To Tomato or Not to Tomato? That is the Question in Carolina

Tarheel Q
6835 West Old US Hwy. 64
Lexington, NC






Barbeque can get down right complicated in the Tar Heel State.

The next time you hear someone tell you they serve “Carolina-style” barbeque, don’t let them off the hook.

Your next question should be, “Which Carolina style?”

As in, Eastern Carolina Barbeque or Western Carolina Barbeque?

Wars have been fought over less weighty disputes.

Eastern Carolina barbeque dates to Colonial times when the early settlers believed that tomatoes were poisonous. The only trace of red you’ll find in Eastern ‘que are flecks of pepper.

“Down East” around Wilson, Ayden and Rocky Mount, they smoke the whole hog, snout to tail, then drench the chopped up pig meat in a sauce of nothing more than peppery vinegar. It’s an acquired taste, for sure, especially if you are used to the ketchupy BBQ sauces of Memphis, Kansas City and Dallas.

Me? I guess I’m kind of a barbeque tramp. I like ‘em all.

Sure some barbeque is better than others, but there is no such thing as BAD smoked pig.

Here in Western North Carolina, the pit masters are much less tomatophobic.

Only the shoulder of the hog is smoked, and it is drenched in a vinegar sauce sweetened with a touch of tomato and sugar.

This Western Carolina barbeque style originated right here in Lexington, North Carolina about 100 years ago when Jesse Swicegood and Sid Weaver set up a barbeque pit in front of the Davidson County Court House on the days when the farmers from the surrounding fields would come to town.

Today, Lexington, a town of about 20,000 hungry souls, boasts nearly two dozen barbeque joints – the most per capita in America.

Welcome to the barbeque capital of the world!

I’ve always been partial to Western Carolina – or Lexington style – barbeque. I like a balance between the pucker of vinegar and the sweet of the tomato.

And that’s what you get here at Tarheel Q.

Of course Tarheel Q isn’t exactly in Lexington. It’s about ten miles west of town out over the hills and through the tobacco fields, hard against the Yadkin River.

You know it’s got to be good when your barbeque joint is out in the sticks.

The smoke billowing from the chimney and the wood pile of chopped hickory out back serve as further reminder that this is the real deal.

In fact, the only flaw I could find in Tarheel Q’s authentic barbeque credentials was that the place seemed a bit too clean – and new.

Well, it turns out, there’s a good reason for that.

Tarheel Q burned to the ground about a year or two ago and was recently rebuilt.

Call it an occupational hazard for an enterprise built around burning hickory 18 hours per day. Every day.

In my book, that makes Tarheel Q the Steve Earle of Western Carolina barbeque joints.

You know how you can’t be truly considered a critically-acclaimed legitimate outlaw country songwriter until you’ve served a prison sentence for heroin addiction? Somehow, that makes you deep.

Same thing with barbeque joints. You officially earn your street cred after you’ve been burnt down and rebuilt at least once or twice.

But Tarheel Q earns its cred in Suit757’s book with its outstanding barbeque.

Strictly segregated by gender, the ladies serve the customers in the front of the house while the men tend to the fire, smoke and danger in the back.

Just as it should be.

As I sat at the counter, I watched them wielding their knives, chop, chop, chopping my fresh-from-the-smoker pork into tender bites.

A giant mound of chopped pork squooshed between two woefully inadequate Marita "Southern Bread" hamburger buns came out rapped in wax paper. The sandwich was topped with cole slaw (a Carolina tradition) and just a touch of Tarheel Q’s famous sauce.

The sauce was much sweeter than I expected for a barbeque sandwich within the state of North Carolina.

But it was delicious.

In fact, on request, my waitress brought me a mini jar of heated sauce to further soak my pig meat.

The thin sauce just melted right into the meat, further contributing to my Merita bun disintegration. Eventually, I gave up and just started using my fork.

But the thin, sweet sauce was a delicious accompaniment to the tender smoky pork. A top notch variation on Western Carolina que.

The boat of warm hush puppies on the side was top notch too – sweet like cake with a crunchy bite. No way could I finish them all.

Those good ol’ boys Down East might frown upon Tarheel Q’s brand of barbeque, but it earns five stars in my book.

After all, it’s not worth going to war over.

