25 Soul Foods Served at Old Memphis Barbecue Joints

The screen door slapped shut behind you and the smoke found you before your eyes adjusted to the dark. Every table was taken by noon and the man behind the counter never asked what you wanted. He already knew. What sits at number 14 on this list still confuses anyone who did not grow up eating it. Number 21 turned a bitter green that most people threw away into something worth fighting over at the table and number nine was a test. If you knew what it was you belonged. Hit subscribe because this food history deserves to be heard. Here are 25 soul foods served at old Memphis barbecue joints. Number 25 rib tips. When a pit master trimmed a rack of spare ribs into the clean rectangle that customers expected the trimmings went into a pile. Those were the rib tips small irregular pieces of meat and cartilage and bone that no one paid full price for. They went back on the smoker in a foil pan bathed in sauce and cooked until the cartilage turned soft enough to chew through. A plate of rib tips cost half as much as a full rack and delivered twice the smoke flavor per bite because the smaller pieces absorbed more of it. You ate them with your fingers pulling the meat off knobs of bone that bent instead of snapped. Rib tips were the pit master's errand. The cut that proved nothing in that kitchen was wasted. Number 24 smoked chicken wings. A pit master rubbed the wings in the same cayenne and garlic mix he used on everything else spread them across the top rack where the heat ran thinnest and left them for a couple of hours until the skin pulled tight and turned the color of old pennies. They came out small smoky and dry enough to eat with one hand. Wings were the cheapest cut a joint could buy and they sold for less than a dollar which made them the order teenagers could afford and grown men ate by the half dozen while waiting on their rib plate. Nobody put sauce on them at the counter. The smoke and the rub carried the flavor and the bone went clean in two bites. A plate of wings was not a main course it was the thing you ate while you decided what the main course would be. Number 23 cracklings. When a hog was rendered for lard the solid pieces of skin and fat that refused to melt down were scooped out and fried a second time until they puffed up and turned into something between a chip and a crouton. Those were cracklings they shattered between your teeth with a sound you could hear across the room. Memphis barbecue joints kept a bag or a tray of them near the register sold by weight or by the handful and customers ate them while they waited for their order or carried them home in a paper sack. The salt content alone could stop a conversation but the texture was what brought people back that combination of crunch and richness that nothing else on the menu could deliver. Cracklings were not a side dish they were a habit. Number 22 smoked sausage links. Long ropes of sausage came in from local meat markets seasoned with red pepper sage and enough garlic to announce themselves from across the parking lot. A pit master coiled them on the lower rack and smoked them slow until the casing tightened and the fat inside rendered down to a slick that dripped onto the coals and flared. Sliced on the diagonal and served on white bread with pickles and raw onion a smoked sausage sandwich was the order that moved fastest at the window. The links were the bridge between the pork shoulder crowd and the people who wanted something they could hold in one hand and eat walking back to their car. You could smell them before you reached the counter and you could taste the garlic for the rest of the afternoon. Number 21 mustard greens with pot liquor. Mustard greens had a sharper bite than collards almost peppery and the cooks who served them at barbecue joints preferred that edge because it stood up to the smoke on the plate. The greens simmered for hours in a pot with a smoked ham hock or a piece of fatback cooked down until they were dark and silky. The liquid left behind the pot liquor was served alongside in a small cup or ladled over cornbread. That broth carried every mineral the greens had given up and enough salt to make a grown man close his eyes. Most customers who ordered greens asked for extra pot liquor on the side. The greens were the cheapest thing on the menu and the hardest to get right because overcooking turned them bitter and undercooking left them tough. Number 20 slaw burger. A slaw burger was a hamburger patty on a bun with a pile of vinegar coleslaw pressed on top instead of lettuce and tomato. The patty was thin cooked flat on a griddle until the edges crisped and the slaw went on hot so the vinegar hit the grease and the whole thing steamed for a second before the top bun came down. It was not a barbecue item it was a griddle item and every joint that had a flat surface next to the smoker offered one. The slaw burger existed because not everybody who walked into a barbecue joint wanted barbecue. Some people wanted something fast something cheap something that took two minutes instead of 12 hours. The slaw burger was that meal it fed the lunch crowd that could