You Can’t Miss These Carolina Barbecue Spots

Barbecue is a noun, an adjective, a verb, a cultural token held closely to the hearts of Carolinians, who grew up eating diligently and meticulously smoked pork, brushed in a tangy sauce by neighborhood pitmasters.

In fact, North and South Carolinas’ distinct barbecue styles have become so deeply intertwined with identity that they’ve fostered a homegrown pride, establishing loyalist regions as if they were devout sects, delineated not by trivial notions like say, religion or politics, but by how to cook and dress a pig properly.

Although, there is one front pitmasters across state lines can unite on: If it’s not cooked, low and slow, with wood — hickory, oak, red oak, or pecan in the Carolinas — “it ain’t barbecue,” as written on a sign for all to see at Ayden, North Carolina’s famed Skylight Inn.

Low and slow pit-smoking basks the pork in a tunnel of wood smoke, with the meat’s fat dripping down, then rising, wafting, and infusing back into the hog for 10-plus hours. That’s the kind of art-meets-science happening in the pit.

That concept takes on a few nuanced shapes along a Carolina barbecue trail.

Starting in Eastern North Carolina, whole, snout-to-tail hogs cook directly over wood coals and come brushed in the Great Mother Sauce — vinegar and pepper. Some joints handpull the vinegar-laced meat into fork-tender, ropelike bites, while others finely or coarsely chop the whole pork. Textures aside, each bite should be a whole mouthfeel of marbled meat, cut with a zingy sauce. The side that reigns supreme over all sides is slaw, and on the east side, it’s a finely chopped white slaw, with a base of mayo and a splash of vinegar.

Western North Carolina — Piedmont or Lexington style — smokes a lean pork shoulder, tenderized directly over wood embers or neighboring the coals for an even cook. Here, they pledge allegiance to a tomato-based sauce, which bites with acid but is softened by an umami, sweeter ketchup flavor. That same tomato-base is the lifeblood of Western North Carolina’s red slaw.

Moving southbound, a mustard-based mop dominates the Midlands of South Carolina. And there’s usually a whole amalgamation of vinegar and tomato dips bottled up on the table. A proper barbecue tour would be remiss without South Carolina’s iconic side of barbecue hash — a pork gravy-meets-chili stew ladled over rice. All-inclusive of the pork if you know what I mean.

Both states agree on a “meat plus three” philosophy — a popular phrase in the South’s lexicon for good reason. Something cornmeal-crunchy like hushpuppies, something creamy like mac ‘n’ cheese, and something green (but just barely) like collards should accompany the ‘cue.

And of course, barbecue without banana pudding or fruit cobbler to finish is melancholic. Well, maybe that’s dramatic but rules are rules.

Despite some of these crucial and some, quite frankly, hair-splitting differences, traditional Carolina barbecue is more alike than not: It’s no-frills and red checkered baskets and sweet tea in styrofoam. It’s wood piles stacked eagerly for their place in the pit and embers aglow in the dark. It’s a warm welcome and a dizzying aroma of smoke. It’s a pitmaster’s craft — uncompromising patience, intuition, and more patience.

Now, the above is a traditional view of Carolina barbecue. This is what many generations of locals would call barbecue. But, as tradition goes, it will inevitably be challenged.

And that doctrine-shattering innovation is happening in the Carolinas as Texas brisket, Mexican spices, and Chinese smoked duck enter the scene, thanks to a wave of younger chefs and pitmasters who take tradition on an ingenious, illuminating ride. Enter the world of new-school barbecue, and you’ll find some cross-cultural fusion, a little booze (typically nowhere to be found in a barbecue restaurant), and meats besides pork — and even, dare I say, smoked vegetables — that shift our perception of what barbecue can be.

Fear not, barbecue loyalists. Inviting a little change and marrying regional styles is exactly how some of the most notable flavors and techniques have taken shape in the first place, especially within barbecue. Immigrating Germans introduced the almighty mustard and sausages. In fact, the very foundation of southern barbecue as we know it comes from Taíno Indigenous communities’ technique of cooking and preserving meat low and slow at a small distance above a fire. When Spanish colonizers brought pigs and the Taíno smoked and spritzed them with lime juice, barbecue was born. From there, this roasting ritual came rolling into the mainland and down into the Carolinas, where 16th-century Black communities honed the art of roasting whole hogs.

So, as veteran barbecue joints still remain busier than most other spots in town, one might ask why change something that’s endured for so long? Others might ask, why not?

Here’s a mosaic of classic and contemporary spots to ask that very question.