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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The day after a major holiday meal, Thanksgiving, Christmas, or any big family feast comes with a distinct, quiet stillness. The kitchen, full of the echoes of celebration and the scent of last night’s culinary efforts, has a story to tell. You’re full, happy, and you invested significant time, money, and energy into that meal. The crucial next steps are often overlooked. The holiday itself gets the spotlight, but the aftermath is where you either protect that investment or slowly let it waste away.

Here are three simple, yet often ignored, practices that will silently elevate every future holiday you cook.

1. Respect Your Tools: The Proper Care of Cutting Boards

During a holiday cook, your cutting boards are kitchen workhorses. They handle everything from raw protein juices to aggressive chopping. Yet, most home cooks give them nothing more than a quick rinse, a swipe with a dishcloth, and a spot on the drying rack. If your boards are wood, they are investments, not disposables. To keep them healthy and safe, give them a dedicated ten minutes once the rush is over:

• Scrape and Wash Quickly: Use a bench scraper to remove stuck-on bits. Wash the board immediately with mild soap and warm water, working fast to avoid soaking the wood, which can cause warping.

• Dry Completely: This is the critical step. Pat the board absolutely dry with a clean towel. Residual moisture is the enemy, inviting warps and unwanted odors.

• Nourish the Wood: Once dry, apply a food-safe mineral oil or board cream, working it into the grain with a soft cloth. The wood should drink the oil, transforming from dull and “thirsty” to a deep, rich satin. Oil both sides, let it absorb, and buff off any excess.

This small ritual preserves the board’s integrity, keeps your knives working efficiently, and ensures you’re always using a clean, well-cared-for tool.

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2. Stop Buying Flavor Twice: Save Your Bones

The day after a holiday, you are sitting on a goldmine: the flavor base for phenomenal winter cooking. Yet, most people head to the grocery store to buy cartons of stock or canned broth. You already paid for that flavor when you bought and cooked the meat. Turkey carcasses, ham bones, and beef rib bones are not scraps; they are raw material. If you smoked or grilled your holiday proteins, their value is exponentially higher.

Make the Move:

1. Carve and Cool: After the meat is carved, strip off any usable pieces. Allow the bones to cool completely, spreading them out on a sheet pan to prevent steaming.

2. Portion and Seal: Group the bones with your future cooking plans in mind a turkey carcass for stock, a ham bone for beans, or rib bones for chili broth.

3. Label and Freeze: Vacuum seal each portion, clearly labeling the protein and the date. Move them immediately to the deep freezer.

Months from now, you’ll bypass the high-priced store-bought stock for a smoky, rich, and deeply seasoned foundation for soups, stews, and braises flavor you already owned.

3. Be Honest About Leftover Shelf Life

The emotional barrier is the hardest part of post-holiday cleanup. You intentionally cooked an abundance, and throwing food away feels like failure. This feeling is why half-forgotten containers linger in the back of a busy holiday fridge, silently counting down their days.

The Reality Check:

If your leftovers were not vacuum sealed, clearly labeled, and moved to the deep freezer within 24 to 36 hours of cooking, they are on borrowed time. A holiday fridge is subject to constant temperature fluctuations that compromise food safety and quality. Once that clock runs out, you have a choice: hang on to that questionable stuffing until it develops a “mystery sheen,” or accept the reset. The former risks foodborne illness; the latter is simply good kitchen management.

Reframing the Waste:

If disposal feels wasteful, reframe it as homework for next time. Build a system that respects the food from the moment it’s packed:

• Keep a roll of masking tape and a marker handy.

• Clearly label the contents and date as you pack.

• Decide immediately: what is worth turning into a high-quality, “heat-and-eat” meal in January, and what has passed its peak?

Your future self will thank you for safe, delicious leftovers and absolutely resent a questionable container of mystery food hiding behind the milk carton on day six.

