Brit and One-Time Texan Returns to Texas for 96 Hours of Meat

Englishman Gavin Cleaver once served as the Dallas Observer's barbecue critic and web editor. He offered a humorous and insightful take on brisket through the eyes of someone who grew up eating that weird pea stuff with fish and chips (so we presume). He's been back in England for over a decade, but he recently returned to Texas with friends in tow to relive the good ol' days of proper meat sweats. Here's an account of his travels.

Wednesday

I first moved to Dallas in February 2011, roughly the week North Texas hosted the Super Bowl. Having done no research and assuming I was moving to a desert with cacti, guns and tumbleweeds, I had packed only T-shirts and shorts. It was, of course, 13 degrees Fahrenheit.

Almost 14 years later, I returned to Dallas for the first time. Having done no research, I assumed Texas would be its usual 70 degrees Fahrenheit, late-winter self, overcast but pleasant. I packed only T-shirts and shorts. It was, of course, 13 degrees Fahrenheit.

People learn from their experiences, generally. My time in Dallas has left a lasting impression of a liberal, progressive city in a sea of red, unfairly typecast by the world at large as a cowboy town with nothing to do. I have tried to defend you in Europe. Europeans are bemused by the idea that Dallas might be all right, that there might be a genuinely excellent food culture and a thriving music scene. I have remembered all of this and told people at length, but I didn’t remember the weather in February.

Our brief Dallas adventure starts, as all drives to Dallas must, two hours south at Czech Stop in West. As we pull up, a three-car convoy on the road from Austin, it’s so cold that it isn’t even quite snowing, there’s just the odd little snowflake in a bone-dry wind. Thankfully, Czech Stop has approximately 17,000 kolaches, several microwaves and no queue. I can’t resist some sort of Byzantine pecan nightmare alongside my usual berry and cream cheese kolache. We huddle around the few tables in the corner for warmth and lay out the microwaved feast. It’s good! It’s also basically no money!
For some people in the group, this is their first introduction to the concept of good food being served in a gas station, a true Texas tradition. One of the most enduring stories I tell about Texas is that the more your tamales or elotes purchase feels like a drug deal, the better the tamales or elotes are bound to be. Meeting someone’s grandmother with a tamale hookup at a gas station near Denton is the sign of high cuisine.

Back in the car, we are pursued to Dallas not only by snow flurries but by the face of that dastardly beaver, with a new billboard containing Gen Z lingo every three miles. It’s undoubtedly a very effective marketing technique, because Buc-ee’s is all I can think about for about 100 miles, until I am informed that Maskaras Grill, our restaurant for the evening and the venue for a meeting with old friend José Ralat, has closed early because of the cold. It’s not even icy! I had forgotten how much Dallas drivers panic any time the temperature dips below the catchy 32 degrees Fahrenheit, you have nominated as your freezing point (controversially, the rest of the world has gone with “zero”).

When we first moved to Texas, neither my partner nor I could drive, having lived in the mythical “walkable cities” of Europe. As a result, we arrived, hilariously, relying on the Dallas bus system to obtain groceries for our spectacularly unfurnished apartment. Amid the entire region being frozen solid, we tried phoning DART to ask if there would be any buses so we could eat. “Ma'am,” they firmly told my partner, “there is a lot of snow and ice.” Yes, I can see it. Does that mean there will be any buses? Perhaps someone might grit the road? “Ma'am. There is a lot of snow and ice.” DART hung up.

In an attempt to show my companions that Dallas has one walkable area, we chose Bishop Arts for the evening, or more specifically Lockhart Smokehouse, scene of several former personal birthday parties. We are incredibly blessed to bump into owners Jill and Jeff Bergus, who are at their restaurant helping some YouTubers film something about barbecue, as YouTubers are wont to do, I suppose.

A note about barbecue in London before we continue — it's appalling. A magazine even commissioned me to eat at every barbecue restaurant in London to check. It was dreadful. At one point, a restaurant (with good reviews!) that had written a lengthy paragraph on its menu about smoking its brisket over specific types of wood for 18 hours served me boiled beef in meat gravy, topped with chives.

Anyway, Lockhart Smokehouse, which has recently changed its pit team, Jill tells me, is a delightful venue and has the brisket to match. I can’t tell you how much I missed those brisket devilled eggs and jalapeño poppers. And a jar of Peticolas! What a time to be alive, friends.

We walk-jog down the road into the somehow even colder night because of a need for dessert, and I remember the joys of Dude, Sweet Chocolate and Emporium Pies, both of which are still open at this time and just as cute as I remember. Dude is continuing on its quest to combine every ingredient known to man with chocolate and still make it work. (I do not brave the mushroom chocolate bar and stick with the tried and tested peanut combo.) Emporium is still putting out the chocolate and salted pretzel crust. They say you shouldn’t eat your memories, but here I am.

Thursday

It’s a balmy 15 degrees Fahrenheit, and I find myself at Ascension Coffee. While I settle for the bane of millennials who want to purchase houses, aka avocado toast, a companion orders the most visually insane thing on the menu — a trio of coffees meant to represent a deconstructed s’more. Unfortunately, rather than really leaning into the madness of this menu item, Ascension serves him three lattes and a marshmallow. I was hoping for a Graham cracker hot chocolate alongside pure marshmallow foam in a jug, but it was not to be.

