We are living in the Golden Age of Barbecue. (Or barbeque. Or Bar-B-Que.) The smoked meat cognoscenti all agree that this moment is to Texas 'cue what the 1950's were to baseball, or the 1680's were to piracy, or the whole seventeenth century was to Dutch art.

All this "golden age" talk has had a curious effect on the business. It wasn't that long ago that you could wander into a ramshackle restaurant/butcher's shop/mini-grocery store, order up a plate of whatever they were smoking and dig in, just be happy to be alive. There wasn't any deep analysis of cooking styles or cuts of meat or choice of wood.

If there was a line at all, it was short and moved quickly.

That's not true anymore.

In the Golden Age of Barbecue, the line is a crucial part of the show, a barometer of quality and desirability. "If there ain't a queue, it ain't good 'cue" seems to be the mantra.

Texas Monthly's "Top 50 Texas Barbecue List" only stirs our madness. The morning after the 2017 list was announced, Tejas Chocolate Craftory, a Tomball barbecue joint who placed Number 6 in its maiden appearance on the list, had a line 50 deep, waiting for lunch. The media showed up in droves. The staff was overwhelmed. Tejas used to serve a Tex-Mex breakfast, featuring delicious brisket tacos, filled with meat left over from the day before. There is no more leftover brisket – everything is sold out by 2 p.m. – so there is no more breakfast service.

"It's Cue-sanity!" Scott Moore, Jr., owner and pitmaster of Tejas, enthuses on the company website.

The story is similar all over the state. In Pearland, it's not unusual to wait an hour and a half before stepping up to the serving counter at Killen's. Patrons of Franklin's and La Barbecue in Austin frequently face waits of three hours or more. Cue-sanity, indeed.

I love good barbecue. Everybody loves barbecue, even God: In the Old Testament Book of Numbers, Jehovah orders the children of Israel to cook a "young bull" for a "sweet savor unto the Lord." You've got to tip your cap to a Deity who appreciates the aroma of a nice brisket.

I love the stuff, but it's hard to justify waiting in endless lines for the privilege of buying a few hunks of smoked meat. This is a strange age: No people in history have been blessed with our plenty, and we are lining up for food. There's something shameful about it, this peculiar strain of gluttony, this Soup Line Chic.

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This is a Golden Age, though, and Golden Ages are fleeting things, gauzy as gossamer, and whether it's watching Mickey Mantle in his prime or witnessing the initial unveiling of "Girl With A Pearl Earring," you don't want to miss the moment.

So I made the trip to Lexington, and stood in the Mother of All Barbecue Lines, the queue at Snow's BBQ, Texas Monthly's "The Best Barbecue in Texas."

LEXINGTON IS a drowsy village, one of a dozen or so somnambulant communities lining U.S. 77 between Waco and Giddings. The businesses that built the place are mostly gone, their abandoned buildings filled by resale shops, antique stores and restaurants. Snow's is on Main Street, a few blocks off the main drag, an unassuming frame building, red with white trim, with a collection of offset smokers and direct heat cookers out back. It's open only on Saturdays, from 8 a.m. until the food runs out. I planned so I would arrive at 7:15 a.m. – early enough, I assumed, to avoid the crowds.

There were at least 100 people ahead of me. Many of them were clutching the "TOP 50 BBQ JOINTS PASSPORT," a Texas Monthly insert with places where smoked meat pilgrims can affix stamps to show which joints they've visited. A few talked about "hitting three or four spots today."

Directly in front of me stood a woman in a sleeveless shirt and Bermuda shorts, pulling one of those wheeled Igloo coolers. Her phone rang, the ringtone an earsplitting voice, screaming "A-HOLE ALERT! A-HOLE ALERT!" She quickly silenced the phone, and turned and smiled apologetically as she answered. I think it was her husband.