The Quiet Ritual

The holiday meal is loud and energetic. The aftermath is quiet and introspective. Oiling your boards, freezing your bones, and knowing when to let go of leftovers are unglamorous tasks that won’t make the highlight reel. But they are the work that stretches your culinary effort far past a single meal. They ensure your kitchen remains a safe, respectable, and efficient space.

The holiday meal doesn’t end when the dishes are put away. It ends when you have taken care of what is left behind. That is where better seasons of cooking begin.

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There is a profound moment when a person chooses to step into the smoke not as a diner, but as a cook. This choice embraces heat, chaos, responsibility, and the necessity of real-time problem-solving. This is the journey Tyler Heath embarked upon when he joined Misfits Barbecue. Tyler is no amateur; he arrived as a classically trained Canadian chef, bringing years of line experience and ingrained standards, ready to immerse himself in the new world of barbecue. This fusion of worlds was clearly demonstrated during their recent pop-up residency at Round Trip Brewing.

However, this story transcends a single successful weekend. It is about the powerful intersection of two distinct crafts: the rigorous discipline of a chef and the primal intuition of a pitmaster. Chefs are trained to manage chaos; pitmasters are defined by it. Chefs measure flavor precisely; pitmasters gauge the flow of time. Chefs’ plate with focused intent; pitmasters serve with pure honesty. Yet, at their core, both share the fundamental identity of problem-solvers who nourish people through food.

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This experience powerfully reminded us that barbecue is greater than the pit itself, it is the collective of people who choose to stand around it. Standing in that heat, the three of us discussed lessons learned, mistakes made, necessary improvements, and the fierce pride that comes from a team fighting for a shared, elevated vision.

This leads directly to my “Hot Take of the week”: the concept of tenderism.

While tenderness is undoubtedly important, it has been dangerously over-marketed, reduced to a buzzword, a shortcut, and a gimmick. We have reached a point where technique is judged solely by how easily a slice falls apart. This neglects the essential questions: Was the meat cooked with intention? Did it taste exceptional? Did the process honor the craft?

Good barbecue is not defined by tenderness alone; it is defined by character.

Ultimately, this week’s conversation centers on the character behind the craft: a chef who took a risk and embraced a new world; a team rebuilding from the ground up; a pop-up that challenged everyone to grow; a craft that rejects shortcuts; and a culture striving for balance between standards, soul, and sustainability.

Misfits Barbecue is now in its building phase, a process that absolutely demands pressure, complete honesty, and the presence of the right people surrounding the pit.

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Shopping List

For the Chicken:

• 2 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken wings (or a mix of parts)

• 2 cups pickle juice (from dill pickles)

• 2 cups buttermilk

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• 2 tablespoons Good Feather Poultry Seasoning

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• Peanut or canola oil, for frying

For the Fries:

• 4 large russet potatoes

• Salt, to taste

• 1 tablespoon cornstarch (optional for extra crisp)

• Oil (same as chicken)

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Fried Chicken Instructions

1. Brine the Chicken (8 hours ahead)

• Place the chicken in a large zip-top bag or container.

• Add 2 cups pickle juice and seal.

• Let sit in the fridge for at least 8 hours, preferably overnight.

• Drain and pat the chicken dry before battering.

2. Prepare the Coating

In a large bowl, mix together:

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• 2 tablespoons Good Feather Poultry Seasoning

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

Set aside if you want an even crispier crust; double-dredge by preparing a second bowl with buttermilk.

3. Batter the Chicken

• Dredge each piece of chicken in the flour mix, pressing it in well for coverage.

• (Optional) For extra crunch: Dip in buttermilk, then dredge again in flour mix.

Let rest on a wire rack while you heat the fryer.

4. Preheat the Fryer

• Fill the Masterbuilt Electric Fryer with oil to the max fill line.

• Preheat to 350°F.

5. Fry the Chicken

• Carefully lower the chicken into the hot oil.

• Fry for 12–15 minutes, depending on size, until internal temp hits 165°F.

• Let rest on a wire rack or paper towel-lined tray.

  

Fries Instructions

1. Prep the Potatoes

• Peel (optional) and cut into ¼-inch thick fries.