While several of our group head to the Sixth Floor Museum so they can stand on the grassy knoll like any good tourist, I head to Cattleack Barbecue. It should be noted at this juncture that, if you don’t know me, which is entirely understandable because it’s been a long time since my last article here, I used to write for this newspaper about barbecue. Apologies if you’ve got this far and are surprised by the sheer volume of barbecue I can consume, but my most patriotic American trait is eating high-quality beef until I feel quite ill. Also, while Dallas has a vast array of restaurants, many national cuisines can be found in London to a very high standard. Thus, here we will be focusing on the few that London absolutely cannot do.

Cattleack is so fucking good. If there were a Cattleack near me, you’d never see me leave it. If Cattleack has one fan, it’s me. If Cattleack has zero fans, it’s because I’ve died. You see what I’m getting at here. Wagyu brisket seems like cheating on the fatty beef front, but cheat away. This is pure beef cream, a textural triumph with a perfectly blackened rub, and accompanied by a smoked bologna that is somehow almost better than the wagyu beef. If I were a rich man, I would put this in my sandwich, and then I would post about my sandwich on social media in ALL CAPS, and not just because I am old now and sometimes I forget the caps lock is on. Cattleack also has a broccoli salad, which is absolute woke nonsense if you ask me (I AM JOKING ABOUT THIS, PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS DISCLAIMER, EDITOR).

What’s the best dessert for barbecue? Why, Zavalas Barbecue over in Grand Prairie, which was heavily featured in the most recent Top 50 Texas Monthly list. I think we caught them at the wrong time, as the brisket is drier than the tortilla. The brisket boudin is good, though. That’s an entirely new experience, with big chunks of brisket in the rice. Excellent stuff.

After a short mental health break in which I lie face down on a hotel bed and try to digest two barbecue restaurants, it’s time for a drink. I was very much hoping during my time in Texas to see my beloved Dallas Stars, but instead, hockey has organized a four-country “World Cup” (a bit like your US-Canada-only World Series), so I cannot watch hockey. Sad, but the U.S. is playing Canada in the final this evening, so we retreat to the Meddlesome Moth to watch it, balancing the Moth’s lack of screens with a desire not to go to a sports bar while the U.S. is playing a major game against a country they’re trying to annex.

Anyway, the Moth’s beer menu is genuinely world-class, and it allows me to refamiliarize myself with Lakewood Temptress, a beer that is so good and so very strong that it once caused me to lose memory of a full week of my life after we rather foolishly got a keg of it in the house. Texas is where I discovered that beer could be delicious. British people used to say to me after I returned, 'You must be happy to be back here after all that Miller and Grolsch!' I would point out the lukewarm ales on the bar made by multinationals and remark at how Britain had somehow managed to ruin something as simple as the Buffalo wing.

The Moth’s burger is very nice, but what is superb are the beer snacks, especially the auspiciously named Moth Balls (which are actually ricotta gnudi, basically gnocchi made with ricotta and semolina). Even with two barbecue restaurants in me, I could eat several plates of these little things, which pull off the perfect snack trick of feeling both light and satisfying at the same time, cheesy and warming, but also feeling a bit fancy. I love them, and if the Moth closes as is threatened, you should all complain and find somewhere to resurrect Moth Balls.

Canada wins. You’ve got to let them have something.

Friday

The weather is pushing a tropical 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and I am having breakfast at a Denny’s where the heating has broken. The staff is all in heavy coats. By this point, I am wearing winter clothing I bought in Texas. You know another thing the British can’t do? Pancakes. You’ll get either a crepe or something called a drop scone (don’t ask). Denny’s has superheated my maple syrup, and I am truly grateful.

It’s time to introduce my friends to one of the strangest and best offshoots of pure American capitalist worship, Bass Pro. As we enter, I don't have to point out the roaring fireplace or the actual waterfall with fish in it. If you go to an outdoor store in London, you’re lucky if they’ve put one tent out as an example of what the tent may look like. Here, I enter through a phalanx of camo-painted quad bikes. What a place. I purchase a coat from the sales rack.

While there is nothing here to eat (unless you count beef jerky named things like Freedom Beef), it fills the time before we head to Smoke'N Ash BBQ in Arlington. I am intrigued by their Ethiopian take on Texas barbecue, and we are presented with a dizzying array of curries (with beef), greens (with beef), and beef (with beef). It’s fun, but it doesn’t quite hold up to the Ethiopian places back home, which is fair, I suppose, or the brisket at Cattleack, which is also fair.

I’ll tell you what is insane: 225 Degrees BBQ, just around the corner. I spy on the menu that they have smoked brisket elotes, and I am there quicker than you can explain what elotes are to a British person, which is quite a long time, really. For just 14 of your president’s dollars, I am presented with not a cup but a bucket layered with corn, Oaxaca cheese, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and smoked brisket. It’s a revelation. The texture of the Cheetos combines with the unexpected high quality of the corn and the balanced seasoning with the brisket to create something I cannot physically stop eating. This is your North Texas dish of the year right here. This restaurant had no right to even put this on the menu, but then to have it be this good? As we would say back home, bonkers.

