The Barbecue Diary, June 8, 2024.

I think I have finally found my physical limits.

Fifth day on the road, 2:30 in the morning, sitting in the lobby of Hampton Inn in Marion quietly staring at a green banana on the table while sipping a Vitamin Water and trying to get my feet to stop cramping, I think I found it.

Five days in the Delta, 80+ degrees, and at that point 24 restaurants already photographed for the trip. And here I was, unable to sleep because everything hurt.

Getting the Whole Hog, or Some of It, on the Table.

Whole Hog Cafe has received nationwide renown for its smoked meats and selection of sauces. Here are some of my thoughts on this giant of Arkansas barbecue.

Use CB Channell 16 for Ray's World Famous B-B-Q.

The diminutive, windowless building on the I-55 access road in West Memphis might seem unimportant, but within is a host of barbecue wonders.

Sweet and Tangy Sim's Barbecue Riles the Memory.

Established in 1937, some would argue Sim's sauce is the particular flavor one should consider when thinking about barbecue in Little Rock.  Known for fall-apart pork butt, pork ribs and beef brisket, it’s the thin and tangy sweet vinegar sauce that makes this mainstay so memorable.

Terri-Lynn's BBQ and Deli is a Little Rock Neighborhood Secret.

Or, at least it has been until now. Since 1960, patrons have lined up for lunch five days a week to enjoy some of Little Rock's most underrated smoked meats and two delectable pie. Oh, and when you go to Terri-Lynn's, don't forget your deviled eggs.

Meaty Expectations Delivered at Blacksheep Smokehouse and Grill in Yellville.

A relatively new barbecue joint in north Arkansas is handling its own quite well with barbecue and burgers worthy of renown. Let's take a look inside Blacksheep Smokehouse and Grill in Yellville.

A Barbecue Guide to Pulaski County, Arkansas.

Barbecue isn’t just a slice of Arkansas cuisine – it’s part of our way of life. From the earliest recordings of barbecue camp gatherings back in 1821 in Phillips County and at Arkansas Post, we’ve been smoking our meat and sharing it for generations.

The Ps and Qs of Delta Q in Forrest City.

A relatively new barbecue joint is winning fans in this mid-Delta hub. Take a look inside and see what Delta Q in Forrest City has to offer.

A Barbecue Tour of Far South Alabama.

There are many places, people, even states that lay claim to great barbecue. I grew up between the forces of Memphis pork butt and Texas beef brisket, sometimes waved by the eddies of Kansas City and St. Louis. Arkansas’s own home-grown ‘cue’s descent into obscurity, that of the smoked goat, left behind only some of the famed sauces that once covered it (McClard’s and Craig Brothers’ comes to mind), coleslaw on the top and sometimes, the desire to serve one’s meat on white bread.

Little Rock-Based PK Grills Are A Hot Item.

The iconic oblong grills are quickly becoming popular again, thanks to their reliability and construction. Learn how PK Grills became the go-to grill for many top steak cooks and ribmasters.

Eat, Drink and Give a Hoot at Hoots BBQ in McGehee.

Almost any lunchtime or evening, you'll see a full parking lot at Hoots BBQ in McGehee.  But don't ever let that scare you off.  There's a place for you to sit and eat, and you'll have a good meal, too.

Fighting Words About Stubby's Bar-B-Que and its Sauce.

When the random person anywhere in the United States is asked about barbecue and Arkansas, particularly barbecue from Hot Springs, you know what they're going to say.  But there are other barbecue joints in the Spa City, and one of them has been around more than 60 years.

Lackey's Tamales Survive at Newport's Smokehouse BBQ.

We've talked about the Arkansas Delta tamale here at Tie Dye Travels... and the variant with the chicken fat influence as well.  What we haven't talked about are the Cajun-style chicken tamales that make up the third part of the tamale triumvirate here in Arkansas -- Lackey's Tamales.

Mind you, if you head up to Newport and start looking for a restaurant called Lackey's, you're not going to find it.  The restaurant that bore the name and a sign out front that proclaimed "Lackey's Cajun Style Hot Tamales" is gone gone gone.  Fortunately for you and me both, there's still one bastion of spicy tamale goodness out there... and it's at a little restaurant on the south side of town... a little quiet, diminutive place called Smokehouse BBQ.

We went looking for this place, Grav Weldon and I, on a stormy Friday night in March.  At the time, the name of the place did not come up in an Urbanspoon search (I've fixed that since), but the listing for Old Hickory BBQ did and I knew good barbecue was worthy on its own.

