Why There Isn't Just One Way To Make Georgia-Style Barbecue

Barbecues are as American as apple pies and cowboys, but depending on which state you're in, you'll encounter a different regional barbecue style. The best part? Ask the locals and they'll insist that theirs is the "correct" one. Texas pitmasters swear by their salt-and-pepper-rubbed briskets, smoked until the bark's nearly charred. Memphis, in particular, leans on pork, coated in a dry rub loaded with spices, with sauce playing a lesser role. Meanwhile, Georgians are an outlier — they refuse to cooperate with that kind of shorthand. Ask five pitmasters around the state what makes barbecue Georgian, and expect five different answers.

Some point to chopped pork shoulder cooked low over oak and hickory as the definition of a proper BBQ. Others say that anything that isn't marinated or drizzled with sauce (which differs wildly in terms of sweetness and spice from one place to another) isn't the genuine Georgian experience. We haven't even gotten into the sides, which is another debate on its own. The point is that unlike most other places in the country, trying to pin down one true Georgia-style barbecue is a bit like trying to pin down one true Georgia accent; it depends entirely on where you're standing and who you're talking to.

Despite the regional splintering, a few things hold true almost everywhere in Georgia. For instance, pork is universally agreed as the default protein. It doesn't matter if it's chopped or pulled, taken from a shoulder or a whole ham, cooked low over oak or hickory — it's the heart of a proper Georgian barbecue. You'll find sides like ribs and chicken to round out the menu, but pork is always the centerpiece. Beef briskets can be found here and there (especially in Atlanta), but it's imported by transplant pitmasters rather than being a homegrown tradition.

Sauce is where Georgians begin to differ. A tomato base is the closest thing to a statewide default, but you'll find the sauce with varying levels of sweetness and heat from one kitchen to the next. Some may even make it thicker than others. Head toward Athens and vinegar takes over. Around Macon, Savannah, and Columbus, mustard sauce has been the standard for generations — Macon's Fincher's Bar-B-Q has been serving its version since 1936.

In Atlanta, though, things become muddier. Like most big cities, the BBQ scene here is a melting pot of different styles being pulled from Texas, Tennessee, the Carolinas, and even overseas in Korea, tossed together by dozens of restaurants and smokehouses . There's no concrete "Atlantan-style" barbecue (even the best barbecue restaurant in the state is a fusion of Southern and Korean-style). Still, if we look at Google search data in Georgia, it seems like most people here love their barbecue made Memphis-style: pork ribs and pulled pork, coated in a heavy dry rub, with the sauce acting as a dip or garnish rather than the centerpiece.

Barbecued pork aside, at the heart of Georgia's claim to a barbecue heritage is a side dish known as Brunswick stew. It's not exactly what most people would think of when they hear the word "barbecue" — a tomato-based stew, slow-simmered for hours with corn and shredded meat. An inscription on an old iron pot in the town of Brunswick, Georgia, claims that the iconic dish originated in Georgia in 1898. But the heritage of this simple stew is contested by Virginia, which tells of a similar stew invented by a state legislator's chef during a hunting trip in Brunswick County (this one in Virginia). Neither side has fully convinced the other, and the argument has outlasted a century (even if historians have largely sided with Virginia). But Georgians have spent that same century simmering, tweaking, and serving the dish as their own, and by now, the stew belongs to them regardless of where the first pot boiled.

Another twist to the state's barbecue identity is wings. This is an Atlantan special. You'll find smoked wings showing up on menus across the city and doubtlessly on the invites to picnics and backyard barbecues in the city and its hinterlands. A special example of this is lemon pepper wings; while not always smoked, it's unanimously agreed upon that it's part of the city's culinary soul. Between a stew nobody can agree on and a wing tradition that's entirely its own, Georgia's barbecue scene is never going to fit one definition — and that's perhaps the most charming part about it.