That Pig Joint in Blahvil

It seems like a shame starting out with the best so early in the trip, but that’s more to do with the logistics of my summer traveling rather than preference. In the interest of full disclosure, I was born and raised in the heart of the Mid-South--Mississippi County, Arkansas (named for the river rather than the state).

Just about an hour away from Memphis, and on the other side of the river, lies a small town full of unsung heroes in the art of true barbecue--my hometown, Blytheville, Arkansas, where home-grown barbecue establishments with years of history almost outnumber national chain restaurants. What other town has a resident “porkologist” like Ray “Red” Gill . (Just as a side note from the author: if you are into quality home barbecue and haven’t heard of the River City Spice Company, go there and by something!)

Exposure to such great barbecue throughout my life is why I’m such an unbearable barbecue snob.

Because I didn’t have as much time as I would have liked to devote to my barbecue habit -- I had family to visit, and that’s pretty important-- I had to limit my trip to just one barbecue establishment. (Keep in mind it was the same day that I hit Couch’s in Paragould, so two stops in one day isn’t a bad barbecue day).

By only reviewing one barbecue place in this town, I will probably alienate a certain segment of Native Blthevillians that may read this. My sincere apologies to both Penn’s BBQ locations, Benny Bob’s, the Kream Kastle and the many other -- but no less important --barbecue establishments in this fine town. I had time for only one barbecue stop. But if you only have time for one barbecue restaurant when you go to Blytheville, I’m sure all Blythevillians would agree, you could do worse than the famous Dixie Pig.

You gotta give props to the Dixie Pig immediately just for the name and the character/mascot on the sign and the t-shirt’s they sell. He looks not unlike Porky Pig or the Piggly Wiggly pig from the grocery store chain, but this guy is wearing what appears to be a Confederate soldier hat-type thing.

I should also say at this point that I’m no stranger to this fine establishment. In fact, I’ve been in this place hundreds of times. It’s walking distance from Blytheville High School (home of the Chickasaws). And I spent many an off-campus lunch at this place. But I tried to take particular note this visit to set the scene for those not fortunate enough to have a Dixie Pig in their hometown.

The walls are adorned with sports memorabilia, mostly of the Razorback variety. I’m talking about the good ole stuff with the old, crazy-lookin’ hog with slobber coming out of its mouth, not the toned-down, friendly version we’re familiar with now. The next prevalent mascot seen on the walls is of the mighty Blytheville Chickasaw. Car plates recognizing the various state championships won in their conference are in the plain sight.

But it should be pointed out that the odd Mississippi State Bulldog sticker can be seen, and (sigh) at least one Ole Miss Rebel bumper sticker (at least it’s upside down). Although most SEC loyalties in Blytheville lie with the Arkansas Razorbacks, the town is geographically closer to the campuses in Starkville, Miss; Oxford, Miss and Nashville,Tenn (Vanderbilt).

There is also a strong showing of Arkansas State paraphernalia, most of which is of the Arkansas State Indian, the mascot the NCAA deemed too politically incorrect for sports. The team name of that college in Jonesboro is, of course, now the Red Wolves.

Perhaps the most seemingly out-of-place piece adorning the walls of the Dixie Pig is a large print in the corner of the north dinning room. Amongst all of this dominant red (U of A) and maroon (Blytheville High), is the unmistakable color of Arkansas’ nemesis from the old Southwestern Conference. I’m talking about the burnt orange of Texas.

Why would a barbeque joint in the heart of SEC and thousands of miles from the Texas boarder, in Arkansas no less, have such a thing? Upon closer inspection, it can be seen that the print is of former University of Texas head coach and Blytheville Native Fred Akers. An autograph can be seen in one corner made out to the owners.

Just goes to show you don’t have to be a fan of the Hogs to be welcome at “the Pig.”

I guess I should talk about the barbeque now. There are many various items on the menu to be enjoyed, including the Pig Salad and some fine ribs (only served on Saturday nights unless specified by the sign up front), but my personal favorite is the Pig Sandwich. Served on wax paper, not on a plate, with the SLAW ON THE SANDWICH.

