based sauce (or dip) with added tomato paste/puree and brown sugar and spice. In the East, a mild vinegar melds with white sugar, hot peppers and pepper to form the sauce. The flavors produced in both regions are distinct, but by no means consistent from pit to pit.

I flew into Raleigh-Durham from Philadelphia to meet my fellow travelers. My friend Adam has been a constant accomplice on Americana related trips, and over time developed into a font of information about BBQ. His research and interest formed the itinerary, which I filled out with a few needed museum stops and a visit to Chuck Eldridge at the Tattoo Archive in Winston, Salem. We began in the West, and slowly moved East eating as much as we could handle along the road.

What follows is a brief account of the food consumed and the questions raised and answers through those meals.

Less than an hour after arrival, we stepped into A&M BBQ in Meburne, North Carolina. Situated just off the side of the highway, A&M has a cavernous dinning room, dotted with simple folding tables and chairs. The sparse interior and low merit of design is indicative of the Carolina BBQ experience. It is just about the food. The need to think about plating and decor simply doesn’t’ exist. I ordered what would become a standard meal of chopped pork, hush puppies and a sweet tea. The “Dip” at A&M would stand as the thickest of the trip, the use of tomato paste quite evident. This make up creates a rather unsettling effect – the taste of the process lost in the BBQ sauce.

Leaving A&M, I wondered if I’d meat a piece of pork that held the taste of smoke.

Next stop was some 50 minutes away near the boarder of Virginia. Short Sugar’s, located in Reidsville, has a 1950s diner vibe. Booths and a long counter allow visitors ample space to enjoy a full menu of sandwiches, burgers, and (of course) BBQ. At Short Sugar’s the sauce contains a dose of cinnamon, a winning element. Thinner than A&M, and considerably tastier, the Short Sugar’s sauce melds more appropriately with the meat. Moist and tender, as found everywhere else, the place was true entry into the North Carolina BBQ scene. I topped the meal off with a hearty serving of peach cobbler. Six people ate two courses each for less than $40. Stuffed we headed to High Point for a nights rest.

The region of Western Carolina is also a hub of manufacture. With High Point at the center, it’s the cradle of American Furniture production. The small city has a quaint and surprisingly pretty downtown. The streets are filled with furnishing shops an unique reminders of heritage. For example, one building is designed as the world’s largest high chest, complete with massive concrete socks spilling from the drawers. In fact, High Point’s public monuments fold in heritage beautifully all round. John Coltrane attended high school in High Point, and the city has erected a statue of the saxophonist in a central square. Beside the likeness sits one of the best pieces of public history I’ve ever encountered, a full time line of Coltrane’s life with a listening station of key works.

These points of interest were visited in swift fashion early on our second day. By 10am, I’d built up a powerful hunger and was well prepared for Lexington. As mentioned Lexington BBQ and Western BBQ are virtually interchangeable and the place has so many spots picking one would be impossible. So, smartly, we chose three… and hit them up in quick succession over the course of two hours.

First up, Lexington BBQ. Billowing smoke signals the building, situated again just off the highway. Aside from phenomenal food, Lexington BBQ offered two grand surprises. I ate a pork skin sandwich. Utterly amazing. And, following that was ushered into the pit. Amid some 1,200 pounds of meat the Pit Master (working the past 20 years) described the process and then pulled out a piece fresh from the smoker. Handing me a piece of Bark (the crisp outer browned layer of the pork butt) he introduced me to heaven. And, set an amazingly high standard for Southern Hospitality.

Lexington is a tough town (on the stomach) to tour. BBQ Center is only 5 minutes away from Lexington BBQ. Naturally, we got there in 4 minutes. Once more I ordered chopped meat and hush puppies. Once more, I happily tasted a different take on the Western sauce. Perhaps more impressive than the BBQ, and I say this so reluctantly, is the Center’s fried pork chop sandwich. A culinary wonder. The pleasant old waitress also produced the largest banana split in history, ordered only because of the massive size promised. Seeing me in a state of overfed pain, she suggested we head to Speedy’s, “the only place in town I’d recommend.” No argument, what harm was another 10 minute drive to a third lunch?

Speedy’s proved to be the worst place for a third meal. Why? The portions are massive. But, the pork a marvel. Huge chunks of chopped pork, perfectly balanced sauce, a really American atmosphere. Speedy’s was exactly what one expects out of a BBQ spot. Low ceilings, creaking wood, and fast service. They tout that well, along with the helpings, in what amounts to the most obvious marketing utilized by any of the visited locations.

Mid-way through day two of the tour, it was time for a culture break.

Winston-Salem is known for a few things. Wake Forest University. Cigarettes. More cigarettes.

