All of central Texas mourned the passing of Bobby Mueller, the expert pitmaster whose life was about smoking ’cue. His son Wayne took over the reins, and any fears we had about quality slipping were assuaged when he stated that “the focus is consistency—if it weren’t, I have no doubt my father would reach across the inter-dimensional plane and smack me a good one!”

Opened as a grocery in 1946, Louie Mueller has been a standard-bearer of Texas barbecue since the Muellers began cooking up their meats in 1949. Now owned by Louie’s grandson, Wayne, and his mother, Trish, the place still cooks everything up fresh each day. Louie Mueller’s occupies what was once an old basketball court, but it has been their home for nearly a half century, and it shows: the high ceilings and once-green walls are varying shades of greasy brown and black from all the smoke. Dim lighting and the tap of feet shuffling against hardwood floors almost give Louie’s the feeling of a chapel. But there’s nothing fancy here—just picnic tables, old scales, beer signs, a collection of magazine articles, and most interestingly, a corkboard of business cards that are never removed and therefore range in color from pale tan to deep sepia from the years of smoke.

Food is served up on butcher paper, as it should be in an old-school Texas barbecue joint, with help-yourself iced tea and plastic-ware; they’ll always cut you a chunk of brisket to sample while your food is being weighed. When choosing between moist and lean brisket, don’t ponder your waistline; moist and fatty is always the way to go—tender and juicy, it has a textbook red smoke ring and an oaky flavor. Beef ribs, rarely served by others, are one of the best choices here, and they rival brisket in juiciness and flavor. They’re much bigger than pork ribs—more like the Brontosaurus ribs from the Flintstones. Don’t miss the jalapeño sausage, made of 100% beef, with a wonderfully grainy but juicy texture that falls apart when cut into; it’s hot, though, so keep your iced tea handy.

Louie’s sauce, meanwhile, is one of the best we’ve had: it’s thin, spicy, and vinegar-tart, without a bit of sweetness that would mask any of the meats’ subtle nuances. Sides are made fresh daily; chopped cole slaw is a little too salty, but mashed potato salad is better, heavy on the mustard. But the sides are just that—simple textural counterpoints that serve merely to refocus attention on Louie’s main, deservedly legendary attraction: spectacular smoked meat.

We’re guessing the heavens smell pretty good right about now.

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