62 SMITHSONIAN.COM | November 2019
more often the inclemency is of the blazingly hot vari-
ety—which forges a kind of bond with the pit masters,
holding their lonely vigil over the fl ames. The line at
Franklin Barbeque in Austin, ground zero of the mod-
ern barbecue boom, is legendary, a veritable tailgate
party that has become as much a part of the experience
as the transcendent brisket that is its ostensible goal.
You line up because scarcity is built into the bar-
becue equation: A pit master can only produce so
much each day without compromising quality. A
closing time at a barbecue joint is a bad sign. The
magic words instead are “Until Sold Out.” That De-
cember day, Blood Bros was out of food by 1:30 p.m.,
and its daily close has hovered at 2:30 p.m., at the
latest, ever since. Daniel Vaughn, the barbecue edi-
tor of Texas Monthly (also a real job), recently named
Blood Bros to his quadrennial list of Top 25 New Bar-
beque Joints in Texas, which, along with his overall
Top 50, has become a kind of Way of the Pilgrim for
serious barbecue fans.
“For three bozos who know nothing about running
a restaurant, we’re doing pretty well,” says Hoang.
The question of what makes great barbecue is
controversial and territorial, with styles of sauce
and preparation diff ering wildly from, say, eastern
North Carolina to western North Carolina, let alone
from state to state. What we think of as Texas bar-
becue is a product of Central Texas. When Franklin
Barbeque opened in 2009, it ushered in an era of
“urban barbecue,” bringing chef-driven creativi-
ty and nerdy science to what had generally been a
rough-hewn folk tradition. In the decade since, Tex-
as barbecue has become the dominant style from
Minneapolis to Minsk.
Houston may be only a few hours down the road
from Austin, but it too received the
modern Central Texas style as an out-
side infl uence. Indeed, J.C. Reid says,
the city was slow to adopt it, largely
because Houstonians are passionate
about their own, porkier, saucier and
largely African-American barbecue
tradition. A year or so ago, Reid took me on a tour
of Space City’s smoky evolution. We began at Ray’s
Real Pit BBQ Shack, in the historically black Third
Ward—meaty pork ribs; links of boudin stuff ed with
pepper-laden rice; sticky, gelatinous smoked oxtails.
From there, it was on to the Pit Room, where brisket
tacos came with smoked meat piled high atop soft,
irregular-shaped fl our tortillas made with rendered
beef fat. Then, 90 minutes north to the rural-feeling
suburb of Tomball to visit Tejas Chocolate+Barbe-
cue, where we shared a massive beef rib encrusted
in a sheath of pastrami
peppercorns and spice. Te-
jas was co-founded by Scott Moore, a
fi fth-generation Texan who once sold
parts for freight trains and taught himself
barbecue because it seemed, quite reasonably, like a
better way to spend one’s days.
“I am a Google graduate,” he said proudly, an ex-
planation echoed almost word for word when I later
asked Kaiser Lashkari, the Pakistani-born chef and
owner of the legendary restaurant Himalaya, in
Houston’s Mahatma Gandhi District, how he learned
to make his brisket, which arrived under a blanket of
thick, rust-hued and fragrant tikka masala.
All of this is to say that the Blood Bros’ journey,I’M LIKE, ‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING
ON WITH YOUR PALATE, BUT THERE’S
NONE OF THAT IN THERE.’ ”Hoang gets
ready to slice
a serving of
brisket. He saves
the burnt ends
for his brisket
fried rice, one of
the restaurant’s
best-selling side
dishes.“
Brett Martin, a two-time James Beard Award
winner, is a food writer and cultural critic.
Jody Horton is a food and lifestyle photographer
based in Austin, Texas.BYLINES