Lockhart offers all the necessary sides for a smoked meat frenzy, including pickles, onions, raw jalapeño rings, sweet pickled jalapeños, fingers of cheddar cheese, white bread and saltines. Maddeningly, each side item is packed in a plastic bag. Since every meat order is wrapped in more butcher paper than necessary, the spoils of a meal at Lockhart are a study in environmental abuse. While I appreciate how much pre-packing simplifies to-go orders, I'm sorry Lockhart doesn't plate the garnishes for its staying customers just as many joints in the state's barbecue belt do.
Other more substantial sides include stiff deviled eggs, stuffed with a brisket-rich filling and stuck back in the smoker; a smoked potato salad with firm cubes of potato and a scattering of green onions; and a coleslaw heaving with mayonnaise. But Lockhart doesn't offer dessert, save a sad pile of plastic-wrapped cookies. That's an odd oversight and a boon for nearby Bolsa, which recently retained the services of Piecurious, a local pie bakery that specializes in fresh fruit pastries. Since the harsh acridity of smoke calls for a sweet sauce or a post-meal helping of peach cobbler—and Lockhart's obviously not abandoning its anti-barbecue-sauce position—a dessert would be a welcome menu addition.
Sara Kerens
The look, food and vibe at Lockhart are straight from Central Texas' barbecue belt.
Location Info
Details
Lockhart Smokehouse
400 W. Davis St., 214-944-5521, www.lockhartsmokehouse.com. Open daily from 11 a.m. until the meat runs out. $$
Smoked trout $7.99
Shoulder clod $15/pound
Brisket $15/pound
Original sausage $5
Jalapeņo cheddar
sausage $5.25
Pork chop $13/pound
Ribs $13/pound
Whole chicken $10
Coleslaw $2
Potato salad $2
Deviled eggs $2
Cheddar cheese $1
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Fortunately, Lockhart has mastered the hardest (and most critical) task for any Texas pit master: brisket. The counter guys are happy to slice to order, so if it's flavor you're chasing, ask for your brisket fatty, with a bit of burnt end if they're willing to spare it. The butt of a brisket looks stringy and charred, like a coconut salvaged from a fire, and has an unparalleled robustness.
Lockhart's brisket crust is so superb that it inspired my friend Daniel Vaughn—a barbecue blogger whose smoked meat opinions are so esteemed that when he tweeted that Lockhart patrons should steer clear of the ribs, the restaurant responded by offering a free rib to anyone who had seen the tweet—to deliver an impromptu sermon on pellicule, the tacky finish pit masters crave. Lockhart's brisket has it. It also has rich fat so beautifully rendered that I picked around the velvety meat to eat it. Mrs. Sprat would have a field day.
Lockhart's brisket is an eloquent reminder of why central Texas barbecue's an edible tradition worth saluting. And it's a pretty compelling argument for doing so without taking a road trip.