not wait. Number 19 barbecue nachos. Nobody planned for this one and nobody questioned it once it showed up. A styrofoam container packed tight with tortilla chips buried under a mound of chopped pulled pork or smoked sausage drenched in warm barbecue sauce and topped with shredded cheese jalapenos and whatever else the kitchen had that day. Barbecue nachos had no tradition behind them they were not passed down from anyone's grandmother. They appeared sometime in the late 20th century when somebody in a Memphis joint looked at a pile of leftover pulled pork and a bag of tortilla chips and did the obvious thing the dish spread across the city because it solved the problem every pit master understood. At the end of a long day there was always more chopped meat than sandwich orders. Nachos used that surplus and turned it into something people ordered on purpose. The portion was enormous a single order fed two adults passed back and forth across a table with plastic forks bending under the weight. The chips at the bottom went soft from sauce and grease and some customers considered that the best part a soggy smoky layer that tasted like the whole menu in one bite. Barbecue nachos broke every rule that traditional pit masters cared about. The meat was not the centerpiece the smoke was buried under cheese. The presentation was a mess but they sold fast and in a business built on thin margins that was all that mattered. Most people think Memphis barbecue started in a restaurant it did not. It started in yards and empty lots and church parking lots where somebody dragged a split oil drum and filled it with charcoal and hickory. The first pit masters were janitors and truck drivers and deacons who smoked meat on the weekend because it was the cheapest way to feed a crowd. The joints came later set up in buildings that used to be something else there was no sign there was smoke. What these men built was not a cuisine it was a community economy and every dollar spent at that window went back into the same neighborhood it came from. Number 18 baked beans with burnt ends. The beans came in a deep aluminum pan dark brown and thick with molasses and buried somewhere in the middle where the burnt ends not the expensive burnt ends that restaurants charge a premium for today. The scraps the blackened edges trimmed off briskets and rib racks that were too charred to serve on a plate. A pit master tossed them into the bean pot because throwing them away was not an option and because those burnt pieces had more smoke flavor than anything else on the grill. The beans cooked all day slowly absorbing the rendered fat and the char. By the time they hit the serving line the burnt ends had almost disappeared into the beans. You found them by texture not by sight a spoonful of those beans was a meal by itself. Number 17 smoked neck bones. Neck bones were the cut that grocery stores stacked in the back and sold for almost nothing. A pit master seasoned them heavy set them on the smoker for hours and let the collagen break down until the meat fell away from the vertebrae in soft dark shreds. The bones came out glistening with pockets of marrow still warm inside. Eating them was slow work you held each bone with both hands and pulled the meat off with your teeth turning it in your fingers to find every seam where the flesh clung. Nothing on the plate took longer to eat and nothing rewarded the patience more. Neck bones were never listed first on the menu but the regulars knew to ask for them early because the pan ran out before the dinner rush. Number 16 sweet potato pie. The filling was dense dark orange spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon and baked in a crust that someone had pressed into the pan by hand that morning. Sweet potato pie showed up at barbecue joints the same way the cakes did carried through the back door by a woman in a neighborhood who baked for a living without a license or a storefront. A slice sat on the counter in a glass case or under a sheet of plastic wrap and it went for the same price as a drink. The sweet potato was cooked until it collapsed mashed smooth sweetened just enough to hold the spice and poured into the shell while the oven was still climbing. The pie set firm in the center and soft at the edges it was dessert but it was also an ending. A slice of sweet potato pie after a plate of ribs meant the meal was done. Number 15 coleslaw Memphis. Coleslaw was not creamy it was thin tangy and made with vinegar a little sugar celery seed and enough black pepper to make you notice it on the third bite. The cabbage was shredded fine almost translucent and it sat in that vinegar dressing long enough to soften but not long enough to go limp. The slaw went on top of pulled pork sandwiches next to rib tips and into sandwiches where it did the same job that lettuce does on a burger it cut through the fat. Every barbecue joint in the south made coleslaw but the Memphis version leaned harder on the vinegar and left the mayonnaise in the jar. That sharpness was the whole point without it a barbecue plate was just fat and smoke with nowhere for the tongue to rest. Number 14 barbecue spaghetti. This is