But we do not talk enough about the body doing the work.

And if this episode had a theme, that was it. The business is changing. The prices are changing. The audience is changing. The platforms are changing. But if the people behind the pit break down, none of the rest matters.

We started on National Social Media Day, which James called a necessary evil. He wasn’t wrong. Social media can be a mess, but it’s also the reason a lot of us even know each other. James traced his own barbecue connection back to seeing me “slinging meat” at a local barbecue shop. Bryan talked about trading sausage recipes with people in Australia and building businesses like Secret Pint, Owens and Hull, and Misfits through photography and online visibility.

I thought about people I’ve known online for years before ever shaking their hand. Jonathan Barbecue. Bo the Great. People you support from a distance until one day you’re finally in the same place, and it feels like you already knew them. That’s the good side of it. Social media can take a person from stranger to collaborator, from follower to friend, from hidden talent to full-blown business.

It can also amplify everything else, good, bad, and ridiculous. We announced that This Week in Barbecue is finally on Facebook, which feels right considering it was National Social Media Day. Go tell your aunties, grannies, and cousins to follow us over there. We’ll be dropping behind-the-scenes moments, clips, and more fun stuff as we keep building this thing out.

Then the show turned toward the stuff that makes barbecue feel heavy right now. KG Barbecue had to cancel the annual Honky Tonk Oasis, with refunds issued and a reminder that money always leaves faster than it comes back. Bryan brought up the first screw worm cases in the United States and what that could mean for beef prices. I had just seen beef fat being sold for what brisket used to cost. That is not a joke. That’s where we are. The word “tallow” has become marketing magic. James pointed out that people are talking about beef tallow in beauty and skincare spaces now, and I get why the label works. But what I don’t like is the trick. A package of beef fat is not the same thing as a pound of rendered tallow. You might render it down and get a fraction of that. So when a store sells scraps like they’re a finished product, that’s not education. That’s a cash grab.

And that frustration ties into the larger point: barbecue is becoming more expensive from every angle.

Moosecraft hit five years as a brick-and-mortar and retained their Bib recognition, which deserves a real salute. Sausage Sensei is still traveling and teaching. Mohawk burnt ends are popping up on menus as folks find smarter ways to use the fatty trim from a brisket. That kind of creativity matters. If you’re cooking 40 or 50 briskets a week, you can’t afford to treat usable pieces like trash.

James brought up halal barbecue too, and that conversation is important. A halal barbecue restaurant doing $2.4 million in its first year sounds like the kind of headline that makes people want to jump in overnight. But he also pointed out the part people miss: operating expenses can be huge, and the work behind the headline is serious. Bryan explained why the concept matters, because it serves a community that wanted barbecue without having to ask if the board had pork on it or whether the process matched their needs.

That’s barbecue growing in a way that actually expands the table. Then we got to the World Cup effect. Terry Black’s Dallas location reportedly broke its weekly sales record during the tournament, jumping from a previous record of $715,000 to $2 million in a week, two weeks in a row. That number made all of us pause. One location. One week. Two million.

It makes sense, though. People traveling in want the American barbecue experience. I saw it when I was at Meatopia. Folks overseas were wearing shirts from Black’s, Meat Church, Franklin, and all the Texas names. Barbecue has global pull now. If you’re a pop-up, restaurant, or food truck in a host city or anywhere near the action, this is the time to move. Find watch parties. Partner with breweries. Knock on doors. Set up near the people and feed them before or after the match.

This is not the season to be timid.

Then Bryan gave the part of the episode that needed the most room. He talked honestly about a brutal month health-wise. Feeling sick, thinking it might be COVID, testing negative, pushing through service, getting dehydrated, ending up in urgent care, barely sleeping, having his grinder break late at night, trying to keep showing up because he didn’t want to let people down. He said what a lot of people in food know but don’t always admit: he should have stopped earlier and gone to the doctor.

That right there is the lesson.

We love to romanticize the tired pitmaster. The person running on no sleep, lifting heavy, taking power naps, cooking through the night, sweating through service, eating badly, driving too far, and calling it dedication. But at some point, the grind stops being noble and starts being reckless.

I told Bryan, and I’ll say it here too: the brisket can’t be the only thing that rests.

The line can wait. Your health can’t.

You are no good to your business horizontal with tubes hooked up to you. Self-care has to sit right next to food cost, payroll, ordering, and prep lists. Get your sleep. Get new shoes or insoles. Drink water. Use electrolytes. Get a massage. Get your feet taken care of. Check your mattress. Go get your physical. If your car started acting strange two weekends in a row, you’d be at the dealership. Stop giving more grace to your vehicle than your body.

We closed with a hot take because that’s what we do. Quick-light charcoal is setting money on fire. It’s briquettes doused in lighter fluid, and because it catches faster, it burns faster. Then you’re dumping more on and spending again. Use a chimney. Use paper. Use a Dorito if you have to. But stop paying extra for shortcuts that cost you more in the long run.

That’s really the episode in one sentence.

Stop paying extra for shortcuts that cost you more in the long run. That applies to charcoal. It applies to beef fat. It applies to running your business. It applies to your body.

So here’s my question for you: what’s one shortcut you’ve been taking that you know is starting to cost you?

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If you’ve spent any real time around barbecue, then you already know this world can get expensive fast. One minute you’re buying charcoal and gloves, the next you’re convincing yourself that yes, you absolutely do need another thermometer, another knife, another fire tool, and maybe even another grill. That is exactly why Prime Day can be worth paying attention to.

I spent some time digging through the noise and pulling together a list of barbecue products that actually caught my eye. Not filler. Not random gadgets that will end up in the back of a drawer by next month. I’m talking about gear, tools, and accessories that can make a real difference whether you’re cooking for your family on a weeknight or putting in work over the weekend.

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Some of these deals are the kind you jump on because the price is simply too good to ignore. Others are solid opportunities to finally pick up something you’ve had sitting in your cart for months. Either way, if you’ve been waiting for the right time to upgrade a few pieces of your setup, this is probably it.

A quick word of warning though. These are the kind of last-minute deals that do not tend to sit around. Inventory moves fast, prices shift, and some of the best offers disappear before folks finish telling themselves they’ll come back later. So if you see something on this list that fits your style of cooking or solves a problem you’ve been dealing with, act fast.

Below, I’ve rounded up the Prime Day barbecue deals that I think are actually worth your time and money.

Let’s get into it.

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There is a reason barbecue fans can spot the difference between a cooking show and a real firefight almost immediately. One is clean, clipped and built for the clock. The other is smoke in your eyes, sleep deprivation in your bones, and the quiet pressure of knowing one bad call with the fire can ruin everything that comes after it.

That is why Food Network’s new series Pitmasters immediately caught my attention.

Not because barbecue on television is new. It is not. And not because competition cooking is some fresh concept either. It is not. What makes this one worth paying attention to is the way it seems to understand that barbecue, when done at a high level, is not just about seasoning meat and waiting around for applause. It is a test of management, stamina, instinct, teamwork, and nerve.

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According to Food Network’s preview materials, Pitmasters throws nine two-person teams into a weeklong wilderness battle where they will cook from sunrise to sunset to sunrise again, chasing up to $50,000 while managing fire, fatigue, and surprise twists along the way. It shifts the focus away from polished sound bites and toward something a little more honest. Fire is not passive. Barbecue is not neat. And pitmasters do not do their best work in perfect conditions. And most importantly, no pellets or plugs, or so I hope.

That alone makes this show more interesting than the average food competition.

The first-episode challenge says a lot about where the series is trying to plant its flag. Teams have nine hours to build a family-style platter with two proteins and at least one side that defines their barbecue style and point of view. Then, while that larger cook is still moving, they get hit with a “Flash Burn” challenge and have just 60 minutes to produce a one-bite barbecue dish. [This exact set up as been seen in prior shows as well]. That is a strong tension point because it asks for two very different kinds of skill at once. Can you cook with patience, discipline, and structure while also thinking fast enough to compress your flavor into a single bite? That is not just cooking. That is control.

And that is where Pitmasters has a chance to matter.

Barbecue has always lived in multiple worlds at once. It is tradition and innovation. Family history and personal obsession. Community food and competitive sport. Backyard ritual and professional craft. Too often, television flattens that. It turns pitmasters into caricatures, strips the process down to macho shorthand, and forgets that the best people in this space are not just fire tenders. They are problem-solvers. They are historians. They are builders of flavor and memory.

This cast, at least on paper, looks like it may reflect some of that range.

Food Network’s official roster includes restaurant operators, content creators, husband-and-wife teams, longtime collaborators and family teams. There are names that will be familiar to people who stay close to barbecue media and names that come from the restaurant world. That mix is smart. Barbecue today does not live in one lane. It lives in brick-and-mortar joints, on competition grounds, in digital communities, at pop-ups, on offsets, over open flame and across different regional traditions. A show that wants to say something real about modern barbecue should look like that.

The judges help reinforce that idea. Andrew Zimmern gives the show a larger food-world presence, while Jess Pryles, Moe Cason and Ernest Servantes bring different forms of live-fire credibility to the table. That combination suggests the show wants barbecue authority, but also wants to translate that authority to a wider audience. If it works, that matters too. Barbecue deserves to be treated as more than a summer content vertical.

What I also find compelling is the emphasis on team dynamics. A lot of barbecue storytelling celebrates the lone figure at the pit, but anyone who has spent serious time around this world knows that is only part of the truth. Barbecue is built on systems. It is built on trust. It is built on reading each other without needing a full conversation every five minutes. In a format like this, where exhaustion becomes part of the challenge, partnership may matter as much as palate. We may get a chance to see the community aspect of barbecue.

That is the real hook for me.

Not just who can cook the best plate. Who can keep their head. Who can hold a standard when the fire shifts, the clock gets loud and the body starts pushing back. Who can still make something with clarity when the conditions are working against them. This may be a chance where sleep is the secret ingredient.

If Pitmasters can capture even part of that honestly, it could be one of the more interesting barbecue shows Food Network has put on in a long time. Not because it is loud, but because barbecue at this level deserves a format that shows the labor behind the romance. Because the smoke always looks good on camera. The question is whether the work does too.

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There is a difference between barbecue growing and barbecue getting used.

That’s the thought I kept coming back to during this episode. We started where we always start, cutting up, checking on each other, letting James take us into National Detroit Style Pizza Day like it was a church announcement for the big back congregation. But somewhere between the sauce stripes, Ribby’s closing temporarily, a new barbecue spot opening in South Downtown Atlanta, and another wave of barbecue shows hitting screens, the bigger picture started to settle in.

Barbecue is moving. Fast.