Upon entering Smokehouse BBQ, I was struck with how wooden it all seemed -- wooden panels that depicted a different sort of wood paneling donned the walls.  There were quite a few local folks inside.

We were told to go find us a seat, and a waitress brought out a thick menu with every sort of Southern delight thereupon -- a full slate of breakfast; barbecue plates of chopped beef and pork and pork ribs; Cajun and steak plates featuring Omaha steaks; tamale plates loaded with chili and cheese; Cajun staples of red beans and rice, gumbo and jambalaya; catfish and shrimp plates with lobster tail and crab leg add-ons; lunch and dinner specials and Happy Hour specials; chicken plates and salads and gator bites; burgers and po'boys and a Philly Cheesesteak and all sorts of things.  And in amidst the appetizers, the bright orange block proclaiming "Lackey's Tamales, Cajun-Style chicken tamales wrapped in corn husk" -- one or six or twelve to an order.

Grav had never had a Lackey's tamale before, and his fondness of Rhoda's and Pasquale's tamales kept his excitement down.  He was interested in the Cajun cheese dip and got it, but I got a word in and asked the waitress to bring him just one.  She admitted to me a heresy -- she doesn't eat tamales, since her dad used to eat the sort out of a can (the SHAME), but knew they were good -- and she went and retrieved the ordered items while we decided on dinner.

We had just about decided to split a big BBQ combo plate between the two of us when she set that tamale down in front of him and, after photographing the thing, Grav took a timid bite.  And then the damn thing was gone.  He even changed his order -- leaving me with a BBQ beef sandwich to choose and asking kindly for a half dozen more Lackey's tamales.

Mind you, he was pleased with the tamale -- something finally spicy enough for his tastes.  The less-greasy tamale (Rhoda does use chicken fat, as you should well know) that bore the Lackey name was packed with shredded chicken smashed together with a hell of a lot of spices, both Cajun and Mexican in flavor.  Combined with the masa, to me it had the flavor of a strong Frito chili pie.

Grav was just as enamored, if not moreso, with the cheese dip.  We discovered upon its arrival that it was packed with bits of Cajun sausage, which meant I couldn't touch it -- but he did.  Touched, swallowed, gobbled, licked the bowl -- these terms all apply to what Grav was doing to that bowl of cheese dip.  When he ran out of chips he dolloped it onto his tamales.  He sweated.  That sweat rolled from the top of his head to the neck of his shirt and he still could not get enough of it.  He lauded it, calling it the best cheese dip he had ever tasted.  He wiped his brow.  He ate more.  He inhaled those tamales and that cheese dip and would have rented an extra stomach if possible to be able to keep passing more of that spicy food betwixt his lips.

All of this amused me, of course.

Myself?  I had myself an order of fries and that jumbo barbecue beef sandwich topped with a dollop of cole slaw.  It came with very little sauce on it, which I augmented with more from the table squeeze bottle, its flavor somewhere a cross between the thick sweet sauce of Old Post BBQ in Russellville and the tangy touch of Sim's sauce from Little Rock.  This 'cue juice was thick as ketchup and on the orange side of brown and it stuck to the meat with fervor.

As well as it needed to... I have never before encountered such a coarsely chopped brisket for a 'cue sandwich... this one had chunks of still-barked beef upon it, the rind edge of the brisket, half an inch thick in places.  That is not to say this made the quality poorer; in fact, I was thrilled to be able to sink my teeth into brisket that resembled what came from my own kitchen, thick with hickory smoke and a touch of rosemary, a sandwich that made you feel like you'd actually involved yourself in the eating of it rather than just letting something soft slide down your throat.  The creamy slaw was the parfect accompaniment, a little creamy and big chunks of white-ish cabbage laid in a circle under the bun.

And so it was that at eight o'clock on a Friday eve, weary from fighting miles of storms on the highway, wearier still in the knowledge that our final destination for the evening was another 45 minutes up the road... that we each found the perfect meal awaiting us at this comfortable brown-clad building alongside the main drag south of downtown Newport.

But... I was talking about the tamales.  What happened to Lackey's?  Why did the restaurant disappear, and how did those tamales come to be on the Smokehouse BBQ menu?  It all goes back to Clint Lackey.  Now, Clint didn't actually come up with the recipe for the tamales -- that recipe came from a street vendor in town eons ago.  But the Lackey name came to be the one under whence those tamales were produced.  Used to be, you could get them at Lackey's restaurant and through the factory at Tuckermann, which sent tamales out to be sold in stores hither and dither.  The factory burned in 2012, though...

