Everyone Says This Georgia Roadside BBQ Spot’s Ribs Are The Best Around
I’ve eaten barbecue all across the South—from Tennessee’s pulled pork temples to Texas’s brisket shrines—but nothing prepared me for that first bite of ribs at Southern Soul Barbeque on St. Simons Island.
Set inside a lovingly restored mid-century gas station, this spot doesn’t just serve barbecue—it serves nostalgia, community, and joy, all slow-smoked to perfection.
The air outside is thick with hickory and anticipation, the neon sign glowing as the sun melts into the Georgia coast. Locals warned me those ribs would ruin me for life, and they were right. One bite, and I understood: Southern Soul isn’t a restaurant—it’s a revelation.
A Converted Gas Station That Became a Pilgrimage Site
Southern Soul Barbeque sits at 2020 Demere Rd on St. Simons Island, Georgia, steps from the main roundabout where tourists and islanders cross paths daily.
This isn’t some corporate chain dressed up to look rustic. The building started life as a 1940s–’50s gas station, complete with pump islands and service bays, before owners transformed it into a smoke-scented sanctuary in 2006.
Walking up, you’ll spot license plates nailed to every surface, neon signs buzzing overhead, and picnic tables that have soaked up decades’ worth of stories. A fire in 2010 could have ended everything, but the community rallied, funds poured in, and Southern Soul rebuilt itself stronger—same soul, tighter process. That resilience shows in every rib that leaves the kitchen today.
Oak Smoke, Spritzes, and a Glaze That Snaps
Most pitmasters guard their techniques like state secrets, but Southern Soul’s method is no mystery—it’s just executed to perfection.
They start with St. Louis–cut spare ribs, trim them clean, then let oak smoke work its magic low and slow. Mid-cook, they spritz the meat to keep it tender without turning mushy, a balancing act that separates amateurs from artists.
The finale? A signature glaze built on brown sugar and tupelo honey that caramelizes into bark you can hear snap when you bite down. Food Network documented the whole process, and tasting the result feels like watching a masterclass in real time. The meat pulls away with that clean “competition” bite—never falling off the bone into mush, never clinging like rubber.
Awards That Prove the Hype Is Real
You can ignore one five-star review. You can shrug off two. But when Southern Living’s 2025 readers vote you Georgia’s Best Barbecue Joint, you’ve crossed into legend territory. That’s not a participation trophy—it’s a crown earned in one of the most cutthroat barbecue states in America, where every town claims the definitive pit and every pitmaster swears their sauce is scripture.
Regional “best of” lists keep adding Southern Soul to their rosters, and local media recaps the accolades like sports highlights.
The plaques hanging inside aren’t there for decoration; they’re proof that even in a state drowning in smoky competition, this roadside joint sits at the summit. Translation: the lines out front aren’t just tourist curiosity—they’re pilgrims paying respects.
Hours That Welcome You (Almost) Every Day
Great barbecue means nothing if you can’t actually get to it, and Southern Soul keeps its doors open daily with hours that respect both the pitmasters and the hungry.
The official site lists service typically running 11 a.m. to 7 or 8 p.m., with seasonal tweaks depending on the day and demand. Explore Georgia confirms the same Demere Road address, phone number, and operating schedule, so there’s no wild goose chase involved.
Before you load the car, though, check the day-of hours—island life moves to its own rhythm, and smart travelers confirm details before making the trek. Once you arrive, expect a wait during peak lunch and dinner rushes. Bring patience, bring friends, bring an appetite that can handle what’s coming.
The Rib Plate That Converts Skeptics
First-timers face a menu loaded with temptation—pulled pork, brisket, smoked chicken—but if you’re there for the ribs, order the half-slab plate and pair it with collards and potato salad. That combination delivers the full Southern Soul experience: smoky, tangy, creamy, and just enough green to pretend you’re eating balanced.
Feeling ambitious or feeding a crew? Split a full rib tray with the table, then add Brunswick stew and a basket of hushpuppies to round out the feast.
Online ordering through Toast and the in-house menu boards feature the rib plate front and center, so you won’t miss it. Every bite confirms what the regulars already know: this is the order that turns skeptics into believers and believers into evangelists.
Pricing That Respects Your Wallet and the Craft
Quality barbecue doesn’t come free, but Southern Soul strikes a balance that feels fair in a world where “artisan” often translates to “overpriced.” Recent online menus list the half-slab plate around twenty-two dollars with sides included—a price that reflects hours of oak smoke, careful spritzing, and that tupelo honey glaze without gouging tourists or locals.
Ribs by the pound and full-slab options appear on the menu too, giving you flexibility whether you’re feeding one or ten.
For craft, oak-smoked ribs at a destination spot steps from the island’s heart, that’s solid value. You’re not just paying for food; you’re investing in a meal you’ll describe in detail to friends for months, maybe years, after you leave.
A Comeback Story Baked Into Every Bite
Southern Soul opened in 2006 with big dreams and bigger smoke, carving out a name in a state where barbecue reputations take decades to build.
Then 2010 arrived with a fire that could have ended the story before the second act. Instead of folding, the owners leaned on community support, rebuilt the pits, and reopened with the same neon-sign, license-plate-wall, smoke-in-the-air vibe that made people fall in love in the first place.
Only this time, the pits ran hotter, the process tightened, and the ribs got even better. That resilience lives in every rack they serve today—a reminder that great food comes from people who refuse to quit, even when the flames aren’t metaphorical. It’s still a roadside hangout, still casual, still real.