The good people in the back do not put any sauce on the sandwich for you. There is bottle of famous Dixie Pig Barbecue sauce on every table next to the salt and pepper shakers, and you can put a little or a lot depending on preference. This is the way it should be.

A word about the sauce: the sauce is definitely a vinegar-based sauce. Other than that I have no idea what’s in it that makes it taste like heaven on earth. It’s spicy, salty, not sweet and maybe a little smoky. Words fail me (great writer, huh?) The sauce is contained in a glass bottle not unlike a ketchup bottle complete with a white top. Proper procedure is to grab the bottle like a hand brake and place your thumb over the small hole in the top of the cap and shake. It is recommended (by me) to put a napkin between the thumb and the cap while doing this, because we don’t know where you’re thumb has been. The clear glass allows you to look at the spices “floating” around in the bottle. It’s the same theory as an Italian dressing except it tastes NOTHING like an Italian dressing.

A proper shake brings all of the spices closer to the top, allowing you to open your bun and dowse the pork and slaw with liberal amounts of this spicy goodness through the hole in the cap without fear of ruining your sandwich. If you take your sandwich spicier than others, simply repeat this process until the proper heat level is applied.

Dancing around in that bottle is a generations-old, closely guarded secret recipe. When I asked the waitress, “What’s in this stuff, anyway?” I get the same well-rehearsed response. “I could tell ya, but then I’d have to kill ya.”

I get this response every time, but it always keep asking in hopes a new girl will slip up one day. But then again, I don’t really want to know. The mystery is part of the experience.

Another thing you’ll notice immediately is that there are no “fluffy” buns like you’ll find at other bbq places or even a burger joint. The entire sandwich has the appearance of being “pressed.” In other words, the buns are flat. Once you’ve had a pressed bbq sandwich, you’ll never want fluffy buns again. This allows you to taste the meat/slaw/sauce combo with the bread complementing, but not getting in the way of, the good stuff.

You can mimic this pressing at any bbq establishment by placing both hands on the top of your sandwich and then lean on it. Try to push that son-of-a-gun into the table. If it’s good bbq, then your sandwich will be better for it.

A family member once told me of a time he was in eating barbeque in an establishment up the river in Missouri. He proceeded to press his sandwich and the owner actually said, “You must be from Blytheville.” When asked how he knew that the owner said, “You’re doing the Blytheville press.”

See? We’re famous.

I could write a novel about how good this place is, but in closing, I’ll just go on record as saying you won’t find barbeque better than this place. Everything is good: the ribs, the bbq beans, the fries, the atmosphere. It’s no wonder the Dixie Pix gets this barbeque snob ranking of SOTBDBOTP or Some Of The Best Damn Barbeque On The Planet.

Nuff Said.

Footnote that has nothing to do with bbq: The correct pronunciation of Blytheville is Blah-vil. Accent on the first syllable. Like a lot of great Southern towns, the locals say quite differently than it looks, like Norfolk (Nah-fuk), Virginia; or New Orleans (Naw'lins), Louisiana; or however the hell they say Louisville (?), Kentucky. So when the fair River City of the Arkansas Delta comes up in conversation, pronounce it correctly. Let everyone know how cool and well-read you are. And under no circumstances pronounce the "th" in Blytheville around a Blytheville native. A fella could get his ass beat.

BBQ Destination Number 1: The Arkansas Delta

The following is part 2 in a series of barbecue pilgrimages I have made in the summer of 2009. Read the intro to this series here, or apply your favorite sauce and dig in.

Couch's Barbecue; My Grandma's Kitchen; Paragould, Arkansas

The first BBQ experience of note on my trip to northeast Arkansas (NEA) was at the birthplace of my parents--Paragould, Arkansas.

If your family is anything like mine, then a visit with the grandparents is an occasion for plenty of great food. Since we didn’t want “Maw Maw” and “Paw Paw” to go to any trouble, we made a stop by a local place and brought plenty of barbecue sandwiches and ribs for everyone for lunch (Or as my grandparents say, “dinner.” The meal that takes place in the evening is known as “supper.” ) Maw Maw insisted on making one of her famous chocolate pies, a rare treat usually only reserved for holidays. Next thing you know, cousins and uncles and aunts were there, and I was wishing we lived closer to home.