Seems along the way, Clint Lackey struck up a business with Scott Whitmire, and the two ran both the Lackey's restaurant and Smokehouse BBQ, before getting to run both was too much.  Clint ended up giving the business to Scott, and he's run it since.  The old Lackey's is now a bar on the other side of town, and the Smokehouse keeps the tradition and recipes going.

Now, you can't still get Lackey's in the grocery store (and from what Scott told me while we were checking out, I probably want to ditch the ones I found in my freezer that came from Argenta Market, since they're at least a couple years old) but you can still pick up frozen ones at Smokehouse to take home.  I think I am going to do that sometime soon when we need to share the tamale love with others.

We were getting ready to get on out of town and back on the road but got to talking a bit.  Smokehouse BBQ is decorated with a lot of things of interest, in particular a big saw that says "Catfish Country" as well as a cast iron frying pan of considerable size with the same motif -- and a big old fashioned cooking stove.  These belonged to Scott's grandmother (Grav says great-grandmother -- I may have heard that part of the conversation wrong), one Velma Fletcher, who is celebrated throughout the restaurant.  Miss Velma lived all her days in the same house, and only left it once she'd parted from this world.  Scott apparently takes great inspiration from her.

Now, if you were to go about finding Smokehouse BBQ, take the Waldenburg exit coming up from Little Rock and follow Highway 14 into town.  That becomes State Street if you stay straight at the four-way stop at Highway 17.  Take it up to Malcolm, which is also Highway 367, and turn left as if you were going to go downtown and over the White River bridge.  Smokehouse BBQ will be a little ways down on the right-hand side of the road.  The proper address is 601 Malcolm and the phone number is (870) 217-0228.  The menu photos are below.

Be sure to come hungry -- it's not hard to feed yourself and whomever on just a little cash -- and bring a cooler to take home tamales in.  We certainly will, next trip we're through.

Making the Pilgrimage to Jones' Barbecue Diner.

No one knows just how old Jones’ Bar-B-Q Diner is, but Mr. Harold Jones says the recipe goes back 150 years or more. What he does know is that his grandfather and uncle made and sold barbecue from the same recipe he uses today. Everyone agrees that the place was open in 1910, so we can at least surmise that the Marianna staple is past the century mark.

Harold Jones’ grandfather used to go downtown on Saturdays and sell barbecued pork from a washtub out of what folks called “The Hole in the Ground.” On Fridays, he and Jones’ grandmother would sell it out the kitchen door at their home at California and Florida Streets.

Jones himself has been in the business since 1968, in what started out as a little one story building on Louisiana Street… a flat-topped one story building opened up in 1964. “I was 14 years old, when they let me outta school when there was too much to cook. Me and my brother got out of school to do it.” Over the years add-ons were built, including a second story where he sleeps when he’s not home with his wife Betty.

Every day he gets up and opens at six in the morning. Every day it’s all gone before the lunch hour is over… sometimes it’s gone by 11 a.m., depending on who’s come to town. “Back in May, there were judges who came down to Memphis in May to the big cookoff up there, and they’d ask,” Mr. Harold told me, “they’d ask ‘where’s the best barbecue around here?’ And these guys, these guys who were cooking off, they’d say ‘you have to go down to Marianna,’ and they came.

“The governor, he sent me an autographed photograph,” he continued, waving his hand towards the wall by the guest book, where a smiling image of Arkansas Governor Mike Beebe looks out into the diner. “Day he came in here, he brought a whole lot of people. They packed in like sardines, but

everyone was havin’ a good time.”

Every day it’s still three dollars a sandwich, six dollars a pound. Sandwiches are made on Sunbeam white bread, always the same – lay down the plate or aluminum foil, put down a slice, heap a mound of pork on it, drizzle on the thin sauce, dollop with sweet coleslaw, top with another slice and wrap. When there’s not someone waiting, Jones keeps making them. He wraps each one in foil and deposits it in an electric roaster.

Butts – pork butts, that is – are put on a wire rack in a makeshift pit about eight by 16 feet – that rack looks just like the inside of an old style box spring mattress. The coals come from an old fireplace a half century old or better, hickory and oak burned down until they just gleam red on black from the gray ashes, shoveled into the pit. That’s the only heat the meat will get – the slow heat from hot wood, hot made charcoal. A plywood cover on a pulley goes down and the meat smokes.

And there’s not much more to it than that. Except the sauce. Jones doesn’t let anyone know the family secret, not even his wife. It’s stored in a variety of vessels – gallon jugs formerly used for other items along the back of the kitchen, 16 ounce water bottles for handing out with big meat orders.