And when something moves fast, somebody is always trying to figure out how to make money from it.

Bryan brought up Ribby’s in Fort Worth having to close temporarily because a new landlord wanted to do something different with the building. That part hurt because it’s the kind of reminder that a restaurant is never just about the food. You can have the skill, the audience, the name, the respect, and still be at the mercy of rent, property owners, timing, and the pieces of the business that never make the highlight reel. Then, almost in the same breath, we talked about Broad Street Barbecue opening in South Downtown Atlanta from the team behind Sammy’s ATL. They are not fully open yet, but they opened enough to serve takeout during the World Cup, and I loved that. That’s smart business. That’s seeing the city fill up with people and saying, “We might not be all the way ready, but we’re ready enough to get in the game.”

I respect that kind of move because barbecue needs more people thinking like operators, not just cooks. That idea came back around when I talked about the Home Depot experience I had just been part of. They covered the travel, lodging, transportation, schedule, gear, food, drinks, and gave us the tools to actually create content while we were there. Custom FIFA jerseys, chargers, microphones, everything thought through. There was nothing you had to guess about.

That’s how you invite people into your world if you want them to show up and represent it well.

Then I compared that to another event where the details were missing, costs were being pushed back on the talent, and it started feeling like hustle in reverse. I’ve said this before, but it keeps being true: if you want people to promote your event, feed your event, film your event, and bring their audience into your event, then treat them like partners. Don’t make them pay to help you look good.

That’s not how this works anymore.

And speaking of brands needing to understand how this works, I had to get that Milwaukee Tools rant off my chest. Not the city. The tools. I watched someone who had promoted their products and moved serious attention toward them be told they don’t really support “doers,” only “pros.” That’s wild to me. Everybody uses tools. The people making videos, teaching folks, building projects, showing real use cases, those are the people helping move units, too.

If a brand can benefit from a community but won’t support that community, then what are we doing?

That same conversation about respect carried into Rodney Scott. I keep seeing headlines trying to frame it like Rodney is “back.” Rodney never left. Let’s be clear about that. Bryan said it best: Rodney is one of the best people in barbecue, and almost every time he was in Charleston, Rodney was in that pit room. If Rodney knew everything going on, he would have made things right himself, but he wasn’t in control of everything happening around his name.

That matters.

Because names matter in barbecue. Your name is your work. It’s your smoke. It’s your time. It’s your reputation. So when the narrative gets sloppy, we have to clean it up. Rodney didn’t disappear from barbecue. He’s still Rodney. Still moving. Still cooking. Still heading places like New Zealand, which had all of us half joking, half serious, wondering how we could sneak onto that trip as knife sharpeners, cutting board oilers, or emotional support pitmen.

Then the episode took a wild turn into the former owner of Turkey Hut being convicted for setting a competitor’s restaurant on fire. And look, the jokes came because that is what we do, but the real part is not funny. That is someone else’s business. Someone else’s employees. Someone else’s livelihood. There are a lot of ways to compete. Burn better. Serve better. Market better. Build community better. But lighting somebody’s place on fire is not competition. That’s destruction.

That’s also ego losing the fight with common sense.

The business side showed up again when Bryan broke down Misfits’ decision to stop packaging to-go orders themselves. They still provide the containers, but customers pack their own. That might sound small until you hear the numbers. A to-go order can take three to four times longer than plating food on a tray. For a four-man team trying to move a long line, that time adds up fast.

I liked that move. Not because it’s cute, but because it’s practical. If it gets people through the line faster and keeps the service moving, it makes sense. Barbecue already asks too much from small crews. Every extra step has a cost.

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Then we got into the “deep cut” debate, and this is where Bryan and I did not agree. Misfits is limiting that tray to one per customer because they only have a small number of items like sliced beef cheek medallions and pork steak. Bryan’s position is that more people get a chance to try the special. My position is simple: if I got there first and waited, let me buy what I came for.

James saw both sides, which is probably the most honest place to land. It is a delicate balance. You want to sell out. You want to make money. You want as many people as possible to experience the food. But you also train your customers by how you run the line. I don’t think there is a clean answer, but I do think it is the kind of conversation barbecue needs to have out loud.

Because this isn’t just food anymore. It’s media. It’s logistics. It’s demand. It’s perception.

That’s why the new wave of barbecue shows matters. Food Network is rolling out Pitmasters, and from what we can see, it looks like a paired-up competition with some serious names attached. Al, Yoder, Susie, Matt Groark, Esau, Big Mo, Jess, Ernie, and more. My question was whether this is truly a competition play or a marketing play. Because when you stack that many audiences together, the network doesn’t have to do all the heavy lifting. The talent brings the reach.

James made a fair point: if the participants are smart, they can use that same machine to build their own brands too.

That’s the reality now. TV is not just TV. Clips, shorts, reels, recaps, and social media carry the show further than the broadcast. Tuffy launching his own travel show, Susie dropping Backyard Barbecue Hero on Tastemade, Pops returning with his Tastemade show, Chuck Flavortrain sending over his cookbook, all of that points to the same thing.

Barbecue is not waiting on one gatekeeper anymore.

The question is whether the people building it can keep ownership of what they’re creating.

That’s where I’ll leave it.

Barbecue is growing, but growth by itself is not the win. The win is making sure the cooks, creators, pit builders, small restaurants, pop-ups, authors, and community voices don’t get left holding the smoke while somebody else cashes the check.

So I want to hear from you.

When barbecue hits the bigger stages, TV, festivals, brands, books, and national attention, how do we make sure the people doing the real work still get protected?

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There was supposed to be a barbecue event in Colorado, the kind of booking that looks clean on a calendar until you get close enough to see the cracks. What I ran into instead was a promoter who, to put it plainly, did not move with truth or respect for the craft. I trusted my instincts, pulled out, and for a moment, it felt like the whole week was about to slide off the rails. Then, in a twist only the road can write, I found myself in Austin anyway, stepping into four days of barbecue, conversations, and small moments that left a bigger mark than the original plan ever would have. Here’s just a peek into day one of my time in Austin.

Austin has a way of doing that. It is a city that wears growth and grit at the same time, where new money and old traditions bump shoulders daily. But even beyond the city limits, Central Texas feels like a living archive of smoke, steel, and patience. That is what I came to chase; even if I arrived carrying a little frustration in my chest, I eventually let it go. I truly hate having my time wasted. But I digress.

After landing, I grabbed my things, picked up a rental, and headed south to San Marcos to meet up with James Peck and Colter Peck, two men I now jokingly refer to as the “not Peck brothers.” James and I met last year while I was headlining at Meatopia, but we really connected earlier this year while filming “Chopped Castaways” in the Dominican Republic. This was my first time meeting Colter, but James spoke highly of him. Within minutes, I could tell the praise was earned. The kind of friendship that shows up for you does not need a long introduction. It’s rare in this field to find those who see you, truly see you, and want to aid you in reaching your full potential. That’s the kind of guy Colter is.

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That first day moved at a pace I have learned to respect. Not every travel day needs to be packed tight. Sometimes the smartest play is lunch with good people, then rest, especially when you know the days ahead will demand your full attention. I found myself staying somewhere quiet, clean, and shockingly affordable, the kind of place that stands out when you live on the road and have learned that a good night of sleep is not a luxury, it is a tool. The larger heartbeat behind the week was the Lockhart Rising 3rd-year event, anchored by the Millscale crew, builders I have long respected. They do not just make smokers and fire tables. They build the kind of pieces that feel like heirlooms, steel made with intention. Lately, they have been expanding beyond “builder” into something closer to a lifestyle brand, the way a company like Yeti became more than a cooler. It made sense, then, to see Yeti as one of the sponsors in the mix.

But before the big moments, Austin gave me a masterclass in something quieter: craft meeting craft. The next day, I learned that Jay Beaumont of the Underseasoned Barbecue Podcast from Australia and Tuffy Stone, “The Professor,” were heading to Interstellar Barbecue. Interstellar is one of those places that has earned its reputation, not through hype, but through the steady accumulation of excellence. Michelin recognition. A Texas Monthly Top 50 ranking. The kind of sentence that makes barbecue people lean in, because none of that comes easy.

I arrived before they did and caught up with Chef John Bates, who runs the place. It was not our first time meeting. Earlier this year, we connected during a mental health awareness cookout held by Tropical Smokehouse with Rick Mace and his crew, another gathering where barbecue became a bridge instead of just a product. When Tuffy and Jay arrived, they were filming content for Tuffy and Yeti, but what unfolded felt less like a shoot and more like two living legends recognizing something familiar in each other. Respect for the craft.

Tuffy mentioned it had been some time since he had been back. He noticed changes immediately, like the smokers now shaded under a tree, details most people would never clock. That is the thing about people who really cook. They see systems. They see how heat moves. They see how space affects flow. Chef Bates invited us behind the scenes, and the kitchen surprised me. Not because it was flashy, but because it was not nearly as large as you would expect for the volume they put out. Still, it ran like a well-oiled machine. Stations were tidy. Nobody was bumping into each other. Communication stayed audible and constant, “behind,” “corner,” “hot pans,” “points,” all the small phrases that keep a team moving like one body. It reminded me that great barbecue, even when it looks rugged from the outside, often runs on precision behind the curtain.

Then came the platter. Jay and I hung back in the kitchen while Chef Bates built it out with the kind of detail that tells you exactly who he is. Beef sausage. Lamb sausage. Duck leg. Sweet tea pork belly, which he made a point not to call burnt ends because, in his words and his intention, it is not a burnt end and he wanted that clear. [The call it a “burnt end” trend in barbecue really needs to end. It’s like calling a porkbutt brisket.]That moment stuck with me. In barbecue, words matter because they shape expectations, and expectations shape trust. I watched him pull meat from a beef rib, then lay the still-hot bone back on the tray, slice the rib meat on a bias, and place it on top so it stayed warm. It was a small act of care that made the whole thing feel elevated without ever feeling precious. Later, he guided us through where to start on the tray, like a conductor leading you through a symphony he had built with smoke and knife work.

When we sat down to eat, it turned into what I can honestly call some of the best bites of barbecue I have had. And I have had plenty. There was not a bad bite. Everything was balanced. Any two proteins, any side, any pairing, it all worked. You could taste the intentionality, which is something people say casually, but you rarely experience this clearly. Interstellar made its case within the first few minutes at the table, and I understood why the accolades keep finding them. At some point, the cameras went down, and the real conversation began.