the dish that defines Memphis barbecue more than ribs ever will and nobody outside Tennessee has ever understood it. Barbecue spaghetti is exactly what it sounds like spaghetti noodles cooked soft tossed in barbecue sauce instead of marinara and loaded with chopped pulled pork or smoked sausage. It came on the menu at the old joints along 4th street and down toward Beale and it was never an afterthought it was a main course. The noodles soaked up the sauce until they turned the color of rust and the pulled pork threaded through them so that every forkful had meat in it. It was heavy it was sticky and it tasted like nothing you could get anywhere else in the country because nobody else had thought to do it. The idea probably started the way most good ideas in a kitchen start. Somebody had leftover pulled pork and leftover spaghetti and instead of making two separate meals they put them together and poured sauce over the whole thing. It worked it worked so well that it went on the menu the next day and it never came off. Visitors from out of state looked at it with suspicion they asked questions they took pictures and then they ordered it because everybody at the next table was eating it the taste was sweet and smoky and tangled the kind of thing that did not look right but tasted right from the first bite. Barbecue spaghetti could not travel it turned into a brick if it sat in a to-go container for more than an hour. You had to eat it there in the joint at a table with a roll of paper towels and a cup of sweet tea that was part of what made it Memphis. The food only worked in the place where it was made. Number 13 hush puppies the batter was cornmeal a little flour buttermilk and a diced onion mixed thick enough to hold its shape when it hit the oil. A cook dropped spoonfuls of it into the same cast iron pot used for frying fish and in a few minutes the hush puppies floated to the surface golden and cragged on the outside dense and steaming on the inside they came in a paper bag or tossed onto the tray next to whatever else you ordered and they were gone before the main course was half finished the onion sweetened as it fried and the cornmeal held enough grit to remind you it was not bread. Hush puppies were never the reason anyone walked in but they were the reason the tray felt full. Number 12 deviled eggs the eggs were boiled that morning split in half and the yolks mashed with mustard mayonnaise pickle relish and a shake of paprika on top they sat on a plate behind the glass at the counter six or eight at a time and they disappeared fast because they were cold and sharp and clean against a menu that ran heavy on grease and smoke deviled eggs at a barbecue joint were not fancy the filling was mixed rough the paprika was uneven and the white sometimes cracked at the edges from a hard boil nobody cared they were the palate cleanser that nobody called the palate cleanser two eggs and a rib plate was a complete meal and both items disappeared without a trace the plate never lasted long enough to get warm. Number 11 pound cake the cake was made with a pound of butter a pound of sugar a pound of flour and enough eggs to hold it all together that recipe had not changed in generations and the women who baked them for the joints did not measure anymore they went by feel by the weight of the bowl by the color of the batter when it hit the pan the cake came out dense golden and slightly crusted on the outside there was no frosting no icing no decoration a slice of pound cake was the dessert for people who did not trust dessert to be anything more complicated than what it was it sat at room temperature all day and tasted the same at four in the afternoon as it did at 11 in the morning that was his power number 10 white beans with smoked ham the beans soaked overnight went into a heavy pot with a smoked ham hock an onion and enough water to cover and simmered on low heat for hours until the liquid turned cloudy and the beans gave way under the back of a spoon white beans were not glamorous they were not the dish anyone talked about on the drive home but they showed up on plates more often than almost anything else because they were filling and they cost next to nothing to produce a ham hock that had already given its best to a soup or a pot of greens still carried enough smoke and salt to season an entire batch the kitchen wasted nothing by serving time the meat had fallen off the bone into shreds that hid in the thick starchy broth a ladle of white beans next to a rib plate grounded the whole meal here's where the counter starts to matter more than the smoker every barbecue joint had a cold side the part of the line where the salads and the slaws and the beans sat in shallow pans next to a bag of white bread and a jar of pickled something the pit master got the credit but the woman who ran the cold side ran the margin she cooked from whatever was cheap that morning stretched every pot to cover the lunch rush the dinner rush and the late stragglers who showed up after church on Wednesday nights those cold side dishes are the ones that people remember decades later not because they were extraordinary but because they