Good Ribbing
When I was growing up in Denmark, my mom served all our meals on white porcelain plates with sterling silverware. So the assignment to photograph Endless Vacation’s story on Texas barbecue really challenged my cultural heritage. During the daily shoots I faced plenty of Styrofoam containers, plastic utensils, and greasy hands slathered in brisket drippings and barbecue sauce. Among all the places I visited, Louie Mueller’s seemed to offer the most civilized experience—there’s an abundance of natural light in one of the dining rooms. I brought along my best friend, Sam Archer, as a buffer. He’s a good ol’ boy who introduced me around so no one balked when I pointed my camera.

Sam also knows how to order barbecue—which is a good thing, because you’re expected to know exactly what you want when you get to the front of the line. After finishing one day’s shoot, I ordered some ribs and sat down to dig in. “My tub’s bigger than yours,” teased a regular, referring to the cups filled with barbecue sauce. Sure enough, his tub was twice the size of mine. “A while back, my tub-size privileges were taken away,” he claimed. According to him, you’re granted a larger tub at Mueller’s according to unspecified rules. What brings about a sauce-tub demotion? I wondered. (As it turns out, if you want the 8-oz. tub instead of the 4-oz., all you have to do is ask.)

Fish Out of Water
Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir. I use those sayings often when I feel like a fish out of water. And I was definitely out of my element at Cooper’s Pit Bar-B-Q, a roadside joint in Mason, Texas. That’s where I met Alberto the woodcutter, who delivered a load of split logs for the smoker and then excitedly ordered some mutton at the pit. He took his wax-paper-wrapped meat outside to be weighed, paid by the pound and picked up napkins and a drink, but no knife or fork. (Sam reminded me that Texans frown upon eating barbecue with utensils.) As Alberto cut into the meat with his own scary-looking hunting knife, he shared a great story about Cooper’s barbecue sauce. Apparently, George Cooper wouldn’t allow anyone in or near his kitchen when he mixed it. “When old man Cooper was on his deathbed, his family and friends begged him to reveal the secret ingredients so they could continue the tradition. ‘You’ll have to make your own,’ was all he said. And he went to his grave with the recipe.” Alberto looked satisfied with the dramatic ending. “Is the current sauce as good as old man Cooper’s?” I asked. “Nope,” was the reply. But later I dunked my mutton in a tub of red sauce—Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir. It was delicious. And I’ve learned to eat with my fingers.