Watching Tuffy Stone and John Bates talk shop, talk craft, talk process, was its own masterclass. Both come from culinary worlds. Both have moved into pitmaster status with a chef’s mind still intact. Sitting there, listening, I felt that familiar gratitude that only hits when you realize you are learning without being lectured. And the day still was not over. There was a Yeti event with Genevieve later, but that is another chapter. If there was a theme to day one, it was this: sometimes the most memorable weeks do not begin with perfect plans. They begin with a pivot. With a hard decision. Trust your gut when something feels off, then stay open enough to let the road reward you with something better.

Austin did that for me.

Not by being loud about it, but by offering proof in small, specific ways.

Proof that craft still matters.

Proof that hospitality is an art form.

Proof that greatness, when you are close enough to study it, is rarely mysterious. It is built through repetition, discipline, and a stubborn devotion to details other people do not notice.

If you are traveling for barbecue, especially in a place like Austin, here are the practical takeaways I carried out of day one without even trying to:

• Plan for rest like it is part of the work. Quiet, clean, affordable stays matter when you live on the road.

• Seek the behind-the-scenes view when you can. Great barbecue is not only about smoke. It is about systems, communication, and consistency.

• Pay attention to language. Calling pork belly “burnt ends” might sell, but being precise protects the craft.

• Watch how the best serve food. Keeping a rib bone hot so the sliced meat stays warm is not a trick, it’s respect with a bit of food science.

That is what day one gave me. Not just the taste of barbecue, but the texture of the people behind it. And when you are lucky, that is what travel becomes. A series of meals that feed you, yes, but also a series of moments that sharpen how you see.

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There is a dangerous thing that happens after you win. People expect you to change. They expect you to come back bigger, flashier, more complicated, and somehow more impressive than the version of yourself that already got the job done. That pressure exists in almost every competitive field. Sports. Business. Restaurants. Barbecue. The moment you win, folks start looking for the next trick.

But in a short clip from Shootin’ the Que Podcast, Heath Riles gives the kind of answer that only comes from somebody who has spent enough time in the fire to know better. “I’m not changing from last year,” he says. “Not doing any of that.”

That line is simple, but it says a lot.

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Especially when you look at it through the lens of Heath being able to win back-to-back, because back-to-back wins do not happen by accident; they are not built on luck. They are not built on chasing every new trick, every new product, every new theory, or every new opinion that shows up in the barbecue world. They are built on knowing what works, respecting it, and having the discipline not to get cute when the lights come on. That does not mean nothing changes. That is where the wisdom in the clip really starts to show. Heath talks about tenderness. He talks about wind. He talks about the weather, about trimming ribs differently and about timing. In other words, he is not saying the cook is robotic. The foundation is solid enough that he can adjust without losing himself or focus on the cook.

That is a major difference.

A lot of cooks confuse change with improvement. They think that if they are not changing something, they are not getting better. But improvement does not always look like a new recipe. Sometimes improvement looks like making the same recipe more repeatable. Sometimes it looks like shaving five minutes off a process. Sometimes it looks like getting everybody on the team to move with the same rhythm.

Heath says one of the key components is having “our times” right and making sure “everybody’s on the same page.” That is championship language. At the highest level, barbecue is not just meat, smoke, and sauce. It is timing. It is communication. It is knowing who is doing what, when it needs to happen, and why it matters. It is understood that a rib cook is not won in one dramatic moment. It is won in a hundred small moments where nobody panics, nobody guesses, and nobody decides to freestyle when the plan is already working.

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Tiffani came back on the show fresh off a birthday, and the energy was the same as always. Clear, excited, and locked in on what’s changing this year. And a lot is changing, in a good way. The headline is the new Live Fire Competition, the Open Fire World Championship, headlined by Al Frugoni.

I love low and slow. That’s home base. But let’s be honest, one downside of traditional barbecue is the “nothing to see yet” part. The payoff comes later. Open fire flips that completely. It’s immediate. You see flame. You see technique. You see the craft happen right in front of you. Tiffani said it’s a spectacle, and she’s not exaggerating.

What really made me smile is how she framed it. Memphis in May is considered the most prestigious barbecue cooking contest this side of heaven, and bringing open fire into that tradition is a big deal. It’s not “new for the sake of new.” It’s new in a way that makes the whole event more alive for the general public, especially for people who have never stood close enough to see the work.

Then we got into the part that matters for anyone listening who is thinking about coming.

You can eat at Memphis in May.

That’s not a secret anymore. It shouldn’t be a rumor. Tiffani said it plainly, and I’ll repeat it because it needs to be repeated: there are food experiences for the normal consumer, the everyday attendee, not just teams. The big one is the Open Fire combo ticket. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, there’s an Open Fire experience for consumers, where you can watch the cooks work over live flame and taste the food. The combo ticket is $44, and Tiffani said it gets you into the park, gets you tastings and samples, and access to entertainment and the stage. When she said $44, I had to pause. That’s less than a tank of gas. That’s less than what some folks spend on coffee in a week. And you’re tasting food from teams coming from seven or eight different countries this year, because the open fire competition exceeded the original goal of 15 teams.

That’s not “a little food.” That’s a one-of-a-kind lineup. From some of the very best firetamers on the planet.

And it’s not just food. Tiffani called out Cupid performing, and the Home Depot outdoor kitchen with all-day demos and tastings. If you’re the kind of person who likes to learn while you eat, that Home Depot setup is basically your playground.

Then Tiffani dropped the scale of this year’s contest, and I don’t think people understand what that means until you see it. Over 200 teams will be coming into Memphis May 13th through the 16th. World Championship teams, open fire teams, plus the junior contest. She said it feels different this year. It’s the 49th year of Memphis in May, and they’re already building momentum for the 50th anniversary in 2027.

She’s not just talking hype. She listed returning names people recognize: Chris Lilly, Tuffy Stone, Heath Riles. That’s a real mix of legacy and current heat We also talked VIP, because people ask about it every year and most folks don’t actually understand what they’re buying.

VIP is $595 for four days, and Tiffani described it as a red carpet experience with a curated itinerary, VIP viewing areas, private restrooms with air conditioning, and food and drinks flowing all day long. If you want to actually talk to elite teams and top names without interrupting them mid-competition, VIP is where that becomes possible, because these teams are there to compete and there’s cash on the line. She also mentioned the Kingsford Tour of Champions, and she made a point that saves people headaches: VIP and Kingsford Tour of Champions require advance ticket purchase. You can’t just show up and buy those at the gate. Open Fire and Barbecue Alley tickets can be purchased in the park.

Then she walked through the schedule, and if you’ve never been, this is where you should pay attention.

Gates open on Wednesday, May 13th. The event kicks off with the lighting of the grill around 5:30 or 6. Last year, they introduced an opening ceremony parade of champions where the grand champion from the previous year kicks things off, throwing beads like a mini Mardi Gras. And then Tiffani gave a real inside detail: the Budweiser Clydesdales will be leading the parade this year. She didn’t stop there either. She said there will be a Budweiser bar in both Barbecue Alley and the Open Fire experience, offering $1.50 beer. I did the math out loud because that’s what we do. If you’re sitting at around $50 all-in for ticket and open fire, those extra dollars can turn into four beers. That’s barbecue math.

Wednesday night also includes sauce wrestling. Exactly what it sounds like. Wrestlers in a ring full of barbecue sauce. Tiffani warned people to bring a poncho and not get too close. I backed her up because I’ve seen that sauce fly 20 feet.

This is Memphis in May. It’s serious competition, but it’s also not afraid to be fun.

And speaking of fun, we talked about bringing in the next generation.

The junior contest is back and bigger. Tiffani said last year’s Junior World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest was such a hit that they expanded the footprint and opened it up to more teams. Kids ages 9 to 17 will compete Thursday and Friday, and the grand champion will walk the main stage just like the adults. She mentioned teams from public high schools in Memphis, kids coming from Kentucky and Washington, and more, all showing up to compete.

That’s the part I’m proud of. Because this isn’t just about trophies. It’s about the future of a craft that can give somebody a real path. Tiffani connected the dots in a way I respect. A lot of youth don’t realize barbecue can become a real business: sauces, rubs, grocery stores, online stores, merch. It’s bigger than the grill.

We also talked international flavor, because Ireland is the honored country this year. Tiffani said a team from Smoking Soul in Wexford, Ireland is coming to compete in Open Fire, and they’ll also have a consumer-facing experience in an Irish-themed space near the open fire area. She said times aren’t released yet, but it won’t require a separate ticket beyond admission.

And then she told me there’s another member of their team coming, John Wheeland, a chef with a big name in London. I’ve cooked alongside Jim from Smoking Soul before and used John’s rig in London, so I’m excited for folks to see what they bring.

Finally, we got to one of my favorite parts: the scavenger hunt.

Last year I ran up to Tiffani and asked her if she trusted me, then ran off and started a scavenger hunt. This year it’s bigger: a multi-day scavenger hunt where anyone with an event ticket is automatically entered to participate. On Saturday, they’ll drop clues every hour from gates open until close to awards at 7 p.m. Prizes include grills, items from Weber, an autographed five-piece grilling set from AC BBQ, Thermapro products, framed artwork, and even expensive meats or thermometers. You find the item, take a picture, tag the event, and you take it home.

That’s the energy I want Memphis in May to keep leaning into. Competition for the diehards, and fun for everyone else.

So if you’re thinking about coming, here’s the real question.

What do you want from the weekend?

Do you want the best seat at the table, the access, the curated meals, and the behind-the-scenes experience? VIP is your move. Do you want to walk in, watch live fire, taste food from teams across the world, catch demos, and treat it like the biggest backyard party of the summer? The Open Fire combo ticket makes a lot of sense.

Either way, come hungry. Come with comfortable shoes. Bring water. And if you see me, I’ll have electrolytes, because I’m not letting anyone go horizontal at my event.

Tell me this: if you could only pick one experience, Open Fire, VIP, Kingsford Tour of Champions, or Barbecue Alley, which one would you choose and why?

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Freedom to control your time. Freedom to cook the way you want to cook. Freedom to build a life that makes sense for your family, not just your Instagram. And the older I get, the more I respect the people who can admit that out loud, especially after they’ve already reached the mountaintop that everybody else is chasing.

That’s why this conversation with Dustin Martin hit the way it did.

If you know Texas barbecue at all, you’ve probably heard of Hill City Chop House, the family-owned spot out of Tolar, Texas, led by Dustin and built alongside his wife, Nicole. They went from passion and catering to a brick-and-mortar restaurant that earned real attention in a landscape where attention is expensive and hard to keep.

But the first thing Dustin did was keep it honest.

