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It’s that time of year again, when the hearts of restaurateurs and chefs in Texas turn to hopes of Michelin recognition. The second Michelin ceremony for the state will take place in Houston on Tuesday, October 28, and rumors and speculation are flying about who did (or didn’t) get an invitation, and which restaurants the food experts think should be honored.
If you want my short, top-line wish list for Michlin, it is: That both Tatsu in Dallas and Mixtli in San Antonio retain stars; Isidore in San Antonio earns a star for its advancement of the concept of “Texas” cuisine; Sanjh in Las Colinas should get a star; Mamani in Dallas earns a recommendation and possibly the award for excllent service; more taquerias, Tex-Mex, and Mexican restaurants state-wide receive recognition and Bib Gourmonds (particularly El Carlos Elegante); Restaurant Beatrice in Oak Cliff earns a Green Star; a lot more recognition for Fort Worth, namely Chumley House, Clay Pigeon, Walloon’s Lonesome Dove, Don Artemio, and 61 Osteria; a recommendation for Parish Barbecue in Austin; and a Bib Gourmond for Red Herring in Waco — should Michelin determine the city worth venturing to, as it is out of the coverage area.
That said, this week I want to talk about Michelin and barbecue. A few weeks ago, I spent three days in Houston eating at 10 barbecue joints (I do not recommend doing that) to write a guide for The Infatuation. That included a stop at the Michelin-starred CorkScrew Barbecue in Spring, Texas. I went there first thing on my third day of eating (making it the seventh barbecue place I ate in on that trip), so that I felt I had enough of a sense of what folks in Houston are doing in the barbecue space, but so that I wasn’t already full or sick with meat sweats for the day. I wondered what the criteria are to award a Michelin star to a barbecue spot.
This is what a Michelin-star-worthy plate of barbecue looks like.
CorkScrew’s food was technically near-perfect. The execution of the cook on the brisket, smoked using red oak, couldn’t be better. That wood creates long-burning smoke that isn’t as overpowering as mesquite or hickory, like you might see used in North Texas barbecue, but stronger and more savory than the post oak many Central Texas pitmasters prefer. It brines the turkey using what I swear to god has to be Martha Stewart’s recipe, with very little rub on the outside, so it’s incredibly moist but more Thanksgiving than Texas barbecue. The sausage is good, technically well executed, but not exciting, and the amount of cheese and jalapeño or garlic stuffed in the variations of it are not as luscious as the versions I had at J-Bar-M and the Pit Room, respectively. The ribs were… not memorable. Fine, probably?
The three-cheese mac and cheese is traditional, perhaps leaning more towards thin American cheese — I’d love to know which three cheeses, because none of them has a high-temperature melting point. Pit-smoked beans are good, savory rather than sweet. The cole slaw was the exact mayo-based recipe I’ve had at a million church barbecues. I wish I’d had room to order the loaded baked potatoes to compare to Triple J, where they are the star of the meat show.
I left CorkScrew feeling like everything I ate was good, but not so special that it deserved a Michelin star, where no other barbecue restaurant in the Houston area did. CorkScrew serves an excellent tray of the stuff, but the modern story of barbecue across Texas incorporates cultural fusion and demands a point of view. Look to Kafi Barbecue in Irving, which uses Iraqi sides and spices, or Levant BBQ in Houston with predominantly Turkish influences. There is a mixture of Ethiopian dishes and Texas barbecue at Smoke’N Ash in Arlington, and a yummy integration of Creole foods at La Vacca BBQ in Port Lavaca. Texas Monthly’s pick for the top barbecue spot in the state, Burnt Bean Co. in Seguin, infuses Mexican and Tex-Mex flavors. And Austin-based Distant Relatives highlights the flavors of the African diaspora in its menu, just to name a few of the more hyped places doing barbecue fusion in this state.
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I also left feeling like Michelin diners who chose this spot, owned and run by white people serving perfected versions of historically Black dishes created by enslaved people, didn’t understand the culture of barbecue. If you don’t feel well-versed in that history, read the excellent coverage previously published by Texas Monthly, Adrian Miller’s book Black Smoke: African Americans and the United States of Barbecue, or watch the Netflix series High on the Hog: How African American Cuisine Transformed America.
As I diner, it makes me question who can afford to buy the best quality meats and smokers, and why is that? Who can afford rents in quaint neighborhoods in the suburbs created for white flight from urban areas, which is what Old Town Spring is following its revitalization in the 1960s? Who came up with the ideas and who can invest the capital to perfect them — and what does that say about the racial wealth gap, generational wealth, the legacy of segregation, and the current state of achievement and opportunity gaps? What does it say about Michelin’s race-based blind spots?
Every tray of smoked meats should have a side order of thinking about history. Make it a double for Michelin’s secret diners.