Few people are aware the city is now home to one of the premier collections of tattoo memorabilia, ephemera, and history. Chuck Eldridge recently returned to North Carolina, and with him came the Tattoo Archive and Paul Rodgers Research Center (Rodgers being a North Carolina guy and one of the most famed suppliers of tattoo equipment in the 20th-Century). Eldridge’s space is beautifully appointed. A large public space displays decades of fascinating tattoo lore. His own work space equally exciting, filled with books and books of glorious drawings. Much to the apparent disinterest of my companions, Eldrdige and I discussed the growth of tattoo publications and bicycle frame manufacture. Noticing the group waning I bid my farewell, with one more trick up my sleeve while in town.

On the outskirts of Winston-Salem lies Old Salem, a historic village with living history and some delicious moravian baked goods. These I usually skip in favor of a hidden gem – The Museum of Southern Decorative Arts. Housed in an old supermarket building, the collection is a comprehensive sweep of Southern antiquities (for the European reader, yes, these are not THAT old). Deciding it a good time to flex academic muscle, I convinced a nice old dear to pull a chair of of storage for me. I stood looking at it, drooling, and blabbering for a quarter of an hour. I must have looked insane. Adam mentioned that the experience was strange. Time to move on. We had a 45 minute drive and more BBQ ahead.

Chapel Hill and served as resting point for night two. Five substantial meals under the belt in less than 24 hours set a strong tone. The trip to Lexington a high standard. In Chapel Hill, the noted establishment is Allen & Sons. Reviews were consistent; a love or hate theme. Allen & Brothers is also more refined and more expensive than the rest. Apprehension was high.

I’m almost ashamed to admit that I loved Allen & Sons… in one key aspect. My Northernness in danger of being exposed, the place hit on my needs for BBQ. Explicitly, I could taste process. Hickory wood smoke pure and simple. Sauce an afterthought. Luckily, and to save face, the rest of the offerings fell flat. How, I wondered, could the meat be so perfect (in my subjective view) and yet Allen & Sons not fully deliver. Would perfection ever be achieved on the trip?

I contemplated these thoughts wondering through the town. Unlike my alma mater, where the City was bursting with bars and excitement, Chapel Hill is a bit sleepy. We visited the Dean Dome (a side desire throughout was to look at and enter all the major college basketball venues the area is known for) and drank at a basement bar. A band with decent guitars played, ruined by a tactless drummer. The barmaid was exactly the type I fall for. Gorgeous, with hints of a rough past. Alas, the combination of sound and days eating failed me in courage.

Day three promised a shift in flavor. The East lay ahead, and with it Wilbur’s BBQ perhaps the most famous in the state. Adding a little heat, by way of the chili infused Eastern sauce, to the voyage was an exciting prospect. As was the move away from the “academic” climbs of Chapel Hill, Durham, and Winston-Salem. We’d mapped the day to finish in Greenville, home of Eastern Carolina State University, a school I knew of only for football.

Wilbur’s proved oddly difficult to find. Odd, because it is located on a straight road with no significant turn offs. Difficult because we confused the local and the business routes. Eventually, as always, we found Wilbur’s. Immediate disappointment. The place is massive, catering to enormous groups and bus tours. While the places visited in the West had ample seating, Wilbur’s was geared to the tourist. Shirts in every imaginable bad color spilled from the entrance counter. Waitresses scrambled through the rooms. They had a sour demeanor. One became angered when Adam asked if the chicken came with sauce. He was told, “It’s there” with a finger pointing to a lightly spiced bottle of vinegar.

Whole Hog is the speciality of Wilbur’s. The place has put Goldsboro on the map. Having a mixture of body parts chopped, rather than the shoulder to which we’d grown accustomed, was a welcome change. It was not, however, enough to remove the fact that Wilbur’s just didn’t have the charm of Lexington. The bastion of Eastern BBQ had let us down.

But, it hadn’t prepped us for the worst.

Twenty miles further East, and after a detour to a grand fishing shop, King’s BBQ awaited. More touristy. More a factory. For the first time in three days the smell and taste of grease and all that is bad in America. My order didn’t help, wishing to combine the two items I’d been eating into one I chose a “Pig’s in a Puppy.” An invention of King’s this item was produced by stuffing a hush puppy with pulled pork and frying to a over-golden crisp. It was the dish that put me over the edge. And, a sad experience to end the 8 connected places.

Disillusioned, we gathered remaining strength and hit Greenville. A ghost town. A place where even the locals are quick to tell you to leave. One did. A single toothed proprietor of the town’s Skate Shop. He told me, frankly, that there wasn’t a single good thing to eat within miles. I suppose his lack of teeth made living there possible. The best thing in town was a giant sculpture of a Pirate. The rest was genuinely frightening.

Three days. 8 giant meals. Hundreds of miles driven. The lesson learned, people in North Carolina certainly take BBQ seriously, and certainly place a highly localized stamp on a plate of pork.