arriving early to sit in camping chairs stationed outside. At the counter where cooks slice meat to order, customers get a piece of glistening, fatty brisket as a teaser to their meal. They serve tender ribs, succulent slices of pepper-crusted turkey, squares of pork belly sugar-brined and lacquered with sauce for a meatier, candied bacon effect. Their brisket has the bark of an ancient redwood but the tender buttery center of a prime filet. The whole bounty bleeds wet into the butcher paper that lines the trays. Mere months after he began smoking meat on University Drive, Holmes and his crew’s small meat market-style counter had become the Valley’s smokehouse darling. In a 2014 Arizona Republic review, long- time Valley food critic Howard Seftel awarded Little Miss BBQ a raving 4.5 stars. The writer laid bare his assessment of barbecue in the Valley — and nothing held a candle to what he ate there. “During my 25 years in the Valley, the needle on my barbecue meter has oscillated predictably between ‘not bad’ and ‘pretty good,’” he wrote. “Until now. Little Miss BBQ’s ‘Central Texas’-style meats have blasted the needle way beyond ‘pretty good,’ way beyond ‘very good,’ all the way, when it comes to brisket and sausage, to ‘insanely scrumptious.’” After Seftel’s review, the number of people lined up to try Little Miss multiplied tenfold, Holmes estimates. The meteoric rise of the neophyte pitmaster put a spotlight on the rest of the barbecue joints in town. “Little Miss BBQ brought excitement and consistency to the Valley,” says Berman, of The Thumb. “They really opened the scene back up for so many other people.” From the beginning, the couple aimed to craft the best Central Texas-style ’cue of anyone in the country. Yelp’s “elite squad” of reviewers recently weighed in and agreed. Little Miss took the No. 1 ranking in a list of the best places in the U.S. for barbecue. Looking around Arizona’s barbecue scene 12 years after Little Miss arrived, Holmes sees proof in the (banana) pudding. “Everybody has elevated their game,” Holmes says. “It’s risen the quality of barbecue in Phoenix dramatically.” WHY NOT ARIZONA BARBECUE? Following Little Miss, Caldwell County and Eric’s Family BBQ arrived in the respective East and West valleys, forming a holy trinity in the Valley’s barbecue landscape. “If I can be so bold, I think we’re part of creating barbecue history out here,” Caldwell head Taylor says. That ascension flows with the nation’s growing preference for Central Texas-style barbecue. The format that took off in meat markets helmed by German and Czech immi- grants in the 1800s has “the best cheer- leaders” who tout it wherever they go, food historian Miller explains. “And it helps that it is delicious,” he adds. Taylor and his Caldwell crew eat their way through Texas twice a year, hitting more than two dozen smokehouses on a massive staff field trip. Texas pitmasters from some of those stops have even come to work at Caldwell over the years, Taylor says. “We share secrets and help each other out,” he says. “We’re all trying to learn together.” Though Valley pitmasters stick to the low, slow, offset wood-fired smoking tech- niques of Central Texas, they’re not afraid to infuse Arizona flavor with local wood or work familiar Southwestern ingredients into sides. Part of the growing Caldwell empire includes Caldwell County Mexi-Q, which the owners opened with their original manager, Julio Coronado. At the Gilbert restaurant, Coronado draws from the tradi- tions of his home state of Sonora, Mexico, to build dishes such as guajillo ribs, chile verde pork and brisket birria. The Thumb likewise works its brisket and other ’cue into crunchy tacos, burritos and massive breakfast stacks with hash- brown cakes, over-easy eggs, chipotle aioli and green onions. A new wave of barbecue joints has arrived, with upstart hobbyists such as the Middle Eastern-influenced Wild Barbecue in Tempe and the Scottsdale brewhouse- smokehouse Beerded BBQ joining the fray. Akil Zakariya launched Beerded BBQ as a pop-up in late 2020. He’d smoked meats at home for years and had a background in brewing, but now he and his wife, Sarah, hauled a smoker to breweries and taprooms around town. They settled into a pink food trailer parked at Pinnacle Brewing Co. in Scottsdale. At the center of the barbecue’s logo is an abstract face made from a foamy beer mug and a bushy hop, mirroring Zakariya’s glasses and curly black beard. He proudly set out to create a “lane” for Arizona barbecue. The pitmaster serves barbacoa tacos, crisp smoked-and-grilled wings and brisket sandwiches that can be made delightfully messy with coleslaw and sauce infused with Pinnacle beer. He uses pecan and mesquite woods, infuses chiltepin into meats and sauces and has collaborated with local chefs. “Arizona barbecue to me is using things that inspire the local cuisine,” Zakariya says. Food historian Miller has advocated for chefs to do this, leaning into the meat, wood and historic practices true to their area. “There’s rich ground to create your own thing,” he says. Zakariya is more than intent on it. “Some of the best barbecue right now is coming from people who are mobile,” he says. “I love competition. I love telling people that I think I’ve got the best barbecue in the Valley.” ARE WE APPROACHING OUR PRIME? Competition is showing up in the form of out- of-state smokehouses, some of massive proportions. Maryland-born Mission BBQ added a third Valley location in 2025, near the bustling PV development, and has another in the works in Gilbert. The San Diego County rib joint Phil’s BBQ plans to add a Chandler smokehouse. Then there’s Buc-ee’s. The Texas-based gas station chain with a Texas-sized mega mart will land in Buckeye on June 22. At its most simplified, Buc-ee’s is a road stop known for affordable gas, fanatically clean bath- rooms and beaver-branded snacks and swag. That doesn’t do justice to the Costco-meets- Disneyland scale and fandom for, yes, a travel center. Taylor caught his first glimpse of a Buc-ee’s as he woke from a meat-induced nap during a barbecue-eating Texas road trip somewhere between Austin and Dallas. The scale of the place baffled him. “What in the world — 90 pumps in one single gas station? This is insane,” he says. “It’s just kind of a fun cultural thing that is just like part of Texas that nobody else under- stands until they come to your town.” In the middle of every Buc-ee’s is a circular barbecue counter — a physical and almost spiritual hub of the store. Attendants there sling literal tons of chopped brisket, pulled pork and smoked sausage sandwiches. To keep those sandwiches flowing from 11:30 a.m. until after midnight, the brisket is cooked at a central smokehouse, packaged, delivered to Buc-ee’s stores and rewarmed. To thousands of travelers a day, this is about to be their destination for barbecue in Arizona — the ultimate Texas transplant. Barbecuers in the Valley shrug off the brisket-slinging beaver’s arrival. Berman calls Buc-ee’s “entertainment barbecue.” He likes to see the smokers in action when he visits a place. That won’t stop most local barbecuers from visiting once Buc-ee’s opens to see the spectacle of staff chopping brisket amid the frenzied market. Buc-ee’s won’t share its offi- cial sales numbers, but one manager said that brisket sandwiches are more popular than the 69-cent fountain sodas. Will this growth, be it local, out-of-state, or beaver, outstrip demand? Miller has seen the signs of “peak barbecue” in places like Denver, where one new smokehouse siphons off the same niche dining crowd. He and restaurant owners like- wise worry about sustaining customers while beef prices and other food costs remain high. But Valley pitmasters see plenty more meat on the bone. Arizona barbecue has come a long way. There’s now room for the entertainment barbecue. And room to continue to grow. “We’re just in the prime of our barbecue culture,” Berman says. “The more food that complements what we’re doing, the more push there is to do better.” Slow Burn from p 13 Akil Zakariya of Beerded BBQ. (Isaac Torres)