The barbecue we enjoyed that day was from Couch’s Barbecue, a regional chain in NEA with locations in both Jonesboro and Paragould. The very name of that place brings back fond memories of the catchy jingle from the commercial that played constantly on the television station out of Jonesboro. Hear it once and you were hooked: “Bar-be-cue, Couch’s bar-be-cue, nothing fancy just good foo---ood! Ya ha!”

I can’t recommend going into a Couch’s, because I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and ate in one. This particular establishment is best enjoyed take-out, preferable at your grandmother’s house with a chocolate pie afterwards. If your grandmother doesn’t make chocolate pies, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do for you.

I was able to enjoy a sandwich and a few ribs from a couple of racks that were carried home in aluminum foil. I have to say, this was pretty decent barbecue. The ribs were a little tough, but they were flavorful. The sauce was served in a separate container. Major points awarded for the S.O.S. (sauce on the side) serving style; however, points were taken away for serving the slaw in a container by itself.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that the sandwiches might be served with slaw on them had we went inside, so I’ll let that slide. In fact, the pork was also served in a separate container so this was a build-your-own-sandwich situation. It was chopped pork rather than pulled pork, not my first preference but very tasty. The sauce, as near as I can tell, was a ketchup/vinegar sauce, slightly sweet with a little kick to it, surprisingly spicy actually, but not overwhelming.

Maybe the good company and my grandmother’s pie had more to do with it than the barbecue itself, but I have to say overall it was a great barbecue experience. But I’ve never had a bad experience (eating or otherwise) in my grandmother’s kitchen.

I have to rank this barbecue as: PGBBQ for “Pretty Good Barbecue”

Stay tuned, because the Great BBQ Vacation will continue to the next stop the Mecca Of Barbecue (if barbecue had Meccas) Blytheville, Arkansas.

My Barbecue Vacation: a BBQ Snob’s Take on the Great Southern Pastime.

There are very few topics of discussion--outside of sports, of course--that will get my temperature rising. During my adult life, I have kept my composure during heated debates regarding both politics and religion (two things, I don’t recommend talking about with any company over cocktails-—unless you are very sure they agree with you on every matter).

However, disagree with me over the proper preparation methods and nomenclature to address the preferred food of my homeland and the proverbial gloves come right off. I won’t say I’ve ever come to blows over the subject, but there have been times when it came awfully close. And I assure you, the fact that the discussion didn’t escalate to violence wasn’t because I wasn’t ready to take it there. Rather, the other party either backed down or decided such a topic wasn’t worth this sort of trouble, which, of course, also makes me right by default.

I am, of course, talking about barbecue. I’m an admitted barbecue snob.

Now, despite my enthusiasm for the subject, in general, I’m a very open-minded person, more or less, even about barbecue. Food, perhaps more than anything, is subjective in nature. What one group may find delicious, others may find repulsive. (How else would you explain someone eating something called head cheese, while finding something truly delicious, like crawfish, disgusting?)

So, I have no problems with our friends who prefer ketchup-based sauce to vinegar-based sauce, even mustard-based sauce is ok with me, if that’s your thing. Equally, I don’t care if you want to make your ribs all messy and sticky as opposed to a nice dry rub with sauce on the side. This is America. You bought it and cooked it, do what you want with it. I, of course, have my own opinion on these matters; but that’s all it is, an opinion. And you can’t argue a preference.

But.

There are certain matters that we as barbecue lovers must agree on for the sanctity of the art of barbecue itself. I call them the Three Truths About Barbecue. And if you hold these truths to be self evident, you will get no disagreement from me.

Truth Number Three: Simply Cooking Outside, A Barbecue Does Not Make.