• Soak in cold water for at least 30 minutes to remove excess starch.

• Drain and dry thoroughly with paper towels.

2. Optional Step for Crispier Fries

• Toss fries in 1 tablespoon of cornstarch for extra crunch.

3. Pre-Fry (Par-Cook)

• Heat oil in fryer to 325°F.

• Fry potatoes for 3–4 minutes, just until slightly softened.

• Remove and let rest on a paper towel-lined tray.

4. Final Fry

• Increase fryer temp to 375°F.

• Fry potatoes again until golden and crispy (about 3–5 minutes).

• Drain, salt immediately, and serve hot.

  

Sheed’s Tips:

• Don’t skip the brine. Pickle juice adds tang, moisture, and depth that shines through after frying.

• Double fry your potatoes; it’s the secret to restaurant-style fries.

• Batch fry in small loads. Overcrowding the fryer drops the oil temperature and leads to soggy results.

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I came to Hondo for the Open Fire Meat Up, a gathering that celebrates the primal art of cooking over flame. The ranch is vast, so large it swallows you whole if you’re not careful, with trees that lean like sentinels over the open pastures and farm sheds built for work, not show. Somewhere on the back half, hunters clean their bucks at a weathered station, a quiet reminder that this land still belongs to those who know how to use it. On the front, though, the fire pits roared. This was where I set up with a new rig, Big Javi’s creation, the Fire Coop, a beast of welded steel and imagination. I had the honor of being the first to break it in, and as the coals took, I felt that same excitement I imagine a painter feels before touching brush to canvas.

Cooking here is not performance, it’s communion. You shovel, you stoke, you listen. The fire tells you when to turn, when to wait, when to feed it more. I cooked open-fire jerk chicken that day, each crackle and hiss echoing against the metal rig. The smoke wrapped around us like an invisible crowd. People wandered by, drawn by the scent, and I served them straight from the chopping block. There’s no barrier between pitmaster and plate here, no stage, no catering tent. Just the immediacy of the exchange. The crowd’s reactions, nods, smiles, a satisfied silence, fed me as much as the food itself.

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A few hours later, I was on the opposite side of the South, standing by the water in Charleston for the fifth annual Holy Smokes Festival. The scene could not have been more different. Where Hondo was wide and raw, Charleston was refined and rhythmic. Riverfront Park shimmered under the late autumn moonlight, its skyline interrupted only by the slow passage of cargo barges that looked close enough to touch.

By nightfall, the moon painted the water silver, and those same barges became moving shadows against the backdrop of a city that has always understood the power of community and craft.

This was my fifth year cooking at Holy Smokes, and it’s always felt less like a festival and more like a family reunion. The nation’s best pitmasters gather here, not to compete, but to give. Every plate serves a purpose, raising money for Hogs for the Cause and Ronald McDonald House. There are no egos, no trophies, no headliners. Just shared fire and shared purpose. The setup this time was simple: Corolina whole-hog. The crowd drifted between villages, Old School, New School, Texas, each pit a different dialect in the language of smoke. At my station, I could hear laughter mingling with the soft slap of waves against the riverwall.

Charleston has a way of reminding you that the fire is just the tool; the people are the story. Late that night, we gathered around a burn barrel, pitmasters, friends, and family, sharing stories under the same moon that had watched over Hondo just days earlier. Rodney Scott, a constant source of wisdom and humor, leaned in to talk shop and life in equal measure. These are the moments that feed me deeper than any meal ever could.

But this year, there was a quiet undercurrent, a heavier kind of reflection. One of the festival’s founders, Anthony, had recently lost his son, Asher. His speech that night wasn’t about barbecue; it was about time. About how fleeting it is, how precious. The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into every conversation that followed. Time, he said, is the only thing we can’t make more of. It’s a truth that hits differently when you spend your days tending fires, measuring minutes by embers, watching things burn down to ash only to start again.