But then again, all’s fair in love and barbeque.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

You Won’t Get Burnt at the Roast Grill

The Roast Grill
7 S. West St.
Raleigh, NC





Sometimes “choice” is overrated.

If we’re talking about some “nanny state” politician telling me what size Big Gulp I can buy or whether or not I have to pay union dues, you better not infringe on my freedom to choose.

But at the same time, I can appreciate a certain amount of decisiveness – especially at a good place to eat.

When a restaurant owner presents a grocery store shelf worth of condiments to his customers, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in his food.

I mean, if a guy spends a life-time perfecting some basic culinary delight like a hot dog, he knows exactly how it should be eaten.

If you can manage to attain that elusive state of perfection, why deviate?

I guess that’s why I like this world famous hole-in-the-wall in Downtown Raleigh.

Decisive. Confident. Perfect.

NO cheese. NO mayo. NO kraut. NO relish. NO fries. NO chips. NO coffee. NO hot tea. NO iced tea. NO sweet tea. NO credit cards.

And absolutely NO KETCHUP!

That’s how the Roast Grill markets itself on its basic one-page web site.

How’s that for customer service?

Screw “have it your way.” If you don’t like it, go to Burger King.

But judging by the line to get into this place on a Thursday at 2pm, plenty of folks do like it.

Since 1940, the Charles family has been grilling modest-sized hot dogs at this tiny joint under a sign that says “HOT WEINERS.”

Apparently folks had much shorter legs 72 years ago.

About ten little bar stools with six inches of legroom and two tiny two-top tables crammed against the wall are the only accommodations in this six foot wide lunch room.

I’ve been more comfortable in the middle seat of an American Airlines 757.

But unlike a five hour transcontinental flight of torture, nobody minds the accommodations for the few minutes they spend downing hot dogs at the Roast Grill.

The service is a lot friendlier too.

Mr. Charles (the original owners’ son) and his grill man, George, offer up plenty of Southern hospitality.

They just want to keep their little enterprise simple and efficient.

Here are your limited choices: burnt, medium or light. (That’s doneness of your hot dogs.) And chili, slaw, onions or mustard.

To drink, you can have a Miller Lite. Or, if you are working -- like Suit757 -- an old-fashioned 8 oz glass bottle of Coke.

Cash only. 9% sales tax already included.

Simple. Efficient.

And delicious.

At the risk of getting too complicated, I decided to try three different combinations: burnt with chili, burnt with slaw and burnt with chili and slaw.

I wanted to sample the full spectrum of Roast Grill options.

The chili is from Mr. Charles parents’ 70 year old recipe.

Tangy and zesty, it is an excellent hot dog topper. The burnt skin of the dog adds a flavorful snap to each bite.

The slaw dog left something to be desired. The cole slaw just didn’t have much flavor. No sweetness. No vinegary tanginess. No mayonnaisey creaminess.

Just cabbagey crunch. Probably would have been better with some mustard.

But put the slaw and the chili together on top of the grill-darkened dog?

Now you’re talkin’!

The savory chili gets a nice textural crunch from the slaw. Hot dog, chili and cabbagey crunch in every bite. That’s Roast Grill perfection there!

It was so good, I ordered a fourth dog done exactly that way.

In fact, I left the Roast Grill wondering why they bother giving the customers any options at all.

Clearly, my configuration is the height of Roast Grill hot dog perfection.

And as a compulsive perfectionist, Suit757’s mantra is, “don’t mess with perfection.”

But don’t worry. I’m not going to make a federal issue out of it.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Eastern Carolina Barbeque Refuses to Fade Away

Allen & Son Barbeque
6203 Millhouse Rd.
Chapel Hill, NC

Like flip phones, fax machines and virgins on the UNC Chapel Hill campus, it’s getting harder and harder to find authentic Eastern Carolina barbeque.

That’s because it’s a pain in the butt (no pun intended).

Who the heck has time to chop up hickory logs, tend to a smoldering fire around the clock and smoke a whole hog slowly over the embers for the better part of a day?

And then carefully pick the meat off the animal by hand and concoct your own vinegar sauce?

Forget it.

That’s why God invented gas smokers. Once legendary barbeque shacks all over Eastern North Carolina have shifted to this much more efficient means of ‘que making.

