A Texan and a Tennessean walk into a bar, but the thing they seek is no joke.
Actually, these two have been walking into this particular bar for many years, since their misspent young adulthoods when the once-upon-a-time 25-cent wings were a cornerstone of an unbalanced diet. The bar itself has been on Willow Street since 1898: Archie Moore’s, barely removed from its original location across the street.
Archie Moore’s found its modern identity in 1982, when it began serving buffalo wings. The saucy flats and drums are still among the best of their kind in this town and others, thanks to Archie Moore’s outposts in Branford, Milford and Wallingford. However, on this night, a Friday, the Texan and the Tennessean sought not wings but something from their more distant pasts: barbecue.
Real barbecue is made with woodsmoke. The meat is cooked at a low temperature for a long time. Sorry to be pedantic, but this is important: The smoking process cannot be rushed. The fat has to render and reinfuse. How many times have the Texan and the Tennessean been lured to a new restaurant with the promise of good barbecue only to find themselves served a dish with unchewable globs hiding in a flood of sauce? Too many times.
This is also important: Barbecue is not about sauce. Just ask Archie Moore’s head chef Jose Perez, lifelong New Haven resident, Cross class of ’98, Puerto Rican American, award-winning pitmaster. One of his social media taglines: “Mr. Meat Truck on a world domination tip. Let’s go!!” On a recent Friday, Perez was coaxed from the kitchen to give the Texan and the Tennessean a sense of his craft.
Great pitmasters realize that while barbecue is certainly a science (repeat: Low. And. Slow), it’s also an art, a means of self-expression. Perez grew up in Fair Haven. He was a real estate agent and a club promoter before landing at Sherwin-Williams (“Cover the World, yo!”), where a chance task feeding co-workers (and some decent stock options) led him to his first passion project: The Meat Truck. A mobile restaurant proved the best way to start, not only because it was practical, but because it took Perez to barbecue competitions all over the country, adding Texan and Carolinian styles to his repertoire.
Then, two years ago, Archie Moore’s came calling. Perez knew he had the chops to run a kitchen churning out pub favorites: the wings, the burgers. Who better to brine and smoke the pastrami for the reuben? But he had one stipulation: “Let me be who I am on the weekends.”
And thus the weekend barbecue special at the New Haven Archie Moore’s was born. If you don’t yet think of barbecue in quasi-evangelical terms, Perez’s passion may convert you. On Friday and Saturday only, while supplies last, you can get ribs, half chickens, brisket, turkey breast, pulled pork or pork belly burnt ends. The barbecue comes as a sandwich ($13-$14), atop rice or mac-n-cheese in a bowl ($16) or in a combo ($21-$62 depending on how many meats and sides are put into play).
The three-meat combo ($28) includes cornbread and two sides. The Texan came here for the brisket, The Tennessean for the pulled pork. One of them has a brother-in-law (a Georgian) who smokes turkey so he can stay out of the house for the bulk of Thanksgiving Day, and in his honor they made turkey the third meat.
But first, the sides. Perez claims slaw is the tell of a good barbecue joint. Attention to slaw is attention to detail. His cilantro lime version was scene-stealing: light and refreshing on a tray of heavies. The collard greens had a vinegar pucker and the velvet texture of roughage cooked with meat but not stewed all the way down to mush. Of the two rice dishes, our table opted for the “Spanish rice and peas”, a classically Puerto Rican arroz con gandules. “This tastes like home,” said Perez.
If ordering the fried plantain side, don’t expect sticky-sweet maduros; these are tostones, thick and salty and a great alternative to a bun. Sweetness enters the meal via the cornbread. The sweet/savory cornbread debate has geographic faultlines, but this sweet potato version exists on its own planet, closer to banana or zucchini loaves than anything normally served with barbecue. It tastes good as a standalone but meshes less well than the other accompaniments, of which we still haven’t discussed the pickled onions, housemade bread and butter pickles, and yes, sauces. Barbecue isn’t about sauce, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn't consider it. The choices here range from the sweet and red Original Meat Truck Sauce, to the sweet, hot, and red Fuego BBQ Sauce, to the green Peruvian Aji Verde. Or, if it hasn’t been lapped up by the time you get there, try the Henny Time, a mustard-based sauce with a splash of cognac. All are delicious and all served on the side as God intended.
Now let’s get to the meat of it. On Thursday afternoon, Chef Jose puts the brisket into a smoker he built with his dad (“It’s got more holes than my socks”) for 15 hours at 250 to 270 degrees, plus a few more hours wrapped in fat and kept in the warmer. In a Texan cafeteria-style setup, you’d be asked whether you wanted your brisket more marbled or lean. You might even get to point to your ideal slices. That’s not the case here, but there was a range of marbling in the cuts fanned out on the platter. The beef fell apart in a textbook way, no gristly bits to impede chewing. That textbook was tossed aside when the brisket was seasoned; the outer surface had a bolder flavor profile than a classic Texas brisket, which relies mostly on salt so as not to upstage the meat itself. As the menu says, “Old school techniques, new school flavors.”
When it comes to choosing barbecue types, the Tennessean has always sided with the pigs; some animals are more equal than others. The pulled pork at Archie Moore’s also gets going on Thursdays, when anyone driving down Willow Street can catch a whiff of charcoal and whatever wood Perez came across that week: oak, hickory, birch, apple tree trimmings from Lyman Orchard. Maybe there is something to this holey smoker, because the pulled pork is the peer of the most difficult type of barbecue to replicate: that of fond memory. This pork has cousins everywhere: a sandwich at Martin’s Bar-B-Q Joint in Nashville, a Christmas pernil. The best bite was a thatch of pulled pork, a dollop of coleslaw, a ribbon of pickled onion and a drizzle of Meat Truck Sauce all on one fork. The equally best bite: the meat on its own.
The turkey, which did rival that of the Georgian BIL, came home in a doggy bag, not for lack of love but because the combo platter with an extra side was a little too feastly for two. It made a fantastic next-day sandwich paired with the Aji Verde.
“People who have absolutely nothing in common, barbecue brings them together,” Perez says. The wood-panelled main room at Archie Moore’s can be simultaneously cozy and rowdy. Regulars fist-bumped Perez and saved him a seat so he could hold court from their corner when he’d finished in ours. Meanwhile, two of the waitstaff had recently earned As in a class the Tennessean teaches, which, full disclosure, may have affected the bar tab. The love was flowing.
The Texan and the Tennessean seldom introduce themselves as such; they have been in New Haven long enough to put down roots and accumulate local memories. This one time, an Archie Moore’s server, surveying the boneyard of a happy hour debauch, said to the Texan’s grad school classmates, “You boys are a chicken’s worst nightmare.” Then there’s the time a motorcycle dude sat next to the Tennessean at this bar and said, “You know, after 9/11, I took in so much information, I got alopecia,” despite sporting a full beard. The Friday/Saturday barbecue special is a welcome addition to the Archie Moore’s legacy. To say “home” is to speak not only of roots but of branches. And in both senses, this food tastes like home.
Written by Sarah Harris Wallman. Image 1 photographed by Dan Mims. Images 2 and 3 photographed by Sarah Harris Wallman.