We all go to a basketball game after a reunion with the psychotically boozy frozen Irish coffee at my favourite old bar in Dallas, Twilight Lounge. We manage to get eight tickets in a row for $15 each on the day of the game. Odd for a contending team. I’ve heard this Luka Doncic chap is good, but he doesn’t appear to be on the court — perhaps he’s injured?

Saturday

Today I was meant to meet Daniel Vaughn at Goldee’s, which is the equivalent of winning the barbecue lottery. During the basketball game, he asks me if I can go early to please hold his place in line. Absolute diva behavior from the barbecue editor of Texas Monthly if you ask me. All the barbecue has gone to his head. Still, I very much want to eat at the No. 1 barbecue restaurant in all of Texas while I’m here, so we persuade a very nice friend to drive us to rural south Fort Worth at 8 a.m. The temperature? Why, we’re cooking on gas now at a heatwave of 33 degrees Fahrenheit. Unfortunately, queuing for Goldee’s involves sitting outside.

When we arrive at about 8:40 a.m., there may be 20 people ahead of us in line. A good result. It opens at 11 a.m., of course, and I haven’t brought any gloves. I go and stand near a smoker to warm up. An hour later, Daniel arrives with a coolbox containing Champagne and orange juice to make mimosas for everyone, and all is forgiven. Daniel spends the next hour very patiently taking photos with starstruck barbecue aficionados, none of whom ask for a photo with me for some reason. (That only happened to me once in Dallas, and the person who asked was very drunk. I like to imagine that when they sobered up, they were confused as to who the photo was with.)

By the time Goldee’s opens at 11 a.m., there may be another 200 people in line behind us, and not all of them are going to get brisket. That’s the sad reality of the exclusive barbecue situation, I’m afraid. I advise you to arrive at Goldee’s by 9:30 a.m. at the latest, as that’s when the line starts multiplying in length.

We are served around 11:20 a.m., which, given there were at most six groups ahead of us, makes me wonder what time the people at the back will even see the remaining scraps. I will say, having seen Terry Black’s Disneyworld of barbecue in downtown Austin, there must be a way we can speed up the barbecue lines. I know this is a whole philosophical discussion about customer service (and, more controversially, creating long lines), but the number of barbecue places with 50 people in line and one person chopping meat … anyway, I digress.

Goldee’s is one of the finest meals of my life. The brisket, which the staff tells us is made with USDA Choice (so not even Prime!), is obscene — juicy, earthy, smoky, redolent with fat, the best I have ever tasted. Vaughn makes everyone a little sandwich using Goldee’s homemade bread (no shop-bought white loaves here). It’s outrageous. But you know what is truly transcendent? The Laotian sausage, with a bit of sticky rice, and the jeow som sauce on it. That goes from “incredible barbecue” into “something I have never tasted before and might not have the words to properly describe.”

Many places take barbecue and try to do something else with it — this is a particular problem in the UK, where to hide bad beef places will often put it in a ramen, or a taco (don’t get me started on Mexican food in the UK), but to take some of the finest barbecue and somehow elevate it even further using flavours alien to barbecue? Well, that is something truly rare. Oh, yes, and the ribs are just ridiculous too. Drive to Goldee’s.

We had planned to go into Fort Worth and visit Sabar BBQ after this, but the high of the meal and the post-beef crash have truly ended all of us. I retire to my hotel for another beef-induced lie-down.

Eventually, I make it back out to Deep Ellum, but the lust for food is gone. How can I go on after that? I spend the rest of the evening drinking frozen Irish coffees to forget, and I take dinner at Angry Dog just so one of our party can have wings before we leave Dallas. They are very good wings.

Sunday

It’s time to leave Dallas and swear off beef for a month. On the way out, we breakfast at Waffle House, because Waffle House is truly the Lord's own restaurant, and I miss it more than I can tell you. If they could just send one Waffle House to Europe, I would happily run it. (Just in case the WH bigwigs are reading.) Unfortunately, we go to the one in Waxahachie, and the first table we encounter has two people wearing “Let’s Go Brandon” T-shirts with a Punisher logo in the middle. Edgy! I bet people are impressed!

Finally, on the way back to Austin, the beaver wins. We stop at Buc-ee's. What a titanic shrine to capitalism. Someone drew a cartoon of a beaver and just decided to make every imaginable bit of merch with this beaver's face on it. My favourite thing is the gas pump beverage dispenser. I can't fit it in my luggage, but if any of you would like to send it to me, I'll pay handsomely. We even get a photo with Buc-ee himself.

So what have I learned from my whistle-stop beef reunion tour? Well, I've learned that I'm going to spend the next few years re-creating that meme of Wolverine looking sadly at a photo, but the photo will be of Goldee's. I've also learned that bringing tourists to Dallas when the weather is too cold to be outside is a tough sell, especially if they're middlingly interested in beef. Have I erred? Yes, but to err is human. To produce barbecue like places in Dallas do is divine.