It’s better for the environment too.

As soon as Obama gets done forcing us all to buy electric cars from Government Motors, I’m pretty sure he’s moving to ban authentic barbeque next.

Call it the “BBQ individual mandate.” As a condition of eating in this country, every citizen must cook their meat over a gas smoker.

There’s just one problem. If you are a true barbeque connoisseur, you know that ain’t real barbeque.

But I’m happy to report there is one place tucked up here in the woods north of Chapel Hill where you can still enjoy the real deal.

Keith Allen, the “son” in Allen & Son still delivers North Carolina hickory logs to his restaurant and then saws, splits and chops it himself before burning it in a pit he fires up every 30 minutes. Just like his dad used to do going back to 1968.

There are no short cuts here. And you can taste the authenticity in every bite of the smoke-infused meat.

A textural kaleidoscope of pig parts from various orifices of the swine, Allen & Son’s barbeque offers you a different experience in every bite.

Soft pillowy white pork mixed together with darker strands of meat produces an orgy of smoky flavors and textures in your mouth.

Even a few “burnt” scraps of bark from the fire-charred outside of the pig can be found now and then, adding an intense yet satisfying bitter bite to the meat.

There is comfort in the evidence splayed before you on your hard plastic plate that you are eating pure unadulterated classic Eastern Carolina barbeque.

As per tradition here in the eastern half of North Carolina, the sauce isn’t really a sauce. It’s nothing more than a jar of salty, peppery vinegar.

When you squirt some on your meat, it immediately disappears, escaping into the nooks and crannies of the chopped up pig parts.

You might not be able to see it, but there is no doubt you can taste it.

Eastern Carolina “sauce” adds a bitter tangy zip that enhances the smoky flavor of the pig.

Legend holds that the colonial settlers in these parts, who invented this form of barbeque, were convinced that tomatoes were poisonous and thus obsessively shunned the sweet vegetables.

Personally, I enjoy tomato based sauces, but when in Rome, you don’t argue with the Romans.

If you really need your tomato fix, get a side of Brunswick Stew, as I did. Here at Allen & Son it is a delicious concoction of vegetables and shredded pork in a thin tomato-based sauce.

Other staples of authentic Eastern Carolina barbeque feats are cole slaw, hush puppies and sweet tea.

No one leaves Allen & Son hungry.

The hush puppies arrived at the table in an overflowing basket. Over a dozen of the best puppies you’ll ever taste!

Crispy on the outside, soft and warm on the inside, these sweet doughy spheres were addictive. I had to physically tie my hand to the plastic checkerboard tablecloth to keep from eating the entire basket.

By the time I pushed my wooden chair back from the table, I felt relieved. And stuffed.

Stuffed because I just consumed the better part of a hog and a month’s worth of deep fried carbs.

But relieved just know that a place like Allen & Son still exists. We live in a society where speed, efficiency and parsimony too often crowd out quality.

As Texas songwriter Pat Green once wistfully sang, “All the good things fade away.”

Many of the legends of this centuries-old American tradition that is Eastern Carolina barbeque may be switching from hickory wood to gas. But folks still flock to this wooded intersection of country roads in Orange County to enjoy the real thing.

No need to worry.

Unlike the weathered sign above the front door, Allen & Son won’t be fading away any time soon.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Cole Slaw Confusion in Carolina

R.O.’s Barbeque
1318 Gaston Ave.
Gastonia, NC


Is it possible for a side dish to steal all the limelight at a North Carolina barbeque joint?

How about a condiment, for Pete’s sake?

Welcome to R.O.’s Barbeque, world famous for…

…cole slaw???

Yep. The highlight of this Western Carolina barbeque pit isn’t chopped or sliced pork. It’s what comes on top – the “slaw”, as the natives call it in their slow Carolina drawl.

How exactly is it possible for lowly cole slaw – usually an afterthought side dish to Southern meals of BBQ and fried chicken – to be “world famous”?

I was determined to find out.

As I walked in, I told the young guy at the counter I wanted a cheeseburger with slaw and a chopped BBQ sandwich – and a side of slaw.

He looked a bit puzzled.

“You know the sandwich already comes with slaw on it?”

“Yeah, I know. But I want a side of slaw too.”

