Big Woody's invites diners to come for the brisket and stay for the hog balls
The unassuming St. Charles BBQ joint is as worthy as its St. Louis counterparts—just don't ask for the baked apples recipe.
Big Woody’s BBQ, a St. Charles County barbecue joint located in a strip mall (what is it, by the way, about outstanding barbecue spots around here in strip malls?) is a pretty remarkable eatery. Its hickory smoldering pits sit on the edge of a parking lot for a row of businesses on bustling Zumbehl Road, and there's a screen door—right behind the glass one—that’s been installed to bang shut satisfactorily when you pass through. And it peddles a pretty remarkable menu item: hog balls.
But first the brisket. You know the rules. It’s just like a pizzeria: If it offers pizza Margherita on the menu, it’s that pie that must be the standard by which the entire enterprise is judged. If it’s a burger joint, it’s their cheeseburger. If a barbecue place advertises brisket, it doesn’t matter what else—ribs, pulled pork, whatever—it’s got to stand on its brisket. In Woody’s case, the brisket is rough-chopped into satisfying chunks, and has that luscious, smoky sweetness along with the crusty tang of a perfectly charred bark. It’s fat-swathed, meltingly tender, splendidly moist. This is the brisket of a Jewish deli dream, the fantasy of a West Texas mesquite fire pit. Whatever alchemical rituals are performed to elevate that slab of cow into a culinary experience, Big Woody’s got it mastered. Pile it on a slab of lightly buttered Texas toast. This isn’t a two-handed sandwich. It’s a “one hand on the sammie, the other with a fork to catch the windfall” kind of meal.
The brisket sandwich is spectacular, but a sampling of some of the sides reveals other high points. The potato salad—mustardy, chilled, with a flurry of paprika—is like a recipe stolen from your grandmother. Green beans are cooked Southern style, that is limp (the words al dente do not exist anywhere near “vegetables” on the austral side of the Mason-Dixon Line). They're juicy and flavored with porky goodness. If you like okra, fried nubbins of it here are pretty damned good. (If you don’t like okra, you'll think, "These aren’t all that bad.") Sliced, cooked apples, are sweet and bright with cinnamon. Don’t ask for the recipe. We did, and the owner said, “Sure, let me put it right on your arm there”—he was holding a knife.
Along with that banging screen door (and testy owner), there are other essentials for the classic barbecue joint here. The walls are shingled with dozens of old license plates, as well as various hand-lettered warnings about the fate of whiners, people chattering on their cell phones while placing an order, and other anti-social behaviors. There is music. We caught the lyrics of one tune devoted to the proposed evening plans for one Everyman on his way to the local “honkytonk.”
And there are hog balls.
They're about the size of… let’s see. Racquet balls. Deep-fried crusty meteors. They have a tender, crumbly, cornbread-like interior studded with slivers of pork, swirls of melted sharp cheddar cheese, and onions. And bacon. It’s like a Georgia Baptist church supper in the round.
The "Hot Mess," with pulled pork, slaw, and onion rings. (And the baked apples side dish tastes better than it looks.)
Besides the brisket and the pork balls, there are plenty of other protein possibilities at Big Woody’s—pulled pork, pulled chicken, racks of St. Louis–style ribs, pork steaks. There are some other sandwiches, like a “Hillbilly Philly,” with grilled peppers and onions, shredded cheese, and chipotle sauce with your choice of meat on a hoagie bun. Or the 'Rench Dip, the brisket on a hoagie with provolone and beef juice. Or the Hogfire, with pulled pork on garlic toast and a ghost chili pepper sauce. And there’s the Hot Mess (pictured above).
Although don't count on any of that being available if you drop by. As with many of the best barbecue spots, Big Woody’s sells out of some of the menu on many days—and especially on weekends.
