I know what you're thinking: In this age of gas shortages and stock market gut-busters, why should I drive 30 miles to Dickson County to visit some barbecue shack when we have perfectly good 'cue here in town? Are you crazy?
To which I say: The ribs, man, the ribs.
Carl's Perfect Pig smokes the best ribs I've tasted, and I would make the drive again in a plaque-blocked heartbeat.
Purveyors of good barbecue are generally exempt from the short lifespan most restaurants suffer from, barring acts of God or gross mismanagement. Folks are fiercely loyal to their favorite 'cue smoker, and let's face it, no matter how hard times get, no one's ever gone to the poorhouse because of a pulled pork sandwich. Thus, Carl Teitloff and company have been in business 20 years, turning raw pork into wood-fired art.
To get to his workshop, it's a pretty drive from Nashville, straight out Highway 70, past horse pastures and gentle hills. Inside, it's pink pink pink. There's an old-school big screen TV in one corner, a few tables, a few booths. It's not much to look at, just as a barbecue place should be.
Back to the ribs. They're massaged for an unspecified length of time inside a gas-powered smoker, then finished on a blazing grill that embosses a smoky musk deep into the skin. It's charred black, but the taste is woody rather than bitter. On some bites I got the delicious combination of rich, fatty meat seared as close to burning as possible on the outside, and as the flavors mingled I couldn't help but close my eyes and say grace.
On the flip side, the pulled pork was nothing to crow about. It had the greasy, dried-out taste of meat that's been sitting too long, and the lovely perfume of smoke that so distinguished the ribs was missing in action. The sauces for dressing it were unremarkable, though the mustard hints in the mild variety were an interesting echo of certain South Carolina styles. I preferred the hot kind, which had a jaunty buck that just about anyone could handle.
Texans would be disappointed in the beef barbecue, which was dry and, like the pulled pork, wanted for smokiness. But the catfish was plenty good; the filets were hot, flaky and imbued with the delicious huskiness of cornmeal.
I missed the smoked chicken, which Teitloff does on Wednesday and Friday afternoons over charcoal. You'll need to ask for it specifically, because it's not on the menu.
The assortment of sides reflects Teitloff's personal taste: "If it's not on there, I don't like it," he says. The exception is the vinegar-based slaw, which he's not crazy about but makes because his mother gave him the recipe for it. I'm glad he includes it, because it's hard to get slaw that isn't bathed in mayo in Middle Tennessee, and his is bright and tart.
The rest of the sides I tried were average. Fried corn, marinated cucumbers, baked apples, white beans and others were decent but not really worth using space on, not when you could fill your belly with more ribs. Flat-out, avoid the squash; it comes floating in a sauce that tastes like watered-down boxed mac-and-cheese flavoring.
I wouldn't recommend the greasy, bread-heavy onion rings either, though Carl's fries are lightly battered and seasoned for an addictive effect.
For dessert, skip the brownie supreme, which is popular but nothing you couldn't make at home, and go for either the banana pudding or one of the fruit cobblers. The pudding had a luxurious, custard-like feel, and there were plenty of whole wafers and banana slices to keep the jaws busy. The peach cobbler was everything a cobbler should be: a little too sweet, a little tangy and buttery all over.
Besides eating those ribs, my favorite thing about Carl's is what you see when you walk out the front door: a cemetery. Having just gorged on charred meat full of carcinogens and mounds of caloric desserts, the sight made me a little sad. Not because I knew I was on my way there, mind you, but for the poor corpses stuck in caskets, unable to taste the goodness across the street. Oh well, their loss.
