A VISIT TO FRANKLIN BARBECUE IN AUSTIN

Everyone talks about the line.

People regularly assemble by eight in the morning, rain or shine, even though the restaurant doesn’t open its doors until 11am. The devoted wait as long as four hours on weekends to sample what many consider some of the best barbecue in the country. The restaurant takes pre-orders, six weeks ahead, if you’re willing to buy at least five pounds of meat to go, but you have to do the line if you want to eat your barbecue at Franklin Barbecue in Austin, TX.

New Jersey has plenty of worthy barbecue options, especially the global versions, but the Garden State is not known as a barbecue destination. Texas, on the other hand, is a barbecue mecca. I had never tried Texas-style beef brisket in Texas, and I had long anticipated a visit to Franklin’s.

As soon as our trip to Austin was booked, I began strategizing. Thursday would be our best shot. I couldn’t imagine waiting three hours for any food item. On the advice of one web thread (there are many), I decided to shoot for noon, after the early crush had passed through.

THE LINE
 

My wife and I set out on foot from downtown Austin. Maybe the overcast and chilly October weather would shorten the line? From the I-35 overpass, you can see the retro Franklin Barbecue sign, just over the crest of the next hill. Climbing that hill, you get your first whiff of barbecue. We arrived at 12:30 pm.

The restaurant occupies a squat building, painted turquoise and white, on a sloping side street. There’s an upper-level dining room and some outdoor seating on a deck. From across the final intersection, the line didn’t look that long. Score! Maybe 30 people on the sloping concrete ramp with two switchbacks that led to the door. From the bottom of the ramp, a dozen or so people stood on the asphalt next to the sidewalk. We took up our position at the back, confirming with the guy at the end that he was indeed the last person in line. He wasn’t sure how long the wait was, said he was in town for work and seemed anxious. The general mood on line—a diverse mix of tourists and locals—was friendly and expectant. We prepared ourselves for the wait.

There are no signs estimating wait times. There is, however, a gregarious employee who periodically emerges with ominous updates. “About 45 minutes from the end of the ramp.” The guy in front of us left for work, hungry and disappointed. Shortly, a large man bounded to the end of the line. As soon as he caught his breath, he announced to all that he had driven 10 hours from St. Louis, where he was a member of no fewer than 12 different barbecue societies. Much discussion of barbecue technique followed.

Every so often, the door opened to admit a few more people. First-timers like us couldn’t tell how many people were inside. After we had made it onto the ramp, the line monitor returned and stood at the bottom. “If everyone left orders a pound of brisket per person, the people behind me will not get sliced brisket, but there should still be chopped ends.” Cheers from the ramp, groans from the back. “We’re out of turkey; there’s still ribs and pulled pork.” We were in too deep to abandon ship now.

When we finally reached the door, a satisfied customer emerged. Even bigger than St. Louis guy, his multiple-XL NY Giants jersey billowed like a Roman tunic. By now, we were really hungry. We slipped inside the dining room through a thick cloud of meat fumes. The line continued along two walls to the counter in the back, but we could see the finish line. We also got to watch everyone at the communal tables enjoying trays full of barbecue. Envy gets the stomach rumbling.

THE ORDER
 

We focused on the menu. There are sandwiches, but ordering meat by the pound is the way to go. A quarter pound of any meat per person would be plenty. Here, after waiting on line for so long, and smelling barbecue the whole time, everything about the experience conspires in favor of gluttony. We decided to order one pound of brisket and a half pound of pork ribs.

“What about sausage?” I asked my wife.

“What about it?” she replied. “We don’t need sausage. We’ll have more than enough meat.” She is often the voice of reason.

“But we can’t come all this way and not try the sausage.”

“We won’t be able to eat any more than we’re already ordering.”

“You’re right,” I conceded.

Aaron Franklin, who opened his restaurant in 2009 and won a James Beard Award in 2015, is a barbecue geek. He obsesses over the details, smoking whole 10- to 12-pound beef briskets, fat-side up, for at least 14 hours at precisely 275 degrees, until all that flavor has melted into the meat. His rub is simply kosher salt and black pepper. In the smokehouse behind the restaurant, Franklin burns post oak hardwood in 4,500-pound custom offset smokers fashioned out of recycled propane tanks.

At the counter, you can peer over the clear divider and see the results. Whole smoked briskets wrapped in butcher paper are opened, releasing a blast of steam and intense barbecue aromas.

“What are we having today?” the counterman asked, sweat beading above his blue bandana.

I ordered the brisket and pork ribs.

“Lean or fatty for the brisket?”

I had not anticipated the question. I hesitated. He offered a helpful solution. “A mix of both?” Clearly, he had dealt with hundreds of brisket novices.

“A mix,” I answered, without thinking through the implications.

“And two sausage links, please.”

He quickly sliced the brisket, weighed out the slices on a scale, and placed the portion on a fresh sheet of brown butcher paper. He added a precise number of ribs, moved the meat-laden butcher paper to a metal tray, and slid the tray to his right. The next counter-person added our sides—pinto beans (made with brisket trimmings), slaw and four slices of white bread. I served myself from the large jar of pickled jalapeños by the register. After 90 minutes on line and a brisk two minutes at the counter, we had our tray full of world-famous meat.

THE MEAT
 

My wife had commandeered two spots at a table by the window. We inhaled deeply, surveying the carnivorous carnival arrayed between us.

The speckled and glistening crust on the brisket, as dark as roast coffee, is impossible to resist. Almost immediately, I pinched off a piece with my fingers. The crust pulled away from the brisket easily. The brisket bark has notes of a very dark roux, both sweet and peppery. The meat, soft as butter, is notably smoky from its edge to its center.

“You need to try the ribs,” my wife offered, her mouth full and her fingers sticky.

I’ve always been more of pork guy. The pork ribs, for me, are perfect, falling off as soon as I lift the bone, with a smoky flavor all the way through. Sauces are available, but you don’t need them when the meat alone is so tasty.

We started eating quickly but immediately slowed down, given the richness of the brisket. Why didn’t I go all lean? The meat is so well cooked that you don’t need the fatty, or “moist,” end to get plenty of flavor. I made progress with the lean brisket, but left some of the fatty slices on the tray. Your mileage may differ. We finished all of the ribs.

We wrapped the sausages to go.

When we reemerged into the Central Texas sunshine, walking slowly in the warm embrace of our meat coma, there was no line. Written on a sheet of butcher paper taped to the door was a note: “Sorry Sold Out.” We rescheduled our dinner reservation.

FRANKLIN BARBECUE
900 E 11th St., Austin, TX
512.653.1187
franklinbarbecue.com
Open 11am–3pm (or until the meat runs out). Closed Mondays.

Tip: Send someone into the dining room through the exit door to buy drinks from the left side of the counter, by the registers. Franklin Barbecue sells beer (try a local brew from Live Oak or Austin Beerworks), so this is an excellent option for quenching your thirst while on the line. We also met people on line who had brought their own coolers with brews from home.

Editor’s Note: For helpful barbecue tips and a window into the barbecue-obsessed mind of Aaron Franklin, check out his excellent book: Franklin Barbecue: A Meat-Smoking Manifesto (Ten Speed Press, 2015).