North Carolina BBQ That Turns Brussels Sprouts Into The Surprise Favorite
A trip to North Carolina was supposed to be all about the BBQ, until the brussels sprouts completely stole the spotlight. Yes, you read that right.
In a land where smoked pork reigns supreme and sauce debates could qualify as a competitive sport, I found myself obsessing over the side dish. North Carolina knows its barbecue, no question, slow-smoked, deeply savory, the kind that makes you pause mid-bite.
But somehow, those caramelized, crispy-edged sprouts crashed the party and became the unexpected headliner. It felt like watching the quiet side character in a movie suddenly deliver the best line. I came for the BBQ (obviously).
I stayed for the plot twist. And now? I’m rethinking everything I thought I knew about what deserves top billing on a Southern plate.
Smoked Brussels Sprouts With Comeback Energy
I went for the ribs and left raving about Brussels sprouts, which felt like admitting a plot twist. The sprouts arrived bronzed and blistered, edges curling like crispy petals, carrying that hickory wink you get only when smoke is a seasoning and a memory.
One bite and the texture clicked, tender at the heart with a satisfying crunch, then a glossy swoop of sweet-tangy glaze that made me chase every shard.
What stunned me was balance, the way a whisper of vinegar nudged the richness and a sprinkle of salt woke everything up.
There were nutty notes too, like toasted bits playing backup to the smoky lead, and a little heat that built without bossing the room. I kept spearing halves like shiny green coins, stacking bite after bite, and suddenly the platter of meats looked like supporting actors.
These sprouts worked because they respected barbecue logic while breaking a rule or two. Smoke carried the narrative, but acidity edited the paragraph, and every charred edge felt intentional, not accidental.
If vegetables had a victory dance, this was it, a crunchy little shuffle that made me nod yes without thinking twice.
Somewhere between bites I decided this would be the dish I proselytize about to skeptical friends. You know the type, swearing greens cannot compete with bark and bone, until a caramelized leaf snaps under their teeth.
That is when the conversion happens, clean and bright, and the table gets a little quieter.
Order them first so you have room and resolve. Let the glaze trail across the plate like punctuation and drag every scrap through it.
When you look up, you will understand how a side can lead, and why I am still thinking about char, crunch, and that final tang.
The Pit Plate That Teaches Patience
The pit plate felt like a course in smoke, a sampler inviting me to slow down and pay attention. I moved clockwise, letting the brisket open the lesson.
Tender to the point of collapse, its rosy ring a quiet testament to hours of patient fire.
The