Geez. Why is it unusual to order a side of slaw? Particularly “world famous slaw”?

Five minutes later, after grabbing my tray of food and taking a seat in the spacious dining room I think I figured out why.

One bite of the bright pink concoction in my little plastic slaw cup and my head was buzzing and my lips were tingling.

Folks, if you haven’t figured it out yet, this ain’t your gandmama’s cole slaw. The cabbage (the primary ingredient in grandmama’s slaw) is a mere afterthought.

Spicy. Vinegary. Creamy. Heavy.

Like Thousand Island dressing. Or a slightly chunky, cabbagey New Orleans remoulade.

Now I know why the guy at the counter questioned my order.

This slaw is no side dish. It’s a sauce. A dip. A condiment.

It says so right on R.O.’s T-shirts. “Sauce, Slaw & Dip. Unleash the flavor!”

Eating it straight is like slurping Thousand Island dressing straight from the Kraft jar. Kind of a bit much.

But on my cheeseburger? And my minced BBQ sandwich?

Heaven on a bun.

The thick slather of slaw on my burger elevated a fairly forgettable overcooked beef patty into something unforgettable. McDonalds can keep their “special sauce.” I’m never eating a Big Mac again.

On the BBQ sandwich, the slaw was even more spectacular.

Cole slaw on top of BBQ along with a squirt of vinegary sauce is common practice for sandwiches served in Carolina and Virginia.

But on R.O.’s sandwich, the slaw IS the barbeque sauce. The generous heaping of slaw melds into the pork bits, creating a confluence of tangy, moist, spicy deliciousness.

Smoke addicts and barbeque purists will surely frown on the dominance of the slaw flavor compared to the overmatched subtle smoke of the pork.

But you know what I have to say to those BBQ snobs?

Deal with it. Live a little. Try something different for a change.

Different is exactly what R.O. serves.

And as I travel the highways and exits of America’s homogenized culinary wasteland, I crave different. I NEED different.

That’s why I liked R.O.’s slaw slathered BBQ so much. Nothing else like it in the world!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Broken Clocks, Blind Squirrels & Liberals

Tomato Jam Café
379 Biltmore Ave.
Asheville, NC



Liberals are so easy to ridicule.

Whether it is city commissions banning toys from happy meals or “global warming” conferees stranded in the blizzard of the century or simultaneous pleas to save baby seals and kill baby humans (you know, ‘cause one of those humans might grow up one day to kill a seal), there is no limit to liberal idiocy.

Except when they are right.

Or -- as my recent trip to leftist heaven Asheville, North Carolina began to convince me -- when the labels are just wrong.

While our conversation didn’t evolve much beyond what I wanted for breakfast, it certainly wouldn’t surprise me if the owner of Tomato Jam Café, Rebecca Daun-Widner, and I agree on very little about how the world works.

A funky, eclectic place that serves nothing but organic, locally sourced food, Tomato Jam Café is the kind of place liberals love.

I consider myself a conservative. A traditionalist.

I recognize, understand and appreciate those things that make the world work properly - just as God intended – without interference by bureaucrats, government, Ben Bernanke, and nanny-state do-gooders who screw it all up.

When I find these things, I value them, cherish them, desire to “conserve” them.

Well, one bite of the locally grown, organic tomatoes, biscuits, sausage, eggs and apples at Tomato Jam Café, and I knew THIS was something worth valuing and conserving.

Think about it. What could possibly be more traditional and conservative than growing your own tomatoes free of government regulated/mandated pesticides, herbicides and God-knows-what-else?

The bulletin board behind the cash register where you order breakfast lists all the local farmers that supply every ingredient in the delicious food you are about to eat.

Now THAT is what I call traditional.

That is 19th Century know-where-your-food-comes-from old-school. It is breakfast by-passing Big Business, Big Government and Big Labor all in one fell swoop.

Who knew that biscuits and gravy at 9am on a Wednesday could be such a philosophically awakening moment?

But that’s what makes Asheville, North Carolina, generally, and the Tomato Jam Café, specifically, such a unique spot.

It’s a place where government-loving new age liberals flock to celebrate the most traditional of values: good food.

Strangely situated in a doctors’ office park on the busy main drag south of town, Tomato Jam Café is a small, cozy, easy-going place.

