211 S US Hwy 281
Johnson City
(sort of across from the Dairy Queen)
I saw a clickbait show on one of the foodie channels a few days ago, purporting to name the "fifteen best barbecue places in America." The guy doing the show didn't even mention any of the great places in Lockhart or Luling; and he seemed more taken by gimmick-y presentation than by actual superior quality. So it wasn't confidence in his ability to identify truly great barbecue that led me to try Ronnie's in Johnson City, which made his top 10 list; more a matter of curiosity, combined with a building desire for a day trip up the road.
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| the Pedernales at Johnson City |
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| the Buggy Barn in Blanco |
So. Ronnie's. Well, yes, it's good barbecue. The kind of good barbecue you can probably get in every one-traffic-light town between the Sabine and the Rio Grande. Juicy beef brisket rubbed with salt and pepper and smoked for umpteen hours out back (or, in this case, out on the side porch) and sliced up by the plate or by the pound. Sides of pinto beans, coleslaw, potato salad. Sausage and pork and chicken and turkey. All the things you find in every barbecue joint, plus a few: pea salad, corn salad, green beans, banana pudding.... A short line of people waited to order, always a good sign unless there's a tour bus idling in the parking lot.
I had just a brisket plate, and chose sides of pinto beans and potato salad -- not because they're my favourite sides, but because those, along with slaw, are the paradigmatic barbecue sides, and consequently the best choices for evaluative purposes. Greater wisdom might have lain in having my druthers, because the pea salad turned out not to be the white gelatinous mass with green dots that I'd pictured in my mind when the counter lady, on request, ran down the list of ingredients. The corn salad looked a better choice, too. Although both of the side dishes I chose were fine. The beans were somewhat seasoned, though not to the degree common farther south, a degree I've come to prefer; and the potato salad was good ol' very traditional church-picnic stuff ... with lots and lots of mayo.
The brisket was as expected: juicy, smoky, and hot from the pit, with traditional seasoning that's hard to improve on despite the wishes of television presenters. The portion size was fair: neither stingy nor generous, though I will confess to a twinge of disappointment when Ronnie stopped slicing and laid the meat on my plate. Sauce -- a very ordinary sauce -- was on the table in a squeeze-bottle.
There was a tray of bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers next to his work area, and they looked good, so I had them add one to my plate. I justified it by deciding to forego the buttermilk pie I'd planned on ordering. I felt that was a good decision when I saw the pie slices by the cashier's position: they looked a little on the chincy side to my greed-shrouded eyes, when in fact they're about as big as you'd expect them to be. But pie slices are always too small, aren't they. Well, should'a gone with the pie, because the popper sure disappointed. It was cold, and under-filled, and limp, and utterly without kick.
The worst thing about the visit, though, was the men's room. There was no soap, there were no towels; there was only the sign insisting that employees must wash their hands before returning to work. If I'd seen it before ordering, I would have gone to the Dairy Queen.
The worst thing about the visit, though, was the men's room. There was no soap, there were no towels; there was only the sign insisting that employees must wash their hands before returning to work. If I'd seen it before ordering, I would have gone to the Dairy Queen.
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