Out in the dining area, there’s a guest book. It’s a little yellowed but it’s still somewhat new – the smoke probably colors it a bit. Just flip the pages, and you’ll see a random smattering of places beside the names… Stuttgart, Arkansas right before London… New York City. Yemen. Alaska. Memphis. San Francisco and Beirut, Lebanon and Israel and even Japan… a collection of handwritten testaments from travelers the world over who have come to this little two-top diner that’s not even on the main highway in a small hometown in the Arkansas Delta.

***

We got into town at 10:20 a.m. on a Saturday in July, sure as could be that the barbecue was already gone. I could already smell the place before I turned off Alabama Street.

Grav had never been, but I had – several times, in fact – which is only equaled in strangeness with the fact that I can’t eat what Mr. Jones sells. I’m allergic to pork. Still, I’d been selling the idea of the place to my photographer for a few days, and when we got out of the car I knew the sale was closed. Grav started popping around shooting the exterior with an urgency of needing to taste what he was smelling. I’ve rarely seen that in humans – usually it’s reserved more for cats hearing the sound of an electric can opener.

It’s not that I haven’t had the chance to experience the sauce. The day Arkansas Pie: A Delicious Slice of the Natural State came out, Kim Williams had brought up Mr. Jones’ good meat. It was the Second Friday Art Night in downtown Little Rock, and Historic Arkansas Museum (which was hosting not just my signing but a second signing and the debut of a Delta art show) was feeding folks his barbecue and fried pies in celebration. Kim also brought along a couple of whole smoked chickens… and Grav and I had our share bare-fingered in the upstairs catering kitchen with a little squirt of sauce here and there, quickly consuming what we could before folks started showing up. It was just as fulfilling as any fine dining experience had been.

But still – it took standing in that little parking lot to trigger that reaction. And when we got inside, he was full of questions.

Which was good, since Mr. Harold (I have just started to think of him that way, since that’s how Kim refers to him) is quick to answer them. Recognizing the guy with the camera in hand as a newcomer, he stepped out of the kitchen and started talking about the place. He reached up with one hand and plucked a box off the wall above the kitchen window, a black shadowbox frame with a ribbon and a medal in it.

It’s his James Beard award. That’s right, the only place in Arkansas to actually receive the Oscar of restaurants is a little white two-story barbecue shack in the Delta. Mr. Harold used to just pull it out and hand it to folks and show it off, but Kim got him the box. That’s a good thing.

It’s also a new thing. Before the spring of 2012, no one could imagine such an august award for the place. They just knew the barbecue was good – and cheap. And consistent. Since the nomination, Mr. Harold has been profiled by CBS Sunday Morning, talked with reporters from every variety of press and broadcast and welcomed visitors from Paris, London and Japan. It’s not uncommon for journalists and bloggers to just pop in unannounced. He takes it all in stride.

Still, here he was answering questions he must have answered thousands of times by now from yet another guy with a camera. I just took notes and watched.

And after showing off the medal and replacing it on the wall, Mr. Harold stepped back into the kitchen, answering even more questions along the way. He stepped back to the counter and proceeded to make yet another sandwich – foil, bread, ‘cue, sauce, coleslaw, bread, wrap, roaster – and another – foil, bread, ‘cue, sauce, coleslaw, bread, wrap, roaster – just automatic as you please.

When I finally got a chance to get a word in edgewise, I handed Mr. Harold a five dollar bill and asked if he’d make one for Grav. He handed me change and the photographer a sandwich, nodded to the refrigerator in the dining room and said “get that boy a Coke.” I did, and by the time I turned around Grav had half-inhaled the sandwich.

I just saw a grown man fall in love. It was a beautiful thing.

And I heard him say something he doesn’t usually say. Grav will tell someone their food is the best in the area, or one of the best things he’s eaten that day, but rarely will he utter words like these: “your barbecue is about the best I have ever had.”

His sandwich gone, he wiped his hands, grabbed the camera and looked for more to shoot. He had Mr. Harold hold the medal and shot him, had him stand in the kitchen and peer out the window and shot him again. All the time, the story continued, a story told many times but always with a pride about him.

A young woman opened the door and peered in. She noticed me standing there, and Grav and the big camera, and hesitated.

“Can I help you, young lady,” Mr. Harold called out to her.

“I wan a sannich,” she called back, finally sliding in and closing the door behind her.

“Wi’ slaw or wi’ out?”

“Wi’.”

I could see him making the sandwich the entire bit of conversation, not taking his eyes off her until he went to squirt on the sauce. He had paused that bare second to hear whether she wanted the slaw, and when she answered it plopped down on that meat and the bread was slid on over. It didn’t take him but a second to wrap it and pass it out the door of the kitchen, and she handed him her three dollars in the same motion. And she was back out the door.

