When my friend Ben was moving from San Francisco to New York over Fourth of July weekend in 2003, I joined him in Austin to feast on Central Texas barbecue, the best there is. Texas Monthly had just published their list of Top 50 barbecue restaurants in the state. We ate at four of the Top 5 over a three-day stretch. Our last and best stop was Cooper’s Pit Bar-B-Q. We drove over four hours out of the way before driving on to New Orleans, and it was worth it! I couldn’t stop stuffing my mouth with succulent brisket, lamb ribs, sausage links, pork ribs, and chicken. The flavors of the salt and sauce and mesquite kept building on my taste buds until I was in a frenzy. Almost three years later, I returned with my father and brother, attempting to recreate that initial taste bud bliss.
A large pit boss was spearing chunks of meat and tossing them in a metal bin. He asked us if we wanted “sauce.” We did, and he dipped the meat in a bucket of jus to moisten the meat before binning it. We ordered a large sausage link, a half-slab of pork ribs, about a six-inch cut of brisket, a large pork chop, and half a chicken. On the weekends, they also sell sirloin and pork loin, but we skipped them. I was torn about whether to order one of their unusual specialties: goat and lamb. I saw several goat-filled fields on the drive to Cooper’s, but no sheep, so I went with goat. There were only three pieces of goat left. I avoided the backbone, since all I could make out were vertebrae, and went for the flank instead.
Sides and drinks were available in a fridge. We ordered pints of cole slaw and German potato salad. He then rang us up underneath a faded printout, taped to the wall, that read: “If you are grouchy, irritable, or just plain mean, there will be a $10 charge for putting up with you.”
Each table featured a built-in paper towel dispenser and a mammoth squeeze bottle of spicy, orange, vinegar-tinged BBQ sauce.
German potato salad and cole slaw were both excellent, the former vinegary and the latter finely chopped and crisp, but I wasn’t there to eat side dishes.
The pork chop was a little dry, but flavorful. Sausage was finely ground, almost silky in texture, containing none of the grit or kick of the City Market version, but it was still solid. The chicken was almost lacquered the way the skin gleamed. It was even better than I remembered it, very juicy and smoky, not dry at all. I ate a drumstick. The pork ribs were a little chewy, but they had bronzed skin and were juicy.
Surprisingly, my favorite meat was probably goat, which was chewy, a little salty, rosy pink, with great flavor. It wasn’t gamy at all. The only part I didn’t appreciate was a mash of curded white fat, on the interior of the flank. There were no desserts to speak of, just the kind of pre-packaged baked goods you’d find in a grocery store aisle, so we skipped them.
Another Cooper’s operates 30 miles down the road in Llano, opened by George’s late son Tommy in 1963. It has no connection to the Mason original, but it’s very good on its own merits, with a similar array of meats, outstanding cobblers, and even more taxidermied animals.
It’s highly unusual for an all-time favorite restaurant to live up to that first visit. Sadly, Cooper’s didn’t generate the same kind of elation I experienced in 2003. Happily, despite the perceived oh-so-slight dip, Cooper’s Pit Bar-B-Q still rates with the very best barbecue establishments, in Texas or anywhere.
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