No waitresses, hostesses or bus boys.

You place your order when you walk in the front door and bus your own table when you’re done.

It’s the kind of place where you can be sure the orange juice is fresh squeezed – and served in a Ball mason jar for good measure.

And where the apple sauce doesn’t come from an industrial sized tub in the fridge. These Smoky Mountain apples are roasted and hand crushed, served warm in a bowl with a sprinkling of cinnamon.

But the specialty of the house is biscuits.

“Cat head” biscuits. So named because they are big as a funky shaped cat’s head – though I suspect, much more delicious. Made from scratch from whole grain flour, these are darker and tastier than your run-of-the-mill Southern buttermilk biscuits.

Unfortunately, I very nearly missed this entire whole-grain-inspired philosophical awakening.

I nabbed the last biscuit of the day! And the place had only been open for business for an hour.

Tragedy averted.

That presented me a great burden. As ridiculous as it may have seemed considering their size, I had planned to cop out and order a couple biscuits.

Maybe the BLT-of-my-dreams: all-natural, nitrate-free thick-sliced apple wood-smoked bacon with organic roasted tomato slices, lettuce and mayonnaise on one of those one-of-a-kind biscuits.

Or maybe just a plain biscuit, warmed up and dripping in butter.

And what about the Café’s name-sake condiment, home-made tomato jam? Gotta try that on one of those scratch-made cat heads.

But alas, there would be no easy-way-out gluttony today. I had to be a responsible adult and choose.

As you might expect, I chose to go WAY over the top. Literally.

I ordered the “Wendy Lou”: the final, precious biscuit of the day split open and smothered over the top with home-made sausage gravy and scrambled eggs.

Those two big halves of biscuit were completely buried in a messy mountain of deliciousness. All-natural local eggs and creamy warm gravy loaded with fresh sausage, this was biscuits and gravy for the gods.

I consider myself something of a sausage gravy connoisseur.

Let me tell you, this isn’t that wimpy Huddle House sausage gravy with mere specks of sausage.

No. We’re talking big hunks of zesty made-from-scratch organic, hormone-free, free-range, humanely-pampered pigs who probably enjoyed a higher standard of living than you or me.

Feel free to inject liberal ridicule here.

Isn’t pampering mud-wallowing animals who are destined to be my breakfast anyway kind of weird? Pretentious? Lefty nutty?

Yes. Yes. And yes.

But, what is most important when dining on succulent dead pig?

Does it TASTE good?

Yes. Again.

And there, my friends, is where those wacky liberals actually get it right – completely by accident. Like a blind squirrel. Or a broken clock at the right time of day.

While they are busy tending to the poor piggy’s delicate psyche and self-esteem, they end up producing a darn tasty pig for my sausage gravy breakfast.

After all, that’s the only purpose of a pig. To taste good.

If pampering porky like some Guantanamo Bay terrorist on a Caribbean vacation makes him taste better – and the evidence seems to be growing that it does – then by all means, give him the Laz-Y-Boy, remote and a lap dance.

To end up in Tomato Jam Café’s delicious sausage gravy over a cat head biscuit should be the ultimate fulfillment of any pig’s life.

If that won’t boost porky’s self-esteem, nothing will.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Rebels And Yankees Unite Over Grits And The Man In Black

Tupelo Honey Café
12 College St.
Asheville, North Carolina

Beer selection: Great selection of local microbrews.

Food: Southern cuisine served with Yankee flare.



To understand Asheville, North Carolina, you must understand that in the minds of certain Yankees, Southern culture is cool. And hip.

In contrast, I have yet to meet a Southerner who finds anything about Yankee culture the least bit interesting (except maybe The Sopranos).

This fascination with everything Southern is quite understandable. The South has better weather, politics, music, women…and, most importantly, food. It’s just that most Yankees have never lifted their head up out of their brown, crusty snow pile long enough to notice.

So if you think I’m about to launch into some rant out carpet bagging Yankee posers coming down to God’s country to pretend they fit in, well…I’ll save that post for the Buckhead bars in Atlanta.

Not today.

That’s because the Yankee celebration of Southern culture that goes on in Asheville is a good thing.

