Restaurants & Chefs
The story on the ovens at Kreuz Market
By JOHN MARIANI
Kreuz comes clean (as told in the style of Elmore Leonard)
Around noon the parking lot started filling up with old trucks and just-washed SUVs. The smell of the smoke from Kreuz Market barbecue in Lockhart, Texas, was drawing people fast.
Photos by Wyatt McSpadden
'Cue-master Roy Perez and the smokin' hot coals at BBQ landmark Kreuz Market in Lockhart, Texas.
"Here comes another one," said Rick Schmidt, wearing his usual white cowboy hat, watching a fat guy in a gimme cap coming toward him with his finger in the air.
"Just wanna ask you a question," he said. "You the owner?"
"Have been since 1948," said Rick, touching his hat. "Bought it from Charlie Kreuz's family. How can I help you?"
The fat guy nodded his head and kept his finger in the air. "Here's the thing. Me and my family been coming to Kreuz since it was in the old location, which is now Smitty's." Now Rick was nodding and rolling his eyes. "Well," said the fat guy, "I gotta tell you, but I think the 'cue in the old place tasted, well, different."
Rick leaned back a little, put his big hand on the table, and said, real slow, "Now, just why do you think that's the case?"
"Well, I gotta assume it's because Smitty's has all your old ovens. They been there, what? Since Kreuz opened in —"
"Nineteen hundred. Started as a butcher shop. The barbecue came a little later."
"Right. So those old smoking ovens have been seasoned for like a century, and I gotta guess that's where you get a lot of the flavor in the meats, right?"
Rick put his hands together and forced a smile. "You know, people come in here all the time and tell me the same thing. But what they don't know, and what you don't know, is that those old ovens had to be rebuilt about every eight years because they were made out of sheet metal, which broke down. And all that grease didn't help, either."
The fat guy widened his eyes but could only get out, "Really?"
With humble beginnings as a butcher shop, Kreuz Market would avoid wasting meat by cooking the best cuts on barbecue pits and using the lesser cuts to make sausage. Customers can still take home barbecue wrapped in butcher paper and eat it with nothing but a pocket knife and their fingers. It doesn't need any sauce — or a fork. Just some pickles and a slice of bread.
"Really," said Rick, now wagging his finger. "So whatever ovens they got over at Smitty's couldn't be more than 10 years old, 'cause that's when we moved over here on Colorado Street. We built these new [Rick came down hard on the word] ovens from steel. A lotta people think our 'cue is as good or better than ever."
The fat guy stammered, figuring he had to say something nice.
"Understand, sir, understand. So you still smoke the meats about, what, 12 hours, maybe overnight?"
"Four, maybe five. Any more questions?" Rick leaned forward. "Mind telling me where you're from and how come you know so much about our barbecue?"
"Me and my family drive up here special, from Dallas, a couple times a year."
Rick pushed another smile. "Figured as much. Enjoy your meal."
The fat guy went over to the counter, ordered some brisket, sausage links, some beans, and two bottles of beer, then paid the bill and walked past Rick, raising the paper bag to say goodbye. When he got to his SUV, Rick heard him say to his family, "Guess what I just learned!"
Issue: October 2009
