Barbecue Truck

On a cloudy day last Saturday I drove north from the city, to spend a few days at our cabin in a quiet valley on the leeward edge of the Cohutta Mountains. It’s a better place than most to get some writing done, and there would be plenty of other work also – mowing, cleaning, clearing debris and limbs felled by the recent high winds and weather. 

It’s about a two hour drive, and the first forty five minutes or so are always the least pleasant, trolling up Highway 140 out of the city and through the cluttered random messiness of the suburbs. 

When I was a boy, visiting my grandparents here, it was all pasture, farms, and woods, and on the rare occasion when we drove down into the city, like to a Braves game perhaps, we would stop at the crossroads of Hickory Flat at the one and only structure there, a general store that also sold dipped ice cream. My grandfather always insisted I have a double scoop, and I never argued. 

The store is gone now, and Hickory Flat a town in its own right. Everything needed to support the stick frame commuter neighborhoods – groceries, gas, hardware, liquor, fast food – is there. But the residents, to get anywhere, must merge onto 140, and slog its two lanes going north or south. The road is almost always busier than it was designed for. 

But as with most journeys, if one pays attention there are usually bright spots. I was thinking about lunch, and as I topped a hill near Canton there was a food truck on the left side of the road. A barbecue food truck. Bingo, I turned into the lot and parked.

Walking to the window I was greeted by a bearded gentleman in dirty shorts and a Miller Lite t-shirt. From the looks of him, this man has been working around a barbecue smoker, cutting meat, and keeping the flames burning, low and slow. 

I had my Georgia Bulldogs shirt on.

“Stetson just went in the fourth round, to the Rams.” He says to me. 

Meaning Stetson Bennett, Georgia’s National Championship quarterback, just turning pro in the draft. Football talk, which I’m happy to oblige. When in Rome.

“So that’ll put him and Stafford together,” I offer. “Two Georgia boys.”

“Fourth round, good for him.” I continue. “I had him figured for the fifth or sixth.”

 “Me too,” He says. “Gonna be fun to watch.”

“I’m Dale.” He adds.

“Jim.” 

He extends his hand and we lightly fist bump, the new post Covid hospitality hand shake. 

Dale has a nice set up, at least $150,000 in food truck. Clean, sleek, and smelling delicious.

Also a twenty five foot flat bed trailer edged in beside.

“Now that might look like a gooseneck trailer,” he advises. “But actually it’s a band stage.”

“It’s our one year anniversary. We’re celebrating.” 

I congratulate him. Really, a year is a milestone in the restaurant business. Then I step up to the window and put in my order. 

I’m more of a plate than a sandwich man, and get a combination brisket and pulled pork, with mac and cheese and baked beans. I’m tempted by the brisket burger but settle on the plate. And sweet tea to drink.

And it’s really good. Dale has a couple of picnic tables set out under the trees and I sit with my food and watch the people line up at the order window. Dale is passing out samples of brisket and his signature pickled jalapeno candy. Just like it sounds, it has the soft heat of jalapenos with the sweetness of a gherkin. It’s a perfect foil for the smoky barbecue. They are so good I buy a jar. 

I’m something of a student of barbecue, and once took a meandering road trip from California to Tennessee on a smoked meat vision quest. 

Beginning with tri tip in southern California, the journey took me to Kansas City for burnt ends, across the vast great state of Texas for brisket, and ended in Memphis for dry rubbed ribs at Charlie Vergos Rendezvous. 

Mr. Vergos himself sat with me over lunch that day and I’ve never forgotten his kindness and interest in my journey. He was good company, and a true gentleman. Southern hospitality at its best.

I finished my plate under the trees and waddled back out toward the truck. Dale stopped what he was doing and waved.

“Thanks for coming in, Jim. See you next time.” He shouted.

“Happy Anniversary Dale.”

I ease the truck back out onto the highway and roll down my window, catching one last whiff of Dale’s smoker. The traffic seemed to ease up a little, and with a bellyful of barbecue, I pick up speed and continue north, into the foothills of the Blue Ridge. 

It’s only now I realize I’ve taken on another project, besides mowing and yard clean up. To break out the smoker and make some barbecue, to pair up with my new jar of sweet jalapenos.