He let us through the kitchen to the back to see where the ‘cue is smoked. Being now lunchtime on a Saturday, the smoking had ended for the day. Three younger men were sitting around on chairs and an old van bench watching a white television set showing “It’s A Wonderful Life,” I kid you not. One of the guys got up and showed us the pit, which Grav shot. I marveled at the interior of this back screened-in section. Decades of smoke had turned the ceiling a deep-char black – but not just the ceiling. Walls were dark char on wood and stunk of sweet and salt. A window pane in the room with the fireplace was stained with brownish-red flamelike flanges where the smoke had intruded. And it smelled… it smelled like I hope heaven smells.

Grav asked the guy showing off the pit, “so, do you like this barbecue?”

He chuckled. “I’ve eaten so many over the years, sometimes I might eat one, sometimes I might not.” And that seemed to be a pretty good answer.

Back in the restaurant itself, we were making our farewells when one of the regulars came in. He grinned and offered testament himself. “I was telling him the other day I ate his father’s barbecue… and every time someone comes in with a camera, he goes and raises the prices!” Both men laughed; the prices haven’t gone up in a long time, and Mr. Harold Jones doesn’t seem to be giving any indication that they’ll change any time soon.

Burge's, Smoked Turkey That Took Over The World.

The original Burge's location in
Lewisville. (Kat Robinson)

Most restaurants begin with a concept or a family dream.  Burge's began with a backyard smoker -- and a whole lot of friends who loved what came out of it.  It took nearly 10 years to get to a restaurant, but what was created there has endured generations.

Hot Springs: 85 Years of McClard's BBQ.

There’s a family restaurant of some renown out of Hot Springs… one of those places everyone’s heard of. Five generations of a single family have operated the little whitewashed building along Albert Pike… and the place goes back to the 1920s. That place… is McClard’s Bar-B-Q.

Magnolia's The Backyard Bar-B-Q Company Presents a Question: Pudding or Pie?

Barbecue and pie... a joint that has both can win my heart over on a mere whim. The Backyard Bar-B-Q Company in Magnolia sure has.

I dropped in with my daughter a few days ago in the middle of the afternoon, looking for a place to cool off and grab grub before hitting the road again. We found the little cottage along Business 82 about three blocks west of Highway 79 on the east side of town.

I was surprised when I went to the counter to encounter this remarkably large pie cooler. It was packed with all sorts of pies -- pecan cream cheese, chocolate, coconut meringue... on the recommendation of one of the ladies behind the counter, I asked for a slice of banana pudding... and I will get to that in a bit.

I also asked for a jumbo beef brisket sandwich to share with the girlchild... and was rewarded with this big juicy sandwich. It was packed with fall-apart brisket -- I assume it had been sliced brisket at some point, but it had smoked down to the falling apart stage. The nice hickory-cast smoke flavor was delectable. It had been enhanced by a thin and meagerly applied sweet and tangy sauce with a whop of black pepper to it. It was pleasant and relaxed and mild. I tried a little of it with some of the house barbecue sauce, which seems to be a thicker version of what was on the meat... and it was all right, but unnecessary. It was enough for me and Hunter to share.

Our pie? Well, that’s up for debate. I’m not sure whether it was a pie or not. It’s listed on the menu under pies, but it’s also a little bit of everything. See, the banana pudding pie contains a banana custard, banana slices and vanilla wafers... but it also comes on a crust in a pie pan, topped with meringue. All I can tell you is, it’s tasty.

Now, while I was there, I watched a big plate of pork ribs being delivered to one lady. There were enough slabs of meat on her plate to fill an army, and I was relieved when I saw others join her. A substantial plate, I tell you what.

So I’m about full, and Hunter has told me she’s about full, and she offers to procure a box. Well, at three and a half, she’s independent as all get-out. So I let her go to the counter. Imagine my surprise when she shows up with a bowl fo vanilla ice cream. My child... the scam artist. I went up and offered to pay for the dessert and was tisked away -- they thought she was cute. That was rather generous of them, and I appreciate that.

I’m going to have to stop by again, though. As I was communicating my location via Facebook, I was told by several people to give the pecan cream cheese pie a whirl. I was stuffed as a tick and simply didn’t have room. Next time, I’ll have dessert first.

You’ll find the Backyard Bar-B-Q Company at 1407 East Main Street in Magnolia. It’s open Tuesday through Saturday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. (870) 234-7890.  Click on that last picture to see their menu.