They closed the brick-and-mortar on the Sunday after Christmas. December 29th was their last day. Three and a half years in the building, and he said it just wasn’t the right fit. That’s the part I want people to sit with. Because in barbecue, we treat a brick-and-mortar like a trophy. Like if you don’t have four walls, you’re not real. Like catering and pop-ups are a stepping stone, not a business model. But Dustin’s story is a reminder that sometimes the smartest move is going back to what works, even if it doesn’t look glamorous to strangers.

Dustin explained why they made the call. Even after getting into the Top 25 and getting honorable mention recognition, it brought a wave of people in, but the location didn’t have enough foot traffic to keep things sustainable. At the same time, their trailer, catering, and private events were going through the roof. And the difference, as every operator knows, is forecasting.

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Catering and private events let you plan. You know how many people you’re cooking for. You know what you’re producing. You can run the numbers with more confidence. The restaurant life can feel like a guessing game, and Dustin said that guessing game was tough.

Then he said the part that should hit anyone who’s building a business while raising kids.

He was spending every day there from four in the morning until midnight, cooking and prepping, not seeing the kids. And when he did see them, they were at the restaurant running around while he’s trying to chop, and he’s yelling at them. That’s not the life people picture when they romanticize restaurant ownership. That’s the reality.

So they went back to their roots. Dustin said they’d been cooking and catering for the past 15 years for friends, parties, and random events. And for them, that’s where the passion lived. It’s more intimate. It’s face-to-face. It’s cooking for people, not just serving people.

I told Dustin straight, I’m a huge advocate for the catering lane. People always ask why more of us don’t go brick-and-mortar. My answer is the same: overhead, forecasting, and the P&L. Catering wins more often than folks want to admit. Dustin backed it up with a detail that will sound familiar to anybody who’s ever tried to staff a dining room: they had six people there at all times, and some days they weren’t even seating six tables. That’ll mess with your head, because you’re cooking like a restaurant, but selling like a hobby.

And yet, even after closing, they still had people messaging weekly asking where the trailer would be set up, or if they could pick up food. That’s real brand equity. That’s loyalty that follows the cook, not the building.

Then we went back to the beginning, and Dustin’s origin story made the whole arc make sense.

In 2011, he moved to North Dakota for an opportunity with a best friend, running a portion of a company up there. Oilfield work. Long hours. Not much time off. And he said when they did have time off, there weren’t really restaurants where they were. So they towed a smoker up there and a trailer full of wood because you can’t really get good firewood up there, and the trees you do get are pine, which you don’t want to cook with.

So they cooked. Oilfield clients would come to the house on weekends, and people were shocked, asking who was making the food, assuming it wasn’t him. Then the asks started. Kids’ birthday parties. Events. Rib cook-offs. And he said they started winning competitions up there, Texas boys cooking barbecue in North Dakota.

When oil slowed down in 2016, he moved back home, still had people asking him to cook, so he bought a small offset smoker on a jet ski trailer, a 190-gallon setup that could only hold three briskets at a time. He ran that thing for about five years. And they were working regular Monday to Friday jobs, then cooking Friday night through Sunday. Dustin said they were making more money on Saturday and Sunday than they were at their normal jobs. That right there is the business speaking. When the weekends beat the paycheck, it’s time to listen.

Then life threw a hard turn. They had a house fire and lost pretty much everything, including catering equipment that burned up in the garage fire. After that, a friend in real estate invited him to look at buildings, one of which was a restaurant. Dustin said they weren’t looking to jump from catering to restaurant, but the opportunity fell into their lap. He took it as a challenge and went for it.

He said the first six months hit hard, and they got Top 25 recognition. It felt like confirmation that they were in the right place and doing the right thing. They took a tragic accident and turned it into a living.

And then, years later, they made the decision to step back.

I told Dustin something I believe more people need to hear. Stepping back from a restaurant to catering gets treated like failure in our space, but corporations lay off thousands and nobody calls it failure. They call it “smart business.” Yet a pitmaster choosing better quality of life and better economics gets judged. That’s backwards.

Dustin said closing the restaurant wasn’t giving up. He said he needed it, because trying to do everything yourself was draining the life out of him.

And when he talked about what changed after transitioning out, the details were real. Space is different. No big commercial dishwasher. More stacking, more three-compartment sink life. The other adjustment is routine. He said on days when they don’t have a cater or trailer setup, he wakes up wondering what to do with his hands, because he’s used to cooking every day.

But then he said the quiet win. Now he can wake up, sit on the back porch, hang out with the dogs, play with the kids. It was hard to reset the routine, but it feels way better.

That’s the kind of success that doesn’t get enough respect.

We also talked about recognition and the Texas Monthly list. Dustin said it was unexpected. He believes everyone doing this deserves notoriety because what we do is not easy. He said he loves festivals and the trailer because you’re out front meeting people and sharing your passion. And the validation for him is simple: when he hands someone food and they look at him like, “goodness, what is this?” That’s the moment he knows he did what he was supposed to do.

Before we wrapped, he shared advice for anybody thinking about making the jump. Do it, but don’t go into it empty-handed. He compared owning a building to buying a boat. Every time you use it, you’re paying for something. There’s always another bill, another permit, another piece of equipment, another inspection. He also said it took 10 months to remodel the restaurant they bought, and it was one thing after another: permits, gas, fire marshal, the whole list.

That’s real game.

So here’s what I’m taking from Dustin’s story.

Barbecue rewards the people who can adapt without ego.

Sometimes you don’t get to jump, you get pushed. And sometimes the smartest version of success is not expanding, it’s choosing the lane that lets you keep cooking, keep your family close, and keep your joy intact.

I want to hear from you.

If you’re building in barbecue, what does success look like right now? Is it a building, or is it a life that makes sense?

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In my head, the weekend was going to produce the kind of clean, traditional travel story I know how to deliver on command. A smaller festival than the massive events I’m usually a part of, which meant I could cook, show my skills, and then actually move through the grounds like a spectator. I figured I’d write about the food, the mix of cuisines, and why the Pee Dee region continues to punch above its weight as a Southern culinary force. That was the plan. That was the frame.

Then I spent real time with Rodney Scott.

And suddenly the story I thought I was going to tell felt like the wrong story.

There’s a kind of history you can read about, and there’s a kind of history you can stand next to. Living history. The kind that still has calluses on its hands. The kind that still works. The kind that, even with the accolades stacked high, still moves through a room like a regular man until the room reminds him, again and again, what he represents.

Rodney is my friend, my brother in the smoke, my colleague, and in more ways than one, my mentor. I’ve been around him plenty over the years, but this weekend in Florence gave me more proximity than I’ve ever had before. Not the quick “good to see you” pit-side moments. This was time. The kind that reveals things.

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The first shift happened before I even realized it was happening. Somewhere between checking in, moving through the event, and watching Rodney navigate spaces that were not far from his childhood stomping grounds, I started seeing the weekend less as a festival and more as a homecoming. Not the polished, ceremonial kind either. The real kind, where people stop you mid-step because they remember you before the world did.

One moment in particular stays with me.

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In Atlanta, the smoke usually isn’t coming from the pits first. It comes from the comments, the whispers, the group chats, and the little quote that turns into a headline before you even taste the food. And the funny part is we all pretend we hate it, but the truth is, that tension is part of what keeps a food scene awake. It forces you to pay attention. It forces you to improve. It forces you to earn your place, not just announce it.

That’s the energy we had in the studio for this episode of This Week in Barbecue. Me, Bryan Hull, and James Welch Jr., just laid back, talking a little news, a little recap, and then letting the conversation go where it goes.

We started where we always start, with the national day. James pulled National Tater Day, which felt like a gift compared to the day before, National Turkey Neck Soup Day. He hit us with the potato numbers too: over 200 varieties of potatoes in the US, and 4,000 across the globe. Bryan did the math and said if you ate one potato type a day, it’d take you over 11 years to run through them all.

That’s ridiculous and also kind of perfect, because this whole episode is about variety. About how wide the barbecue world is, and how fast it’s changing. About how the deeper you go, the more you realize a lot of what we argue about is actually about control. Who gets to be considered legit. Who gets to be called “real.” Who gets to come into a city and act like they built the road.

Bryan opened his news with love and support, which matters right now. He shouted out the Zavala Family Foundation and asked folks to donate as a birthday gift for Joe Zavala. He also mentioned Miller’s Smokehouse, who had a fire at the end of February and reopened as a food truck last week. Limited menu, limited hours, but still in it. I said it right there, four wheels beats four burnt walls any day. And then we pivoted into the type of news that doesn’t sound sexy until it hits you in the face as an operator.

Sysco acquired Restaurant Depot.

If you’re not in the food business, you might not feel the problem right away. But if you’re one of the small cats, the pop-up folks, the catering teams, the new restaurants, the people keeping the lights on with hustle, you know exactly why that’s scary. Restaurant Depot has been one of the few accessible options for the little guys, free membership, a place where you can get paper goods, baskets, bins, produce, proteins, and keep it moving. I said what I said. I think Sysco is going to do what they’ve done with other acquisitions: cannibalize the hell out of it, make unnecessary cuts, pump up the numbers, overcharge on things, and likely change the membership program. And we, the people who need that access, end up suffering.

James said something I felt in my chest. Restaurant Depot felt like a community because it’s where all the small guys are in there hustling. And I hate to see the consolidation because the more you put in the hands of larger corporations, the more expensive everything gets, and if they’re the only supplier, you don’t have a choice.

That’s not barbecue gossip. That’s economics. That’s the part of the game nobody posts.

But the real fireworks of the episode came from something else, and it started as a joke about Bryan having a “dark side.” We called it Darius’s Dark Side, because for a long time Bryan didn’t even put his face on social media. People legit thought I made him up.

We got into the Under Season episode about the “gods of sausage,” and we started talking about lists, criteria, and how social media doesn’t tell the full story. Bryan explained why people might not connect him to sausage the way they should. He didn’t talk about himself in the first person, he didn’t put his face out there, and then there was the bigger issue: collaborations. He said there’s a gap because posts he made through collaboration were removed, including a big batch of content that included a lot of sausages.

That conversation matters because it’s the same dynamic that shows up everywhere in barbecue right now. People assume the story based on what they see on Instagram. But Instagram is not the full file. Instagram is highlights, and sometimes it’s edited highlights [let’s be honest, most of the time it’s edited highlights].

Then the conversation took a sharp turn into Atlanta barbecue politics, and I’m going to keep it clean and focused on the point.

Lewis Barbecue opened in Atlanta, and there was a quote circulating from an Atlanta Magazine piece. Bryan said John Lewis was asked if he’d tried local Atlanta establishments like DAS and Fox Bros. The quote attributed to him said he’d tried them numerous times, then took a shot at the Fox Brothers by calling Dallas “Southern Oklahoma,” and then deflected the question about whether he liked the food by basically saying, “I opened a restaurant here. So there you go.”