tasted like a specific kitchen in a specific year and nothing since has ever come close number nine pig snoot sandwich this is the item that separates the people who grew up in Memphis from the people who visited a pig snoot is exactly what it sounds like the snout of a hog cleaned scored with a knife seasoned and grilled or smoked until the cartilage softened and the skin turned crisp it came on white bread with hot sauce and slaw and the first bite was a test the texture was unlike anything else on the menu the outside crackled the inside was gelatinous rich and faintly smoky if this was your people's food the snoot sandwich was comfort no different from a pulled pork plate or a rack of ribs if it was not the whole concept required a leap of faith that most visitors could not make the joints that served snoot sandwiches did not explain them there was no description on the menu board just a word and a price and if you had to ask the man behind the counter might raise an eyebrow but he would still make you one pig snoots sold for pennies at the slaughterhouse they were the parts that commercial buyers refused which is why they ended up in the same kitchens that turned neck bones and chicken backs into meals the snoot sandwich was resourcefulness on a plate proof that a pit master could make something worth eating out of whatever the market handed him for nothing in a city that celebrated the whole hog the snoot was the final frontier the cut that separated a barbecue joint from a barbecue restaurant restaurants would never serve it joints were proud to the regulars who ordered snoot sandwiches were loyal in a way that ribbed customers never were a person who crossed town for a snoot was not comparing they had found the place that made it the way they remembered and they were number eight pulled pork on white bread the pulled pork sandwich in memphis was not the towering brioche bun creation that restaurants sell today it was a pile of shredded smoked pork shoulder on two slices of plain white bread with coleslaw on top and hot sauce on the side the bread was soft and thin and had no chance of surviving the moisture which was the point by the time you were halfway through the bottom slice had dissolved into the meat and you were eating the sandwich with one hand cupped underneath to catch what fell the shoulder smoked for hours over hickory and a pit master judged it done by feel not by a thermometer when the bones slid out clean the shoulder was ready the meat was pulled apart by hand not chopped not sliced and it went on the bread still warm white bread was never a choice it was a delivery system number seven fried pork chops the chops were bone in dredged in seasoned flour and dropped into a cast iron skillet filled with enough oil to come halfway up the meat they fried until the crust turned the color of dark honey and the bones stuck out clean on one side a fried pork chop at a barbecue joint was not a delicate thing it was thick juicy at the center and crunchy enough on the outside that you could hear it break from two seats away the chop went on the plate next to white bread and a scoop of slaw and it was the order for people who wanted something the smoker had not touched not everything in memphis joint came off the pit and the fried pork chop was the reminder that a good kitchen was a good kitchen regardless of the fuel number six chocolate layer cake three layers of dark dense chocolate cake stacked with frosting between each one and spread thick on top the cake came from the same home kitchens that supplied the pies and the pound cakes arriving at the joint early in the morning on a plate covered in aluminum foil a slice was the size of a brick it was not delicate it was chocolate and sugar and butter in proportions that a nutritionist would have questioned and a hungry person would not the frosting cracked slightly when you pressed a fork through it and the cake beneath was moist enough to leave crumbs on a paper plate not every joint carried chocolate layer cake the ones that did developed a reputation for it and customers planned their visits around the days the baker delivered number five blackberry cobbler the berries came from hedgerows and fence lines outside the city picked in summer by the same hands that stirred the pots inside the kitchen they went into a baking dish with sugar and a topping of biscuit dough that puffed and browned in the oven while the fruit bubbled underneath and turned the edges purple a serving of blackberry cobbler came warm sometimes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that melted into the crust before you could get the first spoonful to your mouth the berries were tart enough to make the sugar earn its place and the juice pooled at the bottom of the dish where the dough had not reached blackberry cobbler was a seasonal thing when the berries were gone the cobbler was gone and nobody tried to substitute number four sweet tea sweet tea in a memphis barbecue joint was not a beverage it was a contract the tea was brewed strong sweetened while it was still hot so the sugar dissolved completely and served over ice in a styrofoam cup large enough to hold a