Barbecue {bahr-be-kyoo} (-verb) by its very definition, is slow-cooking a meat of your choice (read: PORK) over indirect heat over a long period of time. (Good barbecue is cooked low and slow.) That meat when properly barbecued is called barbecue (now a noun). Anything else should be called “grilling out.” Hamburgers, hotdogs and the occasional chicken breast: these are the things one finds at a cookout. Now it should be mentioned, I’ve had some damn fine barbecue chicken, it’s one of my favorite things to find at a barbecue; however, there is a difference between barbecue chicken and grilled chicken. Calling cooking over an open flame with direct heat and flipping burgers “barbecuing” is an offense to the art itself. See the difference? You don’t see many people smoking hot dogs for four to five hours with hickory. (Although, come to think of it, that would probably be delicious).

Not recognizing Truth Number Three is a forgivable offense and one easily corrected. Most people are happy to be corrected. At least they say so. But please don't stop inviting me to your cookouts. I love hamburgers and hot dogs! And as long as you're feeding me, you can call it any damn thing you like. I'll keep quiet; I promise.

Truth Number Two: In Terms of Sandwiches, THE SLAW GOES ON THE SANDWICH

This truth is akin to the designated hitter debate in Major League Baseball: everyone has an opinion. But half of those people are also wrong. This is a rare case where a preference can be considered incorrect. Personally, I don’t care for slaw by itself. I can count the times I’ve actually eaten slaw with a fork on one hand. But topped on the meat of a barbecue sandwich, or better yet, thoroughly mixed in the barbecue with tender love and care, and I can eat my weight in the stuff. Some will say “I like mine on the side” or “but I don’t like slaw.” Well, you sir or madam, don’t really like barbecue sandwiches and I suggest you go have yourself a quiche.

Truth Number One: The Most Important Truth: Barbecue = Pork

Barbecue is Pork. Pork is barbecue. Pork is a jealous barbecue, and there shall be no barbecue before Pork.

Now that we’re clear on that, it should be said that unlike how the Lord Almighty feels about false gods, Pork doesn’t mind if you experiment with other meats that are barbecued. You will not get smote. So, by all means, enjoy other meat prepared in the traditional barbecue method from time to time. Just don’t call it “barbecue” without specifying the meat afterwards.

For example “barbecue chicken” is perfectly acceptable to say. Even saying “barbecue beef ribs” is ok in the eyes of Pork. But if you’re at a barbecue joint and ask for a barbecue sandwich, or barbecue ribs, and you are served anything other than Pork–-leave immediately, then promptly leave the state because you are most likely in Texas. (Just kidding, Texas. You know I love ya.)

In other words, saying “barbecue pork” is unnecessary and redundant. You might as well say “barbecue barbecue” or “pork pork.”


The Great Barbecue Vacation

So now you’re probably thinking, “If this guy is so good, I’d like to try his barbecue sometime.” Well, let me say at this point I am not a very good barbecuer. It’s true what they say, those who can’t do, teach, or at least critique. I mean, I’m not bad. I enjoy the process very much, but I’m nothing compared to those hard working souls, Pork bless them, that make their living with the art or compete on an international level in competitions such as the World Championship of Barbecue held every May in Memphis.

To use yet another baseball analogy: those guys are like Albert Pujols, and I’m more like the guy on your company’s softball team who doesn’t hit a lot of home runs but makes good contact with the ball until around the fifth inning when he’s had too many beers.

I love to fire up the smoker and give it a whirl some weekends. I’ve even participated in the ultimate barbecue experience--a whole hog--but my real passion lies in eating the stuff. I consider myself more of a connoisseur.

How passionate about it am I? Well most people wouldn’t plan their hard-earned vacation days around particular barbecue destinations would they? Truth is, I didn’t either; it just worked out that way. So I decided to write about it. Serendipity I suppose. Over the next couple of months or so, this blog will feature various barbecue destinations I have visited or will visit this summer: Kansas City, the East Coast and even Texas. My weight will increase, along with my cholesterol. But these are the sacrifices I'm willing to make in the name of BBQ journalism. It's a hard life, but somebody has to do it.

COMING UP: My next post will be a write-up on some barbecue sampled in the birthplace of barbecue--the Arkansas Delta.

Note from the Author: There is some debate on the spelling of this subject, but it makes no difference to me whether you prefer barbeCue or barbeQue or even BBQ or just "que." I went with "barbecue" because that was most common on the bottles of my various sauces (in the photo).