When word began to spread of Lockhart Smokehouse’s impending opening, a shiver twisted like a corkscrew through the spines of local barbecue fans. Central Texas barbecue—here. To brisket lovers that’s akin to the pope setting up shop in Avignon or Manchester United joining the MLS. Okay, that’s pushing it. True Texas barbecue followers likely consider Manchester United some sort of “furrin’” socialist movement.

Besides, Lockhart Smokehouse is just a derivative. The ownership traces roots back to Papa Schmidt of the legendary Kreuz Market. Lockhart’s ribs are a revelation. Above vague smoke and almost dry meat, three distinct sensations feather out then tangle, leaving an impression of measured heat, burnt sweetness, and the obscure pungency of seasonings broken down over long hours over glowing wood. Brisket, on the other hand, often yearns for a little more time to mature. One trip it yields to the frantic action of a plastic knife and carries a simple, acrid sheen. The next leaves guests with stringy beef ringed by a pencil thread of smoke residue.

Whatever you order, the whole is ingloriously wrapped in double layers of paper—the first soaking through. Sides such as their unremarkable deviled eggs and rather flat slaw come prepackaged in environmentally deadly plastic. But this is Texas and Lockhart revels in its no-frills attitude.