Finally Getting My Piece of the Pie
While researching destinations for DBBBBQ I came across a couple of endorsements for a place called Craig’s not too far off the interstate from Memphis to Dallas. A quick debate ensued in my mind: pick up extra sandwiches at the well established A&R for the trip to Texas, or take the detour to DeValls Bluff in Arkansas halfway down the highway? The first point scored for Arkansas was the discovery that Craig’s not only sold allegedly delicious pork, but also carried fresh pies, baked daily at a shop across the street. The deal was sealed when I called Craig’s to inquire about hours of operation.

Woman: Hello?
James: Hi, is this Craig’s Bar-B-Q?
W: Yes.
J: Hi, could you tell me what your hours are?
W: What?
J: Your hours. The times that you’re open.
W: Well, I come into work at nine and I go home at five.
J: Okay, thanks. Are there any days you’re not open?
W: What?
J: Um, are there any days of the week you’re closed?
W: I come into work at nine. And I go home at five.
J: Uhhh, okay. Thanks.

Lured by the promise of the hardest working Q in show business, I pulled off of I-40 just over 50 miles away from Little Rock. After some initial confusion over directions, I rolled into the sparsely populated town of DeValls Bluff and stepped into the second smallest barbecue shack of the tour.

Craig’s was the purest local joint I visited on DBBBBQ: I couldn’t imagine anyone other than neighborhood families and chowhounds like myself ever taking the time to visit such a remote place like this. Elderly regulars filled the four tables inside, the walls were decorated with high school sports team photos and community fliers, and every so often a customer would walk through the double doors separating the seating space from a similarly sized kitchen to chat with the woman on duty and the two teenagers helping run the orders. Prices were modest and the service was prompt and familiar: not too friendly, but not too curt either. As with Payne’s and Hog Heaven before it, presentation and aesthetic plays absolutely no role in the operation of Craig’s: people know what they want when they walk in the door and don’t expect anything extra with their service. I ordered a pork sandwich, sweet tea and single serving of chocolate creme pie and was served in just a few minutes.

Since my first sandwich at The Rib Pit in DC I had been exclusively sampling variations of pulled and chopped pork. The thick sliced white meat pork in the sandwich I received at Craig’s came as a pleasant surprise. It lacked the grit and juices of a good plate of pulled pork but made up for it with a tender, hearty consistency. The obscene pile of white slaw slathered atop might have proved delicious to a mayonnaise lover, but quickly found its place on my platter wrapped in napkin and butcher paper.

Once that unpleasantness was settled, I made quick work of the rest of my sandwich and opened the take-out box containing the day’s last chocolate pie. It was the most beautiful pie I’ve ever seen, and I’ve baked some beautiful pies in my own day. I rarely use the word “luscious” to describe anything other than people named Jackson, but that and every other word in a chocolate mousse ad campaign’s arsenal would not be enough to convey the level of sweet satisfaction I reached with every bite of this pie. The meringue! The filling! I didn’t want to even think about chocolate creme pie for at least a year, having consumed that heavenly monstrosity.

Fried fruit pies, however, were still excellent candidates for consumption. After crossing the border into Texas, I celebrated reaching the final state of the tour by opening up the A&R bag and downing the peach (and later that night, the apple). I didn’t find either one anything to write home about, but this could have been one of the non-fatal side effects of having eaten the world’s richest chocolate creme pie just hours before. Nevertheless, I finished the pie, downed a glass of milk and got back on the interstate towards Dallas.