At the corner of Albany Avenue and Pacific Street in Crown Heights, singles from the Jay-Z album “Reasonable Doubt” echoed from 47-year-old Donnell Rogers’s front yard as he tended to two weathered, barrel-shaped black smokers. One was filled with pork ribs and the other had chicken legs. Plumes of pecan wood smoke swirled in the air.

Car horns and friendly salutations accented songs like “Can’t Knock the Hustle” on this sunny afternoon. A gray Honda pulled up alongside Mr. Rogers’s brownstone, the passenger window rolled down, and a young woman yelled out a question: “How much?”

After several weeks visiting family in Greenville, N.C., the Brooklyn pitmaster was back. He had missed the last two Saturdays — the only day of the week Mr. Rogers sells his food, rain or shine — and the intersection was buzzing.