Longform - Texas BBQ - Michael Fojtasek
DICKEY'S DYNASTY
BY MICHAEL FOJTASEK
“Dynasty” is a word people from Dallas throw around like a football. Growing up there, we used it to talk about America’s Team, our Dallas Cowboys–Super Bowl winners in ’93, ’94 and ’96 when I was in high school. Our team had future Hall of Fame players on souvenir beer cups. Surprisingly, my parents didn’t care that my hands smelled of malt from collecting those empty plastic portraits in the postgame stands at Texas Stadium.
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But one vessel was even more important than those holographic Cowboys trophies: the iconic mustard-yellow Dickey’s Barbecue Pit cup–the perfect size, the perfect price (free) and ready for anything. From fender benders to first dates, fishing trips to football game bus rides and, of course, a clandestine keg party, a Dickey’s cup was never far from my hand.
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At the time, my teenage friends and I may have cared more about the complimentary soft-serve machine in the middle of the Dickey’s dining room. But I can see now that in between trips to the soda fountain to fill those cups up with Dr Pepper, my foundational understanding for barbecue was laid.
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It’s not just that my memories of the brisket and pork ribs I had there stand up to all of the mind-alteringly-good barbecue I have been able to experience as a professional chef. What I learned at Dickey’s was how to feel out the soul of a barbecue joint. In that original dining room at the corner of Knox-Henderson and Central Expressway, started in 1941 by Travis Dickey, I began to spot the little things that added up to a greater whole–from those yellow cups brimming with soda, to the service, the brisket and ribs, to the scent of smoldering hickory.
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Soul isn’t a definable thing, but if I had to find the words, it feels like being at home–familiar but special, comfortable but ceremonial. Legend, legacy and location are some ways these sacred airs manifest. But when you drive up to the shed, the parking lot, the smokehouse or sit-down restaurant that has it, you know it. In Lockhart, I find it in the smoked-stained hall of Smitty’s Market and in the work ethic (and sideburns) of Roy Perez at Kreuz Market. At Piggy’s in Murchison, I saw it in the patchwork of Super Bowl tickets Jim Dozier pinned up on the wall.
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Since it’s become the largest barbecue franchise in the country, I find myself at Dickey’s more by way of airports, road trips and happenstance. Those random visits don’t quite match my memories. With more than 500 locations, there is no chance they could. Like a retired Cowboys player who started a car dealership, Dickey’s is still itself–it’s just selling and building on what it started. The ballgame has completely changed since I was a high schooler, but that’s OK. There’s a new crop of players bringing diversity and vision.
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But I’ll still stand in line for a yellow cup and stand up for a family-owned business that has created the dynasty they envisioned. To me, Dickey’s is worthy of the word.
Michael Fojtasek is the executive chef and owner of Olamaie, in Austin. Outside of the kitchen, he has been a champion in the community, promoting a culture of justice and equality.
Jared Briere