pint it was so sweet that the first sip made your teeth ache and so cold that the cup sweated through in 30 seconds there was no unsweetened option asking for it got you a look the tea went with everything on the menu because it went with smoke the sugar cut through the salt and the fat and the cold washed down the heat from the hot sauce a meal without sweet tea was an unfinished meal you drank it until the ice melted and the last inch turned pale and watery and then you got a refill number three smoked Cornish hen a Cornish hen was smaller than a regular chicken and it cooked faster which made it useful on a busy day when the smoker was packed and the orders were stacking up the bird went on whole rubbed with the same salt and cayenne mix that covered everything else and in a couple of hours it came out bronzed and compact small enough that one person could eat the whole thing without sharing that portion size was the selling point a smoked Cornish hen was a private meal in a kitchen built for communal eating you did not split it with the table you did not pass it around it sat on your plate and it was yours the meat was tender and the skin was tight and smoky and the bones were small enough that most people just chewed through them Cornish hens never made the top of the menu board they sat below the ribs and the pulled pork priced low enough to attract the customers who wanted something different but did not want to explain themselves the hen was the quiet earner number two chitlins the intestines were cleaned over and over soaked boiled for hours until the smell settled into the walls and the meat turned soft and pale chitlins divided every room they entered the people who loved them did not apologize and the people who refused them did not pretend at a Memphis barbecue joint a plate of chitlins came with hot sauce and white bread and the regulars who ordered them were usually the oldest people at the counter the preparation took longer than anything else on the menu the cleaning alone could fill a morning but the flavor for those who grew up with it was irreplaceable a taste tied to holidays and family kitchens and the particular kind of cooking that wasted nothing from the animal chitlins were a loyalty test the dish that proved you had history with this food number one wet ribs for every pit master who swore by the dry rub there was another one across town who built his reputation on wet ribs mopped and basted with sauce from the first hour of smoking to the last the sauce was tomato base sweet tangy thick enough to coat the back of a spoon and every joint had its own version the recipe was never written down it passed from one pair of hands to the next and when that person stopped cooking the sauce went with them wet ribs were messier louder and more forgiving than dry rub they hid the mistakes and rewarded the patience and in memphis the argument between wet and dry was never really about ribs at all it was about identity what kind of joint are you what kind of pit master are you what do you believe the meat deserves that argument held a city's kitchens together for decades it still does today number 28 charcoal roasted sweet potatoes buried in the ash while the meat smoked above the sweet potatoes cooked below a father wrapped them in foil or sometimes not at all and pushed them straight into the hot coals at the base of the grill they sat there for an hour sometimes longer until the skin turned to paper and the inside went soft enough to eat with a spoon no butter no brown sugar the heat and the smoke did the work the charcoal gave them a flavor no oven in any kitchen could replicate this was the side dish nobody planned it just happened because there was fire and there was sweet potatoes and a man who knew what to do with both neck bones and rice field plates at juke joints where the music played late and budgets ran thin these bony cuts from pigs were simmered for hours in seasoned water until the meat fell away and the collagen melted into silky gravy served over mounds of white rice that soaked up every drop of rich porky broth this dish stretched to feed crowds on budgets that left nothing for waste the bones held pockets of succulent meat that required gnawing and sucking to fully enjoy juke joint cooks started these pots early letting them bubble while preparing for evening crowds neck bones cost almost nothing at the butcher because most customers didn't want them but black cooks knew time and patience could transform cheap ingredients into something extraordinary number 24 hot links from the east texas butcher the hot link was invented by a german in pittsburgh texas in 1897 but black butchers in louisiana and mississippi rebuilt the recipe shoulder trim cayenne garlic red pepper that lit up the back of your throat by the early 1960s every black barbecue stand from beaumont to chicago had a stack of hot links wrapped in butcher paper ready for the coals they were grilled until the casing split and the fat ran clear a man working the registration drive in hattiesburg in 1964 could buy two links and a slice of white bread for 50 cents and feel like he'd eaten a meal the links were spicy