shinyredthings.

Franklin BBQ: I get it now.

As a resident of Austin’s east side, I have scoffed at Franklin since its opening in March 2011. Its ability to populate the sidewalk with gargantuan queues on a daily basis was, I thought, the epitome of the silly hipster culture sweeping my sweet, crazy town. 

Image by Chris Perez, via metropochris.com

Whilst I love food along with the best of bloggers, I fail to understand why anyone would wait in line for over two hours for some meat. When faced with that challenge I would, I thought, prefer to hop in my Mustang GT and cruise down the highway to Texas’ BBQ capital, Lockhart. There, provided with a choice of the three holy grails of brisket, ribs and sausage, find my hunger sated.

On April 26th, 2012, I joined that colossal line with an open mind and a patient heart, and now I am here to eat my words. I get it now. I understand the hype, the hope, the meat. On that hazy Thursday, my friend Emily and I biked to East 11th St, ready to sit for as long as it took to sample the wares that have been reviewed, critiqued, picked apart and devoured by Austin’s (and America’s) food elite. One hour and fifty six minutes later, we had in our hands the meaty ambrosia.

The rules at Franklin are quite simple: know what you want, don’t cut in line, be patient. If you don’t know what you want, the hostess Rhett will help you. A sweet nerdish girl, she notes approximate orders on a small clipboard to keep track of the remaining meat, has an excellent grasp of queueing theory and can tell you when you will get your order down to the minute. Woe betide you if you see your friends up ahead and think you should join them - Rhett has a glare that could split a cliff.

When you finally reach The Door, there is a feeling of glee that brews in the pit of your empty stomach, reaching fever pitch every time a puff of delicious air escapes. Once inside, you steel yourself as you realise there are fifty more torturous feet to the counter.

We distracted ourselves by studying the framed articles and reviews hanging on the cinderblock walls - anything to avoid looking at the tables of satisfied carnivores.

Emily and I both picked the $13 two meat plate - hers with brisket and pulled pork, slaw and potato salad, mine with brisket and pork ribs, a link of sausage, potato salad and beans. We sat and looked at our bounty, huge grins on our faces… and then we were in heaven.

When attending your average small town barbecue pit, there is almost always a comparative and competitive discussion taking place at every table between bites - “this brisket is better than …’s, I like the way these ribs are smoked, almost as good as that time at …’s”. At Franklin, I was struck by the silence of the diners. Because there’s no need for that comparison. Everything on your plate is stand out. Everything is mindblowing, distinctly different, perfectly seasoned deliciousness. 

Unlike many of my carnivorous bretheren, I start with sides. They’re the space fillers, I know, the food that get in the way of the meat. But a decision needs to be made as to whether they remain on the table or are pushed away. Not at Franklin. The potato salad is lightly spiced, mustardy, the mayonnaise made from scratch - it gives the impression that a devilled egg and a potato had a lovechild, then smothered it in mayonnaise. The beans are perfectly and gently cooked, the ideal sweetness to offset the greasy beef. The slaw was made from red cabbage, with a thin tangy dressing - bitey and fresh, again the perfect partner. The brisket literally falls apart, as good brisket should, but each strand was distinct; soft but with good bite. The rub was chocolatey, coffee flavoured, and perfectly balanced. The ribs literally were no longer attached to the bones, and the slightly spicier rub perfectly set off the sweetness of the pork. The texture of the pulled pork was incomparable to anything I’ve previously eaten.

Oh, and the sausage… oh, that sausage. I count myself as a bit of a sausage aficionado. Five years working in Queensland’s best and most awarded butcher does something to a girl - your average snag just doesn’t cut it any more. Franklin has the best smoked sausage I’ve ever tasted. Meaty and solid, with a delicate aroma of fennel, garlic and paprika, just a touch of chili… that, people, that right there is what I colloquially refer to as a foodgasm.

The sauce at Franklin is excellent - whilst not strictly necessary, it does add a zing and cuts through the grease. Exploring the unlabelled bottles on our table, we discovered a molasses thick, coffee flavoured sauce which is more like Australian BBQ sauce than anything I’ve found in the USA, and a tangy, Texas style vinegar and tomato concoction which I preferred. 

Whilst the smoke ring may not be the most penetrative I’ve seen, and the bread was not quite my taste (I inexplicably prefer the most artificially pillowy white bread available with my barbecue), I didn’t care. I was in heaven, my scepticism gone, and I wanted to find the owner and hug my greasy face to his chest.

Each dish stood out as the best in the plethora of barbecue I have shovelled into my mouth since moving to Texas two years ago. That is the secret of Franklin. It is truly a utopia of meat, my friends. Get in line.