Now, I’m not going to pretend I’m neutral about it. I’m from here, and I’m protective of my city’s people. I said what I experienced: we’d been by there three times, and two out of three weren’t bangers. Bryan went into detail. First visit, turkey fine, sausage great, green chili corn pudding great, brisket fine, rib burnt. Second visit, beef ribs burnt, ribs burnt again with a bitter glaze, brisket overcooked, and the only bright spots were the green chili corn pudding, mac and cheese, and the sausage.

And then Bryan said the part that makes his critique credible. He admitted John Lewis has way more experience than him, and if they went head-to-head and John Lewis cared to, he’d cook circles around him. That’s respect, and that’s honesty. But respect doesn’t mean you get to throw stones.

Because Bryan’s point was simple and true: the reason you can come into Atlanta and serve brisket is because Fox Bros paved the way. Atlanta was not a brisket town. Fox Bros has been serving brisket since 2007. DAS came later and helped the Texas-style market grow here, too. If you’re a newcomer to a city, you don’t get to act like you invented the appetite. You don’t get to talk down on the people who built the runway you landed on. That’s ego. That’s bad community work. And in a small market, it spreads fast.

That’s the bigger lesson in all of this. Barbecue is a craft, but it’s also a community. If we want the scene to get better, we need competition, but we also need decorum. We need truth, but we also need perspective. Because we’re all fighting the same enemies: rising costs, shrinking margins, and a public that wants the best food possible at a price that doesn’t exist anymore.

So I’ll leave you with the question that sat under the whole episode.

What does it look like to be new in a city and still show respect to the people who built the foundation? And on the flip side, what does it look like for a city to hold newcomers accountable without turning it into pure gatekeeping?

I want your take.

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Not the kind of statement you print on a flyer, but the kind you can feel when somebody says, “This is why we’re doing it,” and the room gets quiet for a second. That’s what happened for me talking with Andy Eldridge, who joined This Week in Barbecue on behalf of the Fort Worth Stock Show Syndicate to give us the full picture on the Syndicate Smoke Down and Music Festival.

On paper, it’s easy to sell. One day in the historic Fort Worth Stockyards. Barbecue. Live music. Texas heritage. A serious competition scene. A serious pitmaster lineup. But the real headline is the mission. This event is built to raise money and support Texas ag youth through 4-H and FFA. Scholarships, resources, and real opportunities for the kids who are up and coming while showing interest in the agricultural space.

Andy put the organization’s history on the table right away. The Fort Worth Stock Show Syndicate was founded in 1980, and they’ve spent decades supporting exhibitors at the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, bringing buyers to the Junior Sale Champions and building a scholarship program that keeps growing. He said the program has gifted $240,000 each year in the past, and this year they bumped to an astonishing $300,000.

Then he dropped a number that should stop anybody in their tracks: since 1980, he said the organization has raised over $100 million for Texas ag youth through 4-H and FFA, and they just surpassed that $100 million mark this last year.

That’s not a hobby. That’s infrastructure.

And it matters more than most people realize. Andy shared that the average age of a rancher or farmer in Texas is 58. That is not just trivia. That’s a warning light. If we love barbecue, we love food, and if we love food, we should care about who’s going to be producing it, protecting it, and leading it in the next couple of decades. I told him, “ This feels like planting trees”. The best time to plant one was years ago, and the second-best time is now. Because if the pipeline dries up, it doesn’t matter how good your brisket is. Andy added another layer I respect. He said these programs don’t only teach agriculture. They teach leadership, citizenship, and skills kids can carry whether they stay in ag or not. That’s the part people miss. They hear “4-H” and “FFA” and think it’s niche. It’s not. It’s a training ground for capable adults.

So what exactly is the Syndicate Smoke Down?

Andy described it like a “three ring circus,” and I mean that in the best way.

First, there’s the barbecue competition. It’s IBCA-sanctioned as a state championship, with right around 100 teams competing, and a prize purse that exceeds $20,000. They compete in three categories: chicken, ribs, and brisket. Andy said move-in starts on Friday, and the whole area turns into a big tailgate full of pits, teams, and that weekend-warrior energy that makes competition barbecue a world of its own.

What I love is how they bring the crowd into it. Andy said they pull some judges from the audience, along with celebrity judges, local personalities, and community names. That’s smart. It keeps it grounded in “people who love barbecue,” not just “people who love rules.”

Second, there’s what they call Barbecue Time. This is the fan experience. This is where the pros show up and show out. Andy said they bring in 24 pitmasters, mostly from Texas, but also with groups coming from Florida and Montana this year. Barbecue Time runs from noon to four, and if you’ve got the right ticket (Barbecue Time, VIP, or Platinum), it’s all the barbecue you can eat. Andy said very few people manage to hit all 24 samples, because it’s simply a lot of barbecue. And here’s the part that tells me this event is built by people who understand what makes festivals memorable. Andy said the pitmasters get creative with flavors and do things you don’t typically find on a restaurant menu. He threw out examples like General Tso’s rib tips and a Roy Hutchins staple, their Twinkies.

That’s not just food. That’s experience. That’s what people talk about when they get home.

Third, the music. The main stage kicks in at four o’clock with a lineup headlined by Whiskey Myers, Randy Rogers, Amanda Shires, and Jason Scott and the High Heat. During Barbecue Time, there’s a second stage with Ellis Bullard, the Broken Spokes, and Weldon Hanson. So you’ve got competition, you’ve got a pro pitmaster tasting experience, and you’ve got live music, all stacked into one day.

And yes, I asked the obvious question: why one day, in a world full of multi-day events?

Andy’s answer was honest. They’re volunteers. It’s a heavy lift. He said they’re basically building a small city in a parking lot, turning it into a festival venue. He also said it might make sense down the road to expand, because so much effort goes into setting up, but for now they pack it into one day.

That “volunteer” part matters. Because a lot of people see an event at this level and assume it’s a machine with paid staff behind it. Andy described it like a second full-time job around this time of year, and reaching year five is a real milestone. Five years is where events either become a tradition or become a memory. The growth is real. Andy said last year the event sold out, so they expanded their footprint this year to host more people. He also shared that last year tickets were purchased from 43 different states. That tells you the Stockyards are a destination, and the lineup is doing its job.

There are four levels: Platinum (premium, limited), VIP, Barbecue Time, and a Music ticket. Platinum and VIP sold out quickly. Doors open at 11:30, Barbecue Time starts at noon, and there are re-entry privileges until around 8 or 8:30. He said some folks come in early, eat, go home for a nap, then come back for music. That’s real Texas strategy. Then I asked Andy something I ask anyone who’s stepping into barbecue: what’s your barbecue story?

He shared with me that he works in oil and gas, and when he started working on the event five years ago, he had to dig in and learn barbecue and music so he could speak the language. He also shouted out Panther City Barbecue for being with them every year and helping with introductions and support.

But the line that stuck with me was about the community. Andy said working with barbecue folks is rewarding because they’re simply great people to work with.

That’s the truth. Barbecue is built to be shared. Nobody barbecues for one. It’s communal by design.

So if you’re listening to this and thinking about whether the Smoke Down is “worth it,” I’ll frame it the way Andy framed it. Yes, you’re buying a ticket for a full day of barbecue and music. But he said the net proceeds go to the scholarship fund that supports the $300,000 they gift each year to 4-H and FFA students.

That’s the part that should sit with you.

Because we’re quick to call ourselves “food people,” but food doesn’t come from nowhere. The future of barbecue is tied to the future of agriculture. And the future of agriculture is tied to whether we invest in young people before the shortage becomes a crisis. Andy gave one final piece of advice that might be the most important thing he said all episode: pace yourself. There are a lot of great bites. You’re going to find a favorite. You’re going to want to go back two or three times.

That’s good festival advice.

But it’s also good life advice, especially when the mission is bigger than the moment.

So here’s what I want to hear from you.

If you could build the perfect one-day barbecue festival, what would be the non-negotiables? Competition, tasting, music, history, community, charity, all of it. And how much does “cause” matter to you when you decide where you spend your weekend?

Drop your thoughts. Let’s talk.

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Then James said a phrase that feels like it should be on a bumper in today’s economy: “shrinkflation nation.” And he didn’t bring it up because he’s hunting for outrage. He brought it up because he saw Five Guys changing the fries. No more cup. No more greasy bag feeling. Just a smaller fry bag and a new story about why it’s “better.” And that’s the point. Nobody wants to say “we’re giving you less,” so they rewrite the value equation while you’re distracted. Everyone is paying the same or more, but getting far less than before. That little fry cup is a perfect metaphor for where food is right now. You’re either paying more and getting less, or you’re paying more just to stay even. And once you start looking, you see it everywhere. Bryan shouted out Johnny Novo, who literally pulls up with a scale and weighs burgers and fries around New York. The punchline was brutal: McDonald’s had the worst value for price-per-fries by ounces compared to actual restaurants. That’s not even “fast food is cheap” anymore. That’s “fast food is a math problem.”

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And once you’re thinking about math, the barbecue conversation gets real… fast.

Because this is the part people don’t want to hear until they’re forced to. The experience is made on the smoker, but the business is made in the margins, in the P&L, in those Excel spreadsheets. That’s where you find out whether you’re building a legacy or burning yourself down for a photo dump and a few comments.

Which is how we ended up where we always end up lately: brisket.

Tyler said it first, loud and simple: “Fuck brisket.” Not because brisket isn’t delicious. Not because it’s not iconic. But because the economics are getting disrespectful. Bryan broke it down in a way every operator understands immediately: the last two brisket cooks accounted for 20 and 30 percent of their food budget. Tyler followed with the other side of the knife: 33 percent of their revenue was basically the brisket cost. That’s not a menu item. That’s a hostage situation. Here’s the twist though. We weren’t just complaining. We were doing what barbecue folks have always done when conditions change. We started talking about adaptation.

Tyler made the case that beef cheek is better, period. Better eating, better chop beef, better sandwich. Bryan dropped the hard number that makes it real for anyone doing inventory: beef cheek utilization somewhere around 55 to 63 percent, while brisket might land around 50 to 55 percent if you’re lucky and you’re maximizing everything. Those little percentage points decide whether you make payroll, whether you can reinvest, whether you can keep the doors open.

And it’s not just “Atlanta problems.” Tyler told a story about meeting Leonard from Truth Barbecue and the first thing Leonard asked him was basically: what are brisket prices like in Atlanta, and how are you managing it? If someone in the cattle belt is asking that question, you already know the ripple is coming.

