A Mountain of Meat at Louie Mueller Barbecue

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TAYLOR — We ended up in this pleasant Central Texas town in a roundabout way. Since our trip to Austin had been considerably delayed by an 18-wheeler jackknifed at Salado, I called TxDOT before we left A-Town to ascertain the I-35’s condition. “Everything is fine right now,” the nice lady said. “No wrecks or weather issues.” So we headed north, figuring to be home about 3 p.m.

We neared the excellent rest stop in Jarrell, built with a storm shelter after that little town was devastated by an F-5 tornado in 1997 that killed 27 people in a town of just 410 people. I planned to make a pit stop there, a result of too much coffee and iced tea. Suddenly everything ground to a halt on this infernal interstate. I called TxDOT again. Another 18-wheeler had jackknifed. A delay of two hours was predicted. Acting swiftly, I took an exit to the access road, as did a number of vehicles.

Long story short, we backtracked through the countryside, much of the blacklands plowed and ready for planting — as soon as the water subsided. It was a pleasant, though time-consuming drive to Taylor, where we would get on Hwy. 79 and head east.

“What the heck,” I said to my peeps. “Let’s eat at Louie Mueller Barbecue.” My Beautiful Mystery Companion and our daughter Abbie have never partaken of the fine barbecue offered by this venerable establishment. Mueller’s is not air-conditioned and thus much more desirable to visit in March than August. Whenever visited, one will leave sated and smelling like barbecue. Your dogs will like you more than ever.

I have been showing up at Louie Mueller Barbecue for more than 30 years, since I worked as a photographer/writer down the road at the Round Rock Leader. About once a year, I’ll stop there on the way to and from Austin for a fix of what I consider the best brisket on the planet.

This is a controversial statement. People have strong opinions about barbecue. William Allen White, a famous country editor, once said, “There are three things that no one can do to the entire satisfaction of anyone else: Poke the fire, make love and edit a newspaper.” I would add barbecue to that list.

White, it turns out, also had strong opinions about barbecue, writing, “At its best it is a fat steer, and must be eaten within an hour of when it is cooked. For if ever the sun rises upon barbecue, its flavor vanishes like Cinderella’s silks, and it becomes cold baked beef — staler in the chill dawn than illicit love.”

Dang. The fellow had a way with words.

We stood in line about 20 minutes to place our order, admiring the cookoff plaques, the laminated magazine articles. I was going for the brisket — three slices — along with one jalapeño sausage and sides of pinto beans and potato salad. No bread, however. I’m on a diet. Abbie went for a smoked turkey sandwich. My BMC was fascinated by the beef ribs. “Ask how big they are,” I said. I had a vague memory of those ribs being humongous. I did not hear the answer but suggested she get two beef ribs. “We can always take it home,” I said, having not yet read White’s dictum about the sun rising upon barbecue.

My BMC walked away with what appeared to be one-fourth of a steer on her tray. My three pieces of brisket were not that large but far beyond my ability to consume in one sitting.

“That will be $134.17,” the cashier said.

Wait a minute. She must have me confused with the couple ahead of us who ordered a mountain of meat to go. I checked the ticket. Those two beef ribs were $75! Clearly we had not been paying attention, since the prices are up on the chalkboard. Oh, well. I was not complaining.

I relayed the news about the check. My BMC was mortified. She is so frugal that she will rinse out paper towels to reuse. She offered to pay for her share. “Just enjoy,” I said.

The moaning commenced. The brisket was as tender and succulent as always. The beef ribs had a peppery, blackened surface that sealed the meat’s flavors. Every bite brought tears of joy to our eyes. This is barbecue on a higher plane.

I had gotten to-go butcher paper and bags. There was no way we were leaving anything on the table, not at $134. And I had a cooler in the back of the SUV. We could not finish even half of what we ordered. We agreed to freeze the leftovers and pull it out in a few months, once our arteries had semi-recovered from this massive assault of beef.

There are those who disagree with my proclamation on Facebook upon our return, with a snapshot of Louie Mueller’s sign: “Best. Brisket. Ever.” That is what makes this a great country.

But I stand my ground on this. You probably would as well if you had spent $134 on lunch for three people.

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