Here in Asheville you don’t have that most annoying bread of Yankees who look down on a South they’ve never visited and know nothing about.

No. Yankees come to Asheville because they actually LIKE biscuits, grits and Johnny Cash.

All three of which were on full display at lunchtime at the Tupelo Honey Café in downtown Asheville.

Johnny Cash provides the perfect sound track to lunch. Even Yankees who think they don’t like country music, like The Man in Black.

Even Yankees who think they don’t like grits, will love them here.

Tupelo Honey Café’s motto is “Asheville’s New South Kitchen”.

Translation: traditional Southern cooking exotically spruced up in the hands of a creative chef from New Jersey who fell in love with the South.

The result is one of the South’s premier meeting places for open-minded North Carolina natives and adventurous Northern tourists and transplants. Like what Willie Nelson did for the rednecks and the hippies in Austin, the Tupelo Honey Café does for hungry Rebels and Yankees here in Asheville.

I say open-minded natives because the Southern cooking coming out of the kitchen here bares little resemblance to the biscuits and grits at your local town square meat-and-three.

No ordinary Southern restaurant would serve warm biscuits with organic home-made jam rather than a traditional pat of butter. Or gild their grits with goat cheese or red pepper (or, anything in the least bit spicy). Or, heaven forbid, serve it all along with a flight of locally produced microbrews.

But that’s exactly what you get here -- to the delight of an eclectic mix of locals, transplants and tourists alike.

Yeah, it may not be like grandma fixed it, but these folks appreciate good food when they taste it.

Like the shrimp and grits, one of my all time favorite dishes.

What I love about shrimp and grits is that like the snow flakes falling outside on the College St. sidewalk on this frigid afternoon, no two versions are ever the same.

In the small Southern town I live in, you can go to over a dozen eateries to try different versions of the classic Low Country dish – some with cheese, some without; some with gravy, some without; some with ham, some with sausage, some with bacon, some without; some with creamy grits, some with fried grits. And you know what? Every last one of them is delicious.

Shrimp and grits rewards creativity. A perfect choice at a place like the Tupelo Honey Café.

Fresh shrimp layered on a creamy bed of goat cheese grits, generously enhanced by discs of andouille sausage and smothered in a spicy red pepper gravy, this has to be one of the best shrimp and grits dishes of all time.

The big surprise was the major taste-bud-kicking spice in these shrimp and grits.

Fortunately, the Tupelo Honey Café, like most eateries here in “Beer City USA”, had just what my taste buds needed – a nice selection of local microbrews on tap.

Ah, but here’s the dilemma. Which local microbrew?

So many beers, so little time.

Just when I thought my lunch couldn’t get any better, my enthusiastic friendly waitress solved my problem by suggesting a flight of beer – the indecisive beer drinker’s salvation.

Sure enough, within seconds, she brought out four 5 oz. servings of locally brewed beer and helpfully identified and described each one, which is very important for determining favorites for future beer drinking adventures.

Johnny Cash, shrimp and grits – AND an education.

Who ever said drinking beer kills brain cells anyway?

Well, to be honest, I’ve already forgotten the name of the pilsner. But that’s okay. Skunky like a Eurotrash import, it wasn’t going to make my top ten list anyway.

The Pisgah Porter would be perfect evidence for my “don’t judge a beer by its color” mantra. The darkest beer on this flight by far, was the most tasteless. Thin, bland and watery, this porter just didn’t do it for me.

The second darkest beer, Highland Gaelic Ale, was much tastier – a nice balance between sweet malt and hoppy spice.

By far the best of the flight was the Pisgah Pale Ale, a locally brewed organic beer that had a nice strong hoppy taste and a crisp, clean finish.

We have a winner!

My waitress, curious about my scientific conclusion, concurred with my decision.

“That’s my favorite too,” she said. “It’s delicious!”

As the last strains of “Folsom Prison Blues” played on the sound system and I pulled on my overcoat to venture back into the icy mountain air, I contemplated what a quirky unique place this is.

Carolina and New York accents peacefully comingling.

Out-of-this-world Southern cooking by a chef from New Jersey.

Mouth-tinglingly spicy shrimp and grits.

And chicks who dig hoppy microbrewed beers.

Like the food served up at the Tupelo Honey Café, Asheville is one of a kind.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!