That’s why we started talking about what’s next. Not “what’s trendy,” but what’s sustainable.

We talked hog. We talked yield. We talked the fact that Texas is anchored to beef and brisket in a way other places aren’t. And that might be the opening for regions like ours to stop chasing somebody else’s identity and start building our own. I said it on the episode and I’ll say it again here: this is a time where hog can shine because of affordability and yield, even if it’s not a skill set everybody has yet. And beyond hog, there’s room for lamb to come back, and even stuff like a skin-on picnic roast if you can get it right. That’s not settling. That’s evolving.

But this episode wasn’t only about meat costs. It was about who gets to tell the story of barbecue in the first place.

I watched a documentary that centered on Carolina hash and barbecue, and it did what a lot of food media still does. It “glazed over slavery” by saying the origin was formed from necessity. Whose necessity? That’s the kind of quiet gatekeeping that shapes what people think is “authentic,” who gets credit, and whose labor gets erased. If we’re going to talk about tradition, we have to talk about the whole tradition, not the sanitized version.

I asked Tyler about the talk around Noma, because fine dining runs on a different hierarchy than most barbecue joints, and I wanted the real breakdown. Tyler traced it back to Escoffier and that military-style structure, where obedience and pressure got normalized. Then he told a story that still makes me confirm he has far more self-restraint than I do: a chef threw a poached egg at his head. The yolk burned into his eye. He worked the rest of the service with one eye closed, and at the time, he thought it was normal. He called it what it is now: trauma.

Tyler didn’t pretend it didn’t shape him. He said the abusive system taught him fast, because humiliation makes you “learn.” But he also said the important part: eventually, he realized it wasn’t right, and he had to break those habits. He pointed to leaders who proved you can do elite work without being abusive. And he said flat out: the abuse needs to stop. That conversation matters in barbecue too, because barbecue is starting to look more and more like “culinary” in the way it gets framed, rewarded, judged, and gatekept. If we don’t pay attention, we’ll copy the worst parts along with the applause.

Which brings me to the part I want to end on, because it’s where the whole episode eventually landed. After all the jokes, the events, the controversies, the economics, the history, the hard stories, James closed with something simple. He said he’d been watching a documentary on Bob Barker and The Price is Right, and how ugly things can get behind the scenes. Then he said he hopes our community doesn’t become that. And he told us what his mother used to say: “if you can’t say nothing nice just shut the fuck up.”

That’s the kind of line that makes you laugh, and then makes you reflect.

Because at the end of the day, barbecue is supposed to bring people together. We even said it out loud: we end the show with “Be Kind to One Another” because the world needs it. We’ve got more in common than we do that separates us. Barbecue may not be the key to world peace, but it’s a hell of a place to start. So here’s my question for you.

What are you willing to let go of to keep barbecue healthy, for the people cooking it and the people eating it? Is brisket still the king, even if the crown is bankrupting the village? What should the next “showpiece” be, and who gets to decide? And how do we protect the soul of this thing while the prices climb, the media machine speeds up, and everybody’s fighting to be heard?

Talk to me. Let’s build it better.

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That is what this one felt like.

When we first spoke years ago, I mentioned it was my first time ever doing media/ interviews specifically for barbecue. Since then, life has changed in many ways with new careers, tours, events, and everything else going on in the world. But here we are again, not just talking barbecue, but also the deeper stuff: what it means to fully commit to a demanding craft and live that commitment completely.

What struck me early was that we got to health almost immediately. Not because either of us showed up trying to turn a barbecue podcast into a fitness show, but because real life has a way of cutting through the fluff. Dave talked openly about realizing the road had caught up with him, not in some dramatic movie-scene kind of way, but in the quiet honesty of looking at a photo and thinking, something is off. He got some coaching, kept it realistic, kept eating meat, kept drinking beer in moderation, and dropped around fifty pounds. What mattered even more was why. He wanted it to be sustainable. He wanted quality of life. He wanted to feel good in his own skin and in his own mind. I respected that, because there is a grown-man honesty in saying, I am not chasing perfection, I am trying to build something I can actually live with.

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That part hit me because I know what it looks like when this work gets wrapped up in image and performance. People see smoke, meat, travel, crowds, and applause. They do not always see what the road does to your body, your sleep, your routine, your discipline. Dave talked about finally realizing how much poor sleep had been dragging him down. I shared how my own run toward better health started from loss, after my father died from heart issues, and how one decision to run turned into a full year of consistency. Somewhere in that exchange was a truth I think a lot of people in our world need to hear: health is not separate from the craft. If we want to keep cooking, keep traveling, keep laughing, keep talking trash into our 80s and 90s, then taking care of ourselves has to become part of the lifestyle too. Or as I put it on the episode, maybe all this working out is just preparation for future trash talk.

From there, the conversation opened up into something even bigger. Dave said something that stuck with me. Barbecue and stand-up comedy are not just two random passions sitting side by side in his life. They actually ask for a similar kind of person. In both worlds, you usually start off rough. In both worlds, you pick an unnecessarily hard path. In both worlds, you put in long hours, take public lumps, adjust on the fly, and keep showing up. A brisket can go sideways after sixteen hours. A comedy set can go sideways in sixteen seconds. Either way, there is no shortcut once the moment is in front of you. You pivot, or you fail.

That comparison got deeper the more we sat in it. A pitmaster cooking through bad weather, a flare-up, or a surprise rush is not that far off from a comic dealing with a heckler, a weird room, or a last-minute note that the set needs to be clean. Different stage, same demand. Be present. Read the room. Control the energy. Finish the job. There is something beautiful about crafts that do not let you hide. You cannot fake your way through fire, and you cannot fake your way through silence.

And then we got to something I have believed for a long time: barbecue is not only about taste. It is about feeling.

Dave said a lot of barbecue is presentation, ambiance, and experience. He is right. Great barbecue is not just meat on a tray. It is the smell in the air. It is the pit in the background. It is the slice of white bread on the side. It is the story, the welcome, the little bit of theater that tells you this meal matters. I thought about the advice Robert Irvine once gave me: be an entertainer first. The food will come, but if you can hold people, you have them. That advice changed how I show up on stage, at demos, and in front of crowds. Dave understands that instinctively, too. His comedy background gives him a way of meeting people that turns barbecue into more than a bite. It turns it into a memory.

Naturally, that led us into social media, which may be the most necessary and exhausting part of modern craft. Dave called it double-edged, and that is exactly what it is. On one hand, it lets you build your own audience without waiting for somebody at a gate to decide you are worthy. On the other hand, it rewards a lot of people who learned marketing before they learned mastery. We see that in barbecue all the time. I told him there is a kind of performative content I think of as stunt cooking. It looks good, spikes fast, and disappears even faster. Meanwhile, the people with the deepest chops are often spending so much time trying to keep up with the algorithm that they have less time to sharpen the actual art. That tension is real.

But what I loved most about this episode was that it did not stop at critique. It kept circling back to what actually matters. Community.

Dave talked about building the Gundo Comedy & Barbecue Festival, helping shape the Old Town Patio, lining up tour dates around barbecue events, and slowly realizing that the thing connecting all his best work is not just performance. It is people. He spoke honestly about how lonely stand-up can be when you are on the road by yourself, and how being part of a team with someone like Bert Kreischer changed the feel of the work. He wants more of that now. Less isolation. More shared experience. More spaces where people come together around food, laughs, stories, and belonging.

That is also why his “Yard Hard” idea feels bigger than a catchy phrase. It is not just merch. It is not just branding. It is a flag for a certain kind of person. The kind who built their little corner of the world piece by piece. The kind who may not have a fancy outdoor kitchen, but made something special out of what they had. The kind who understands that the yard is not really about square footage. It is about spirit. It is about hospitality. It is about making people feel welcome enough to stay awhile.

By the time we got toward the end, the conversation landed where maybe it was always headed. Dave said the heart of anybody who goes into comedy or barbecue the right way is simple: they want to make people happy. That is the North Star. Not fame. Not followers. Not clickbait. Not ego. Just that feeling of watching somebody laugh, or take a bite, or close their eyes because for a second everything else disappeared. That is the work. That is the reward. Everything else is noise.

And maybe that is why this episode stayed with me.

Because underneath the jokes, the craft talk, the social media frustrations, the health check-ins, and the future plans, this was really a conversation about what we are all building toward. Not just better businesses. Not just better content. Better lives. Better communities. Better reasons for gathering.

That kind of work does not always trend. It does not always spike. But it lasts.

And in barbecue, just like in comedy, lasting still means something.

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Not just the name on the sign, but the name people attach to the food, the story, the reputation, the “I heard about y’all” energy that walks in the door before the customer ever does. That’s why this episode started with a phrase that sounds like a joke, but lands like a gavel: “Long Live the Co.” Because the headline was real. A rebrand happened, and with it came the question nobody wants to answer until it’s their name on the line.

Here’s the situation we kicked around: a spot that people loved under one name is now something else. New name. New structure. Same building. And immediately, you’ve got folks trying to keep the shine from the old era while the people who built the shine are no longer in the kitchen. That’s not just messy, it’s dangerous. Not for feelings. For trust.

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Tyler asked it clean: if you’re moving on like this, are you keeping the accolades? If you rebrand a restaurant and the people who made it happen are gone, do you still get to stand in the glow of what they earned? My mind went to the difference between a franchise keeping a trophy in the rafters versus a restaurant keeping a star on the plaque. In the culinary world, if a restaurant changes its name, they lose their Michelin star. You don’t get to keep your star. That’s the rule, and a lot of people don’t know that. So I said what I believe: accolades should go with the name. Not always with the people, because people shift, but the name is the container. The moment you change the container, you don’t get to ride those coattails forever.

And then we got to the part that makes this stuff feel even uglier: the misinformation machine.

We saw statements floating around that didn’t match reality, including someone calling the place “top 13 best in the nation by Southern Living,” when the actual numbers did not add up. Bryan broke it down the way only somebody who lived it can: on one list, the spot was #18 in 2024, and then not on the 2025 list at all. So how does 18 plus zero equal 13? It doesn’t. That’s not barbecue math. But beyond the jokes, that’s what happens when branding gets separated from the people doing the work. The public hears “award-winning,” sees a familiar logo, and assumes the craft stayed the same. Meanwhile, the folks who built the standard are off somewhere else, trying to protect their name and their future.

When I asked Bryan how he felt now that the marker was official, he said something that should be printed on a poster for anybody thinking about licensing their name or walking into a loose agreement. He felt good, because his name wasn’t up there anymore, and that meant there was no association. He didn’t sign an agreement, didn’t license anything, and he didn’t have legal options without going down deep rabbit holes. So he was appreciative that the rebrand happened, because now he could distance himself forever.