enough that your child took one bite and handed the rest back the grown man finished them and asked for more here's how cheap they were a link cost a dime a dollar fed your whole family number 26 hot link sandwiches on white bread the hot link is a coarsely ground heavily spiced beef and pork sausage with no equivalent in european charcuterie black fathers grilled them over direct heat until the casing split and the fat ran into the fire the smoke that rose back up carried the flavor of every spice in the link served on two slices of white bread with raw onion and yellow mustard it was the cheapest full meal at any cookout a pack cost almost nothing every region had its own local maker brand names handwritten on butcher paper and none of them survived the consolidation of the american meat industry in the 1990s pickled pig's feet sat in gallon jars on counters where smoke hung heavy and laughter echo off wooden walls these gelatinous vinegar soaked pieces of pork were pulled from brine with tongs and served on wax paper with saltine crackers the meat was tender from hours of simmering before pickling falling easily from small bones that required patience to navigate the vinegar brine cut through the richness of the fat creating flavor that was sour salty and deeply porky all at once pig's feet cost almost nothing since butchers considered them throwaway cuts for african-americans who transformed every part of the hog into something delicious pickled feet represented both economy and culinary tradition passed down through generations of resourceful cooks who wasted nothing number 22 brisket cooked on the drum a whole brisket cost a quarter of pound in a houston meat market in 1962 white cooks didn't know what to do with it black cooks rubbed it with salt pepper garlic powder and a spoon of brown sugar and put it on the drum at sunrise with the fat cap up they tended to fire from a steel folding chair while your children played in the yard eight hours later the bark was black and the inside was red and the slices fell apart on a paper plate a man in his sunday shirt cut against the grain with a kitchen knife and laid each slice on a piece of white bread the bread soaked the juice the edge turned pink people ate the bread first and asked for the meat after the smoke on a houston sunday was thick enough that you could find a brisket from two streets away number 30 barbecued duck in the mississippi delta east arkansas and the bayou parishes of louisiana a father who hunted waterfowl brought ducks home and grilled them whole over hickory wild duck was leaner and tougher than store-bought poultry and it needed slow heat and constant basting to keep from drying out a father split the bird down the center seasoned it with salt pepper and garlic and mopped it with thin vinegar sauce for two hours until the skin went dark and the fat underneath melted clean through the meat duck at a cookout was a hunter's offering it meant a man had walked into the marsh before dawn and come back with something worth putting on the fire when hunting traditions faded and wild games stopped showing up at family gatherings the cookout duck disappeared with the men who brought it hot sausage sandwiches were the life blood of juke joint menus across the delta and deep south thick links of spicy pork sausage were grilled until the casing snapped and the fat render into crispy edges that sizzled on flat top griddles the sausages were split and pressed between slices of soft white bread dressed with yellow mustard and sometimes pickles or onions the heat from cayenne and black pepper cut through the richness of the pork leaving mouths burning and customers reaching for cold drinks these sandwiches cost pennies to make but delivered bold flavor that matched the intensity of the blues playing on the jukebox workers coming off shifts could afford them on wages that barely stretched the simplicity was the point letting the spice and smoke speak for themselves number 25 pork ribs cooked low in mustard sauce the cut came from a butcher who sold them to black customers at half the price of the loin because the white side of the counter wouldn't buy ribs the man at the drum brushed your slab with french's yellow mustard thinned with vinegar brown sugar and a spoon of cayenne he laid them bone side down for three hours he didn't lift the lid not once the mustard turned to a glaze the color of an old penny and the meat pulled back from the bone before he ever touched it with tongs a slab fed four people at your folding table for less than a dollar in 1963 the block knew the smell first the mustard sauce was the part most barbecue books left out white cookbooks called it a mistake your grandmother knew better the ribs were the headline everything else was the supporting cast number 29 barbecued turkey tails the tail section of a turkey carries more fat per ounce than nearly any other cut of poultry through the 1970s and 1980s black fathers bought them by the bagful because turkey processors practically gave them away seasoned with garlic salt black pepper and cayenne then laid on the cool side of the grill until the fat rendered and the skin went crispy