In Hondo, I learned that my reach extends farther than I realize, that the small ripples we make can travel further than we ever expect. In Charleston, I was reminded that the only real competition worth having is with time itself. Between the two fires, I found balance: one that pushes, one that nourishes.

If Hondo was the hard-driving spirit of open flame, bold, raw, and relentless, then Holy Smokes was its counterpoint: soft-hearted, communal, reflective. Both are bound by the same element, yet each burns with its own soul. And somewhere between those two fires, I rediscovered why I fell in love with this life in the first place. The fire may be what draws us in, but it’s the people, their stories, their hands, their hearts, that keep us coming back to the pit, again and again.

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That’s the position Bryan Hull finds himself in today.

Hull became one of the most recognizable faces in Atlanta barbecue over the last two years. His work helped a young restaurant achieve what few outside Texas ever do, recognition from Texas Monthly as one of the top three Texas-style barbecue destinations outside the Lone Star State. He didn’t arrive there by accident. He led operations. Built recipes. Managed the pit room. Trained teams. Perfected systems. He was in before sunrise and still standing when dinner service wrapped.

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The business performance followed the same trajectory. In one year, the restaurant tripled its prior performance, and Hull projected five-to-six-times growth heading into this season. Success like that usually comes with contracts, ownership shares, and a level of stability that protects everyone involved.

This one didn’t.

Behind the line, the story looked very different. Hull describes a leadership structure where his commitment was taken for granted, where his voice became easy to ignore, and where the work he contributed, the work everyone tasted, was often credited somewhere else. Like many pitmasters, he kept going. Until he couldn’t.

One morning, everything changed; Hull didn’t storm out or slam a door. He came in early, set up his team for success, ensured service would run smoothly, then walked away before opening. It was the kind of departure that tells you he cared more about his crew and customers than the building he was leaving behind. When he returned the next day, ready to rebuild communication and boundaries, he found the same patterns waiting for him. The message was clear. Nothing would change. So he did.

Hull left the brand he helped build, not in anger, but with clarity. He made a choice pitmasters rarely allow themselves: he protected his mental health over the myth of barbecue martyrdom.

There is a romanticized version of this business, one where passion is payment and community is compensation. It’s a good story until it becomes a trap. Hull’s story highlights a truth rarely said out loud: Barbecue success is often measured by the food. Barbecue failure is almost always about the system behind it.

On paper, he was indispensable. In reality, he was replaceable, until everyone realized he wasn’t. They even tested a name change for a brief 48-hour window, a sign not of reinvention but of disorientation or politics yet to be addressed. The community took notice. The story spread.

Meanwhile, Hull received messages from Michelin-recognized chefs, business leaders, and pitmasters across the country, reminding him that the respect he’d earned wasn’t tied to a single location.

They weren’t following the brand.
They were following the pitmaster.

It’s easy to overlook the business risks that live beneath barbecue’s glowing reputation. The industry is volatile: high labor needs, fluctuating meat prices, thin margins, and relentless physical demand. Pitmasters like Hull operate as chefs, mechanics, managers, and therapists, often simultaneously. Yet while they feed communities, their own well-being can get lost in the smoke.

Hull’s decision to leave, without safety nets, without a guarantee, is a reminder of barbecue’s most overlooked truth:

Fire builds things. Fire also consumes them.

Knowing the difference requires courage. Where does he go next? That depends on who he chooses to build with. Hull’s skill is portable. His identity is not tied to one address. And based on the reaction from his peers, opportunity is already forming around him like heat around a brisket in a well-sealed pit.

He won’t need billboards to explain what he brings. His reputation has already been carved into Atlanta’s barbecue landscape, not with marketing, but with results. Barbecue fans love a comeback story. They love a survivor. They love someone who understands the grind and still wakes up ready to tend the flame again. They’ll get that with Hull. Because for all the ways this business can bruise a person, his love for the craft remains intact.

He’s not chasing fame.
He’s not chasing lists.
He’s chasing a place where passion and partnership finally match.

That’s where the next great restaurant starts, not with a name above the door, but with someone standing behind the pit, determined to build something better than what they walked away from.

