The Brits have their summer solstice pilgrimage from Glastonbury to Stonehenge. Spain has their legendary trek to Santiago de Compostela. India has the Hindu journey between Yamunotri and Badrinath. Here in Forney, the Moons have a special pilgrimage, as well. It may not be thousands of years old, and the sum total of participants is only 2, but we take our quest very seriously. We go where we go for a single purpose. It’s all about the barbeque. This time, it took us to Austin.
First of all, I was tricked. It was all a ploy. For the entirety of my marriage, I have asked for one thing. I love the lore and the lure of haunted spaces. Show me an abandoned psychiatric hospital and watch the excitement build behind my eyes. Talk to me about a defunct children’s orphanage, where the spirits still walk the lands in search of victims and see me positively beam. Why watch a normal movie when you can watch a spooky movie? Why tour a vineyard when there’s an eerie old cemetery in the vicinity? And, finally, why stay at the Holiday Inn when there’s a certified haunted hotel around the corner? When my husband asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, I said the same thing I’ve said for over 20 years. “I want to spend two nights at the Driskill, but only if we can stay in room 525.” For the first time, the guest relations desk said the words I’ve been longing to hear. Just like that, we were off to Austin for a super spooky weekend. Little did I know, the mister had an ulterior motive called Texas brisket. Turns out, that was the scariest part of the trip.
My husband is an aficionado of authentic Texas brisket. You mustn’t take anything I say personally. I mean no disrespect. In his world, however, there’s no room for pellet smokers. Worse than curse words are brand names like Traeger and Pit Boss. Our backyard pledges allegiance to the woodburning offset smoker. The mister fills it full of hickory, oak, or even pecan, which he purchases from select dealers after testing it with a moisture meter to make sure it will fire up easily and burn slowly. The barbeque game, he swears, hinges on fire management. He dons his comfiest outfit, lugs his wireless speaker outside, and listens to Hank Williams – senior only – while he stares at the fire with the intensity of a thousand suns. After several hours spent locked in on a salt and peppered brisket with just the right amount of fat left on the meat, he wraps his treasure up, studies the internal temperature like he’s memorizing the preamble to the constitution, and tucks it into a 160-degree oven for the night. Just like that, a brisket is born. Yet, to really know how your brisket fares, you gotta sample the rest to see if yours is the best.
The list was as short as the time we planned on spending in Austin. With a Driskill check-in at 4 pm, we made a beeline to the legendary SOCO location of the Leroy & Lewis food truck. Owners Evan and Bradley practically offer a YouTube master class on how to smoke meat. The disappointment in finding out they’d sold out already on a Thursday at 11 in the morning was heavy. But, not to worry, the man says, we have a brickand- mortar restaurant now. You’ll love it. We talk about brisket as we make our way into East Austin. The restaurant was beautiful, all clean lines and grid-free windows. We get in line to wait our turn, navigating a confusing billboard menu. “It’s our first time here,” says the mister.
The woman behind the counter says nothing back to us. “We just want brisket,” says he. “Umm, we don’t have brisket,” she says, expressionless. She proceeds to point at some fine print under the billboard menu above her. “Brisket offered on Saturdays. First come first served.” We decide on a shoulder chopped sandwich for me and something called flatiron for him. We weren’t wearing flannel shirts, nor did either of us sport a handlebar mustache with heavy wax. In fact, the staff stared a hole through us, these two customers that seemed so very un-Austin-like. We soon discovered our mistake.
My sandwich wasn’t terrible, just unexpected. Turns out, shoulder cut is roast. I found it underwhelming in flavor. The kimchi under the “BBQ” was as confusing as the basil leaves on top of it. But the part that really set us on edge was the beet sauce in lieu of traditional sauce. Seems that the burly gents known for their burnt ends and bark-coated briskets have morphed into a haven for hippie-esque new-age “que.” As we drove toward the Driskill Hotel, our temperament went from disappointment to outrage. Little did we know that our plan for stop #2 at Franklin’s the following morning would be thwarted by 150 other people who’d decide to camp out at 6 am. Besides, we were really there for a good haunting. More about that next week.
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