they came off looking like nothing and tasting like everything a plate of turkey tails at a cookout was a quiet flex the cut is nearly impossible to find in most american grocery stores today several pacific island nations imported so many that health authorities pushed back and the domestic supply dried up almost overnight crackling bread appeared on juke joint tables as the perfect companion to plates of greens and beans made from cornmeal batter studded with crispy pork cracklings this bread carried smoky salty richness in every bite the cracklings were rendered from pork skin and fat until golden and crunchy then folded into the batter before baking and cast iron the result was bread with pockets of porky crunch that complemented the earthy sweetness of stone ground cornmeal sold by the slice or square crackling bread was cheap to make but rich enough to satisfy hunger on its own the cracklings came from the same hogs that provided every other cut ensuring nothing was wasted this bread carried memories of country kitchens and family gatherings number 27 grilled pork steaks in saint louis and the small towns lining both sides of the mississippi black fathers grilled pork steaks the way other men grilled burgers the pork steak is a cross cut from the shoulder blade bone still in sold cheap because most people considered it a second rate cut a father seasoned them the night before grilled them low over charcoal until the fat cap melted into the meat then finished them in a foil pan with barbecue sauce until the whole thing went tender enough to fall apart with a fork that was supper three or four nights a week in the summer the cut is still sold in saint louis outside of it most people have never heard of a pork steak fried catfish sandwiches turned river fish into roadhouse gold at juke joints near waterways throughout the south fresh fillers were soaked in buttermilk to remove any muddy taste then dredged in seasoned cornmeal spiked with cayenne and black pepper dropped into cast iron skillets filled with hot lard the fish emerged golden and crunchy while the flesh stayed moist and flaky inside served on white bread with hot sauce and tartar sauce these sandwiches delivered the protein that kept working people going through long nights catfish was abundant in southern rivers and cheap at local fish markets the smell of frying fish competed with blues guitar and the slap of dominoes on wooden tables for a quarter customers could fill their stomachs and still have money left for beer number 21 smothered chicken cooked over coals the yard birds were tough a grandmother in birmingham in 1961 would put boil them on the stove first then move them to the drum to finish in a pan of onion gravy made from the drippings the chicken absorbed the smoke from the lid and the salt from the gravy at the same time the gravy thickened on the coals the meat held the heat by the time the pan came off the legs and thighs were tender enough to pull with a fork she served it over a slab of cornbread and the gravy ran across your plate like a road map your child got the wing because the wing took longest to cool the grown people got the thighs because the thighs were what tired hands deserved at the end of a long week the recipe was simple the hand that worked it wasn't number 25 barbecued chicken gizzards on a skewer gizzards are tough dense muscle and most cooks threw them away with the giblet bag black fathers soaked them in buttermilk seasoned them heavy threaded them onto metal skewers and grilled them slow over low coals until they went tender inside and charred outside the texture was nothing like regular chicken it was closer to a chew than a bite children either loved them or refused to touch them there was no middle ground a pound cost less than a single chicken breast and a father could feed a table of eight from that one pound the gizzard skewer disappeared when supermarkets stopped selling gizzards by the bag and started grinding them into pet food smothered pork chops were sunday dinner brought to saturday night at juke joints across the rural south bone and chops were seasoned with salt pepper and garlic powder then dredged in flour and fried until golden the chops were then covered in rich onion gravy made from pan drippings and sliced onions cooked until sweet simmered low until the meat turned fork tender this dish delivered comfort that transcended the smoky juke joint atmosphere the gravy clung to every bite demanding rice or bread for sopping for customers missing their mothers or grandmothers cooking smothered pork chops transported them back to family tables and sunday afternoons where love was measured in how long the gravy simmered that is the list 25 dishes that came out of smoke and necessity and ended up defining a city the joints that served them were never just about the food they were about who got to own something who got to feed a neighborhood and who got remembered for it drop the one your family never stopped making in the comments smoke some rib tips this weekend fry a pork chop before the summer is gone these foods survive because somebody refused to let them go that is the real memphis barbecue