The fire hasn’t gone out. It’s just waiting for the next spark.

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The founder of Swig & Swine BBQ in Charleston, Anthony’s journey is a story of risk, resilience, and rebirth. Speaking with him, you don’t just hear a man talking about brisket, you hear a craftsman who bet everything on himself, backed by faith and a family that refused to let him fall.

Before he built one of South Carolina’s most respected barbecue brands, Anthony was just a guy with a passion and a dream that didn’t quite fit the safe route. He didn’t come from a long line of pitmasters or inherit a family restaurant. What he inherited was a work ethic, a belief in showing up, and the grit to start something from scratch.

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When he opened Swig & Swine, it wasn’t backed by deep pockets or investors, it was fueled by his siblings pitching in, long nights, and pure conviction. “I knew if I didn’t try, I’d regret it forever,” he said. And that’s the heart of barbecue, isn’t it? You can’t fake it. You can’t rush it. You can only put in the time and hope that your faith in the process pays off.

But this conversation wasn’t just about the grind. It was about the gravity that comes when life reminds you how fragile all of it really is. Anthony recently lost his son, Asher, and when he spoke about him, the fire in his eyes shifted, from ambition to remembrance. There was no bravado, no need to perform. Just a father carrying both the love and the loss, still finding purpose through smoke and service.

That’s where Holy Smokes BBQ Festival comes in. The event, hosted in Charleston, isn’t just another stop on the competition circuit. It’s a gathering with heart, a festival that brings together pitmasters from across the country to raise money for families staying at Ronald McDonald Houses. For those families, it’s not just about a place to rest. It’s about hope, community, and care when life feels unbearably heavy.

Anthony knows that feeling firsthand. And maybe that’s why Holy Smokes hits so close this year. “It’s not just about cooking,” he said, “it’s about doing something that helps somebody else get through the hardest days of their life.”

Barbecue, at its best, has always been more than meat and wood. It’s about people. It’s about what happens when you gather around the fire, not to show off, but to give back. Anthony’s story reminds us that the pit isn’t just a place of creation; it’s a place of healing. Every rack of ribs, every chopped pork sandwich, every shared laugh over smoke, it’s all a quiet act of service.

When you listen to him talk about his team, you realize that the heart of Swig & Swine isn’t just in the kitchen. It’s in the camaraderie, the mentorship, the shared pride in doing something right. “You can’t do this alone,” he said. “You might start with your own dream, but it’s the people who show up beside you that make it real.”

That’s the thread that runs through everything: family, faith, and fire. Anthony’s siblings believed in him when the bank wouldn’t. His staff believed in his vision when the hours got long. And now, even after loss, he believes in something bigger than himself, using his craft to build comfort for others.

That’s what Holy Smokes captures so well: the intersection of passion and purpose. Pitmasters from all over come together, not just to showcase skill, but to remind each other why the smoke still matters. It’s not about ego; it’s about empathy. It’s not about competition; it’s about compassion. When I think back on our conversation, I’m reminded that every great pitmaster carries more than recipes; they carry stories. They carry scars. They carry memories of what was lost and what was gained around the fire.

Anthony’s story is one of them. It’s a reminder that even when the smoke clears and the crowd goes home, barbecue remains a language of love, one that feeds the body, yes, but also the soul.

So when Holy Smokes returns, remember: every ticket, every plate, every volunteer hour, it all adds up to something far greater than the sum of its parts. It’s barbecue with a purpose. It’s fire that gives back.

And maybe that’s the truest version of barbecue there is.

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Watch Anthony share his story.

To make a list, whether it’s Southern Living’s “Top 50” or a ranking of influential pitmasters, isn’t just about a good brisket. It’s about years of dedication, patience, and persistence in a craft where shortcuts are impossible. A brisket takes as long as it takes. Wood burns the way it wants to burn. And the customer line doesn’t care if you’re tired, short-staffed, or working through a supply chain nightmare.

The truth is, every name on a list represents thousands of invisible hours.

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