Many—though not every—barbecue snob holds certain things sacred. Whether sauce or no sauce, brisket or pork, Texas or Memphis or any one of the other regional styles, woe be unto any joint crossing into forbidden territory. Religious fundamentalists are more forgiving.

That said, even the anti-sauce crowd will want Railhead Smokehouse’s “famous” stuff, at least on the side, with their beef brisket. The chirpy red sauce carries a bracing amount of vinegar. And the brisket is often rather timid in flavor, though juicy enough to crave an acidic chaser.The general meekness is troubling, for there’s a nice belt of absorbed smoke cresting the top, as well as a thin black crust. Rather, the impression is one of genial, fatty—and one must add extraordinarily tender—meat, bite after bite until your palate begs for a pinch of something to break the coma. Order the ribs and you receive ruddy, smoke-streaked (and also very tender) meat, the wide strip pricked by hearty wood residue and a faint reminder of dry chili heat. The effect is rich and warming—as humble and fulfilling as burning autumn leaves.

You can’t deny the following Railhead has earned over the years. Parking is difficult from the moment it opens to the point when it closes, except for a brief spell around 4pm.