That’s not bitterness. That’s clarity.

Then Tyler took it a step further, and I agreed with him. If the accolades were earned under one name, you shouldn’t be able to advertise that you got them when you didn’t. Call it petty if you want, but it’s not the same thing. And if you’re listening as an owner, here’s the hard truth we circled: a lot of this turmoil is avoidable. With real communication, real guidelines, and real business structure, half these situations never have to blow up. Instead, ego and greed creep in, and suddenly the space is full of avoidable chaos. That’s when the conversation widened into a bigger one: gatekeeping.

Because what we were really talking about was this: who gets to define what’s “real” in barbecue? Who gets to claim the craft, the culture, the credit, and the economic benefit? I said Texas is a better marketer than other regions. They’ve packaged the craft and the history. They’ve built infrastructure around it. Texas Monthly, the lists, the buzz. They’ve made it a brand you can buy almost anywhere, even when it’s not being done right. And when we got into why that matters, Bryan added the real-world layer: it’s easier to cook a brisket on an offset than it is to build a pit and cook a whole hog, and it’s easier to source brisket than it is to source what some regional traditions require. That practicality helped Texas-style travel. Then Tyler said something that stuck with me: a good review can shift a business’s P&L six to seven figures. That kind of power concentrated in one place is wild.

Which is why I shared something we hadn’t made public yet: I’m stepping into that lane too. I’m the official US correspondent for Barbecue Magazine now, with my own column, Pit Talk with Rasheed Philips, and my first full article drops in a couple of weeks. I’m doing it because we need more voices, more regions, more perspectives. One state, one list, one gatekeeper can’t hold all the reins forever. From there, the episode did what it always does. It got real, then it got funny, then it got real again. We talked about politics, touching barbecue, and how people react when a politician shows up at a famous joint. We talked about the contradictions that tick people off, telling folks meat is too expensive and to eat liver, then posing with expensive ribs like nothing is happening in the real world.

Then we got into trademarks and why people misunderstand them. In the Unc situation, we broke down that a trademark isn’t a blanket mark. You file based on the categories you’ll use it for, such as restaurant usage, merchandising, and more. We talked about the attorney Kenneth Harris filing first, the complications of how another filing was done, and the fact that you have to show utilization, not just be first.

If you’re in barbecue and you think legal stuff is “extra,” listen again. The brand is the business. If you don’t protect it, somebody else will. And speaking of protection, Tyler finally got his rant off about the word “chef.” He’s been doing this for 25 years. He writes “chef” on tax forms because it’s what he does, but he doesn’t need the title. What bothers him is people demanding to be called a chef when they’re doing a pop-up every six months. His point was simple: putting a bandage on a kid doesn’t make you a doctor, and picking up a knife in someone else’s kitchen doesn’t make you a chef. Dedication matters. Reps matter.

That tied right back into my own line in the sand: you can’t call yourself a pitmaster if you have to plug your rig in to get the end result. If you can’t cook without electricity, stop playing with titles. Because the craft shows up when conditions get ugly. I told them one of the ways I train is firing up the smoker in the rain, in the snow, in the worst conditions, because perfect cook days are rare. You’ve got to learn how to manage wet wood, humid air, temperature swings, and no canopy.

And right when we were deep in the weeds, we hit one of the funniest real-life moments I’ve had in a minute: the Tall Tour in Atlanta. Over 2,000 tall people showed up. I’m 6’6”, flat-footed, no kicks, and somebody yelled, “Put Shorty up front.” I started looking around, like, who are they talking about? They were talking about me. I have never felt short a day in my life until that moment.

That’s barbecue in a nutshell. Humbling, hilarious, and somehow still a lesson.

Because whether we’re talking rebrands, lists, trademarks, titles, or Texas marketing, the through-line is the same: barbecue is built on trust. Trust in the people. Trust in the process. Trust that the name means what you think it means.

So I’ll leave you with the question I keep coming back to after this one:

Where do you draw the line between protecting the craft and gatekeeping the culture?

And when you say something is “real,” are you defending standards, or are you defending your own comfort?

Hit me with your take.

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If you’re paying attention, you can see what’s happening: the audience is the asset, and the fuel is part of the ecosystem. That’s not just a product move, it’s positioning. At the same time, the business side is getting heavy. Carey “Pegleg Porker” Bringle is sounding the alarm again about local tax increases in Nashville, calling out how it’s hurting the local economy and pushing small independent businesses toward the edge. That’s the part that matters to me, because the culture doesn’t survive if the people doing the work can’t afford to stay open.

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And since it’s The Fireside, I’m going to ask you the same question we put on the table: what’s the best food scene from a movie or TV show? That question always reveals something about a person.

We took a detour for National Tootsie Roll Day, too. Leo Hirschfield created it back in 1896, trying to make an inexpensive chocolate that wouldn’t melt in the heat, and he named it after his daughter’s nickname, “Tootsie.” I love that origin story because it’s practical. It’s built for the real world. That’s barbecue energy. Then we got into “News You Can’t Use,” and I’m not going to lie, this one made me smile: Char-Broil launched a new dual electric and charcoal grill in the UK. Electric grilling and charcoal smoking in one unit. “Fast burger grilling and charcoal smoke for brisket all in one unit.” Where does that land for the everyday cook? I don’t have a one-size-fits-all answer, but I do know this: convenience is not going away. And neither is the need for craft. The tension between those two forces is exactly why people argue about barbecue like it’s religion. Which brings me to the moment that really lit up my brain.

Texas-style brisket is making a splash in Korea. Imported offsets. Real brisket. The tray with pickles, onions, and even white bread. As Korean BBQ conquered America, brisket is making a run in Korea. We joked about it being a cultural handshake, and even joked about coming up with a snappy name like Lone Star Low, T-Cue, or TXQ. We also laid out what we all know and agree on: BBQ is regional. Black pitmasters built American BBQ. Techniques were passed down and earned, not downloaded. Wood matters. Time matters. The craft matters.

So yes, protecting tradition matters.

But we also said the quiet part out loud: pellet grills might not be the tool of choice for everybody, but they’re making smoke accessible. Backyard cooks are learning through YouTube. AI is beating down our doors. BBQ is evolving, and if innovation is blocked, culture stagnates. Then we asked the kind of question that makes people uncomfortable in the best way: if a Korean pitmaster smokes brisket better than a Texan, is it still Texas BBQ? And here’s the filter I want to leave you with, because it’s the one that cuts through all the noise:

Before you call something “not real BBQ,” ask yourself one thing. Did it bring people together? If it fed family, created community, made somebody smile over smoke, that’s barbecue. Period. Now I want to hear from you.

Where’s your line in the sand, and why?

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That’s the thing about barbecue. It’s never only about the food. It’s about access, education, economics, and culture. It’s about who gets to enter the game, who gets to stay, and what gets lost when the cost of doing things the right way starts pushing people to shortcuts.

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The door is opening, but are we teaching people how to walk through it?

We talked about California approving microenterprises, specifically the “micro-enterprise home kitchen operations” framework, MEHKO. The idea is simple: lower the barrier to entry so regular people can start a food business without needing a full-blown commercial buildout on day one.

But the details tell the real story. Sales are capped between $50K and $100K per year, and there are limits like 30 meals per day or 90 meals per week.

That doesn’t sound like “I’m building the next legacy restaurant.” That sounds like “I’m trying to keep my head above water,” or “I’m trying to prove the concept,” or “I’m trying to turn talent into income without gambling my entire life on a lease.”

And I like that shift, because the truth is people have been doing it anyway for years. The law is catching up to reality.

But here’s where my brain always goes: if we are going to open the gates wider, we cannot pretend this is just about letting folks cook. We also have to talk about standards, safety, and the business side of the business. There’s a line in the episode that hit me hard because it’s so real: “Everyone’s a chef, or a home, or a private caterer, but none of y’all have a ServSafe.”

That part is not “gatekeeping.” That part is protecting people. We also talked about insurance, because in the real world, things happen fast, and you do not get to rewind the tape. “You have to have insurance. Food liability insurance.”

I told a story from experience, smelling gas, warning someone, turning the corner, and then “Boom… mushroom cloud.” That is not a metaphor. That is why professionalism matters, even when the operation feels small.

The brisket problem is not coming. It’s here.

Then we got into the news out of Texas. Texas Agricultural Commissioner Sid Miller put out an urgent call to action to “save barbecue,” and the headline underneath that call is what should make everybody sit up straighter: “US cattle herd is down to its lowest level in 75 years,” beef prices are skyrocketing, brisket is expensive, restaurants are getting squeezed, and customers are pulling back.

When politicians start talking like that, you know the pressure is real. But I also asked the question that a lot of folks are thinking: how exactly are you planning to save barbecue?

That’s where the conversation shifts from “news” to “accountability.” Because yes, there are real factors that hit the supply chain. But I said what I said, and I meant it: “This is every pit master in Texas’s fault.”

Not because pitmasters caused the cattle herd to shrink, but because too many of us treated brisket like it was supposed to stay cheap forever. I put it blunt: if you run a business and brisket is on your menu, “you never priced it what it was worth to begin with.”

People priced it for comfort, not longevity. And now, when the costs spike, everybody is shocked that the math doesn’t work anymore.

We even talked specifics. Bryan broke down how brisket used to be in that $2.49 to $3 per pound range around 2012–2014, and now they are paying about $5.50 per pound for the higher quality product they’re using. That kind of jump forces hard decisions, like cooking brisket less often and making people build their plate in a different way.

And if Texas is nervous, I’m nervous.

When restaurants start crowdfunding rent, that’s a signal

This is the part that stops being theoretical. We talked about restaurant closings, even corporate spots struggling, and then we hit a story that feels like a flare shot into the sky: a barbecue restaurant in Houston, Famous BarBQue, posting a GoFundMe because they needed to pay $72,000 by the weekend or vacate.

I said what a lot of owners do not want to hear, but need to: “A business shouldn’t run out of money overnight.”

That’s not lack of compassion. That’s reality. If you are tracking your P&L, if you are watching your statements, you should know what’s coming. And that’s why I keep repeating the same line, because it’s the difference between staying open and becoming a cautionary tale: “We’re in the food business. Focus on the business part ’cause food got you there, but focus on the business part.”

The culture wars are loud, but they’re not the main issue

Then, right when it gets heavy, barbecue does what barbecue always does. We start arguing about what “counts.”

“Pellet grills are not real barbecue.”