Behind me was a young couple. The man wore Hyannisport Traditional – blue Oxford button down, sleeves rolled up, expensive-looking khaki shorts, Topsiders. The woman was dressed in pearls and a burnt orange T-shirt, an outfit indigenous to Sixth Street on Friday nights and Darrell K. Royal Stadium on Saturday afternoons. The guy dressed like a Kennedy was a banker, from Connecticut, who lived and worked in Dallas. He was regaling his date with tales of Dallas, and Connecticut, and the awesomeness of banking.

Mostly, he talked barbecue. And he was completely clueless. "We have to get a seat between the smokers," he said, sipping at a cup of the free beer Snow's sets out for patrons. "It's very exclusive." (There are no exclusive seats between the smokers. The smokers are approximately the size of the Queen Mary, and reach internal temperatures approaching 200 degrees.)

"The secret is in the mesquite wood they use." (Snow's doesn't use mesquite. Post oak is their wood of choice.)

"We are not leaving here without trying a beef rib. It's their specialty, and it's awesome." (We'll address that one later.)

The crowd grew in astonishing fashion. By 7:30 a.m., there were twice as many people behind me as before me. By 7:45, the line snaked around Snow's down Main Street. A Snow's employee wheeled out a beer ball, and shouted that folks were welcome to help themselves. Across the street, the granary turned antiques shop had opened its doors. A fiddler and a guitarist stood on a makeshift stage, surrounded by random pieces of Texana, serenading the crowd with mildly bluegrass versions of pop standards.

A couple of Snow's women set up a lemonade stand for the lily-livered in the queue. One of them wore a T-shirt that read, "I Love Jesus, But I Cuss A Little."

When the doors opened at 8 a.m., there were at least 1,000 people in line, with more coming by the minute. About this time, I caught my first sight of Tootsie Tomanetz.

Tootsie is the chief pitmaster at Snow's, an octogenarian "prophet of smoked meats" who's been grilling pork butts and smoking brisket longer than most of us have been alive. Tootsie is the barbecue equivalent of Willie Nelson: aged and iconic, craggy and timeworn and universally loved, a quintessentially Texas character. She's patient as endless acolytes jump queue to shake her hand and take her photograph. Tootsie has perfected a pose: leaning on her fire stoker, head turned to the side, peering over her cookers with a look of studied preoccupation. She looks like an 18th-century ship captain, or Bono, circa "The Joshua Tree" album.

Finally, we're inside. Igloo cooler orders three whole briskets, several sausage links, and enough pork butt to feed Fulshear. Her bill approaches $400.

Behind me, Connecticut Banker asks for a beef rib. The counter lady, one of those no-nonsense women who probably spends her time away from the Snow's setting things right down at First Baptist Church, looks at him with horror.

"Darlin'," she says, her voice rising, "We don't serve beef ribs here. A beef rib is mostly bone. You are paying for bone. Now, if you want to buy a bone, I will be happy to sell you one. If you want some meat, I will sell you some brisket. But I will not sell you a beef rib."

It was a monumental beat-down, a Church Lady evisceration for the ages. Connecticut Banker was undeterred. "In that case," he said, smiling, "we'll just have a quarter pound of brisket. This is stop one of four for us today."

For a split-second, Counter Lady gave him a look, a mixture of contempt and disappointment that Church Ladies of all creeds have mastered, but Central Texas Church Ladies have elevated to the level of high art. Then she sliced his brisket, and slapped it on the scales.

I bought more than I should have, plus a T-shirt. It's hard to be restrained when your nostrils are filled with the sweet savor and the rendered fat is glistening like smoky butter and you've just shaken hands with Tootise Tomanetz, Legend.

I staggered back to the car, laden with meat from the Golden Age.

Was it worth the wait in line? It's the best dang barbecue I've ever eaten. Heck, it's the best dang anything I've ever eaten. It was like eating a Rembrandt, only smokier. Sometimes, in a Golden Age, waiting is the price you pay for transcendence.

Cort McMurray, a Houston-area businessman, writes frequently for Gray Matters.





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