I’m not going to pretend I was gentle about it. “No, sir. You can put gerbil pellets into a hopper and walk away.” And when the “it gets more people cooking” argument came up, we compared it to, “vape is a gateway drug to cocaine.”

But even in the jokes, the point is serious. The real issue is not whether a pellet grill exists. The issue is honesty. If you want convenience, cool. Just do not act like you did the same work. Same thing with brisket. “If you use sauce on your brisket, you failed,” came up as a hot take, and we landed on a better truth: sauce should be optional, on the side, because the craft should stand on its own.

Then we even talked about pairing brisket with something like Alabama white sauce and why acidity and heat can make sense when it’s done thoughtfully. And yes, we had to address the internet commandments too: “You must wrap at 165.” That’s brisket lore, not law. Barbecue is not a flowchart. It’s decisions.

So what do we do now?

If brisket keeps climbing, we adapt. We talked about getting creative, using brisket differently, stretching it, building menus that have smoked elements without being trapped by one expensive cut.

We talked about reducing waste and even joked our way into a real strategy, asking what else can be made from remnants when costs tighten.

But underneath all of that is the bigger lesson: the future of barbecue is going to belong to the people who can do two things at once.

Protect the craft, and respect the numbers.

Because the fire does not care about your opinions, and the spreadsheet does not care about your feelings. If we want this culture to still be here in five years, we have to be honest about what it costs, what it takes, and what we are willing to change so the next generation can still step up to the pit and learn it the right way.

I want to hear where you land on this.

Is brisket becoming a luxury item, and if so, how should barbecue evolve without losing its soul?

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This year, the road finally opened. It was a quick run, in Friday and out Sunday, with Atlanta weather trying to do the most right as I was leaving and returning. I could have let that be the headline. Instead, the flight was smooth, and I landed in Florida feeling like I’d stepped into a different season of life.

I grabbed a quick Uber and headed straight to Tropical Smokehouse, where the event would be held. The warmth hit first, then the energy. Rick did not greet me like a host posing for a photo. He greeted me like a working pitmaster who just happened to be building something bigger than himself. He was outside assembling the courtyard setup, laying the foundation for what would eventually become an open-fire brick pit for Elliott Moss to cook chickens the traditional Carolina way.

Walking into the space for the first time felt like meeting an old friend’s family. I’d only been to the downtown location before, back when I couldn’t stop thinking about how good the food was and how much the bar made you want to stay longer than you planned. This location had its own rhythm. Rick’s crew welcomed me, gave me a tour, and immediately moved with intention, showing me where I’d prep, where I’d store, and what had already been handled so I could lock in and get to work. My bone-in pork loins were trimmed, pulled, and set aside in cold storage like they’d been waiting for me.

Then came the part of these events that always humbles me: the table.

Out front, the pitmaster roll call looked like a living archive of craft. John Bates was there, the talent behind a spot known for being the first Michelin-starred barbecue restaurant in Texas. Robert Lerma was there too, a man who, without exaggeration in my mind, has documented more of modern pitmaster culture than most people will ever see in a lifetime. There were other pros from across the country, each one carrying their own style, their own fire language, their own reason for showing up.

After saying hello, catching up, and eating something quick because travel days do not care about your schedule, I headed back to prep. My plan was simple and intentional: season the pork with my dry rub, then marinate it with my fresh homemade jerk sauce and let it sit overnight so the flavors could settle in like they belonged there.

As more chefs arrived and the kitchen filled with the quiet urgency that always comes before a big service, I rounded a corner and ran into Chef Picky alongside Chef Sho, building their own take on jerk chicken for the next day. That’s one of the things I love about these gatherings. Even when everyone’s known for something, nobody’s boxed in. Nobody’s trying to protect a lane. People are just cooking.

Later, Rick and his team pulled us together for family meal.

It does not matter if it’s a restaurant feeding guests all day or a crew of pitmasters flying in from all over the country. Family meal is still the great equalizer. It’s the reset button. It’s also a quiet reminder that the best food cultures are built behind the scenes, long before the public ever takes a bite.

We sat together while Rick and Robert thanked everyone for being part of the event and spoke on how it’s grown, how it’s created real good for the local community. The food on the table covered the classics, but the dish that keeps replaying in my mind even now is the collard greens. The kind that makes you pause mid-conversation because your mouth is trying to tell your brain something important.

After family meal, Ubers were called. Most people went to rest.

I went to the gym.

Not because motivation was high, but because discipline does not care how full your stomach is or how comfortable the bed looks. What surprised me was I wasn’t alone. Hector was there too, fresh off a James Beard nomination as an emerging chef. We’d cooked together before at Holy Smokes, but we hadn’t linked up since. Between sets, we talked about why we were putting wellness first. Yes, health matters. But there’s also a mental discipline that pairs perfectly with this craft. Fire asks you to be present. Training asks you to be present. Both punish sloppy thinking.

The next morning started early. I walked into the restaurant and the air had changed. Now it carried the aroma of smoke and meat, already cooking. I saw Chef Lamar Moore, who had arrived later the night before but was already there first thing, making sure proteins were on and pacing toward service. He’s one of those chefs who can move from a proper kitchen to a 1,000-gallon smoker and make the switch look effortless, like it’s all just heat management in different clothes.

I set up my station and loaded my pork loins onto the smoker. The plan was a reverse-sear approach: let the pork soak up smoke for an hour and a half to two hours, pull and rest, then sear for service. Not complicated, just deliberate.

Out front, VIP guests were already lining up, getting that extra early entry hour, leaning along the fence watching the fire setups like a museum exhibit where everything is alive. A 12-foot brick pit loaded with chickens. A custom-built fire table that looked like a seesaw of flame. A double cauldron cowboy-fire apparatus set up between me and Evan, who was serving thick porterhouse steaks and tomahawks that looked like they belonged in a different category of celebration.

Right before service, I finished my glaze: my sauce blended with bourbon stock, brown sugar, and herbs and spices designed to complement the pork fat and tame the edge of the jerk heat without losing its attitude.

Then we took the group photo. Gates opened. The first wave of attendees rolled in like they’d been hungry all week, and maybe in a deeper way, they had.

Here’s what stood out most: how smooth it all was. No chaos. No craziness. Most importantly, no egos.

Just chefs and pitmasters working shoulder to shoulder, serving for a cause bigger than any one name. The event wasn’t just a party. It was a fundraiser and a spotlight, raising money and awareness to support mental illness and everything that touches. That weight was present, but it didn’t darken the day. It gave it meaning.

I’ve been invited to this event for years, and my schedule always conflicted. This time, I made the time. And leaving that weekend, I knew something had shifted. Not in a dramatic “new me” way, but in the way you quietly commit to showing up differently moving forward.

Because sometimes the most important part of the trip is not the food, even when the food is great.

Sometimes it’s the reminder that community still exists, alive and well, right there beside the fire.

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Some of you already know this about me, but if not, here it is: I’m a reader. A heavy one. I believe that for most of the questions we wrestle with, whether in business, personal growth, or just figuring out life somewhere out there, a book holds the answer.

It might have been written ten years ago. Or two hundred. But that wisdom is out there, and if you’re paying attention, it finds you when you’re ready.

What I Read in 2025

Last year, I read between 22 and 25 books. Not all of them were new. A good number were rereads. I tend to revisit certain books when facing new challenges or trying to unpack an idea that didn’t fully connect the first time. Some books hit different when you’ve lived a little more. Others offer a fresh lens right when you need it most.

That’s why I don’t just read to finish. I read to return.

This Year’s Book List

Below is a short list of titles I think are worth your time. A few are recent. A few are old friends. They’re not ranked or sorted by importance. Each of them gave me something I needed, and I believe they’ll do the same for you.

Whether you’re an entrepreneur, a creative, a leader, or just trying to better yourself this year, you’ll find value in these.

All titles are linked to make it easy for you to check them out.

The Comfort Crisis

The Science of Spice

Unreasonable Hospitality

How to Create, Win, And Dominate Markets

How To Get Rich

Never Finshed

Living With A Seal

The Man The Moment Demands

Weapons of Mass Instruction

The Miracle Morning

Let’s Talk About It

If you’ve read any of these or plan to reach out. I’d love to hear your takeaways. Let me know what challenged you, what stuck with you, and what you’d recommend back.

Also, I’ve created a dedicated Instagram Book Club Channel, where I’ll be sharing my reading updates, insights from these books, and conversations around the ideas inside them.

You can join that here: Rasheed’s Book Club

Read better. Think deeper. Grow sharper.
See you in the next one.

– Rasheed

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Let’s start with Traeger. If you spend any amount of time on LinkedIn, you have probably noticed the same thing I have. A steady flow of “now hiring” posts. No big announcement. No victory lap. Just movement. And sometimes movement without explanation tells you more than a flashy press release ever could. Is Traeger back? Maybe. Sorta. Hard to tell. What is clear is that brands are repositioning quietly, recalibrating for whatever comes next.

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Then there is Tendernism. Or more specifically, what happens when food culture, money, pride, and public attention collide. Keith Lee visiting Destination Smokehouse should have been another moment of shared excitement. Instead, it turned into a flashpoint. Being turned away after attempting to tip Walt, reportedly to the tune of $4,000, lit up conversations everywhere. Tipping culture. Intent versus perception. Who gets to decide what respect looks like in a space built on community? There are no villains here, but there are lessons. When barbecue becomes a destination, the expectations change, whether we like it or not.

That tension shows up again when you look at Smokeslam. According to their site, Smokeslam 2026 is officially on ice. No event this year. That kind of pause does not happen by accident. Events are expensive. Labor is expensive. Attention is expensive. Sometimes the smartest move is knowing when to step back instead of pushing forward just to say you did it.

At the same time, some traditions keep standing firm. The Shed Showdown is back, reminding us why legacy matters. Steak cookoffs, real fire, real skill, no gimmicks required. There is something grounding about knowing that some corners of barbecue still move at their own pace, untouched by trends or timelines.

And then there is the newest threat creeping in quietly. AI bandits. Bloggers and recipe developers waking up to find their work scraped, repackaged, and redistributed without credit or consent. This is not innovation. This is extraction. And for creators who built their platforms one recipe, one test cook, one failure at a time, it hits deep. Barbecue has always been about sharing knowledge, but sharing only works when respect travels both directions.

When you zoom out, all of these stories are connected. Brands hiring quietly. Events pausing. Traditions holding steady. Creators protecting their work. What we are really watching is an industry negotiating its values in real time.

Barbecue has never just been about food. It is about trust. About showing up. About knowing when to say yes and when to say no. The smoke always clears eventually. The question is who is still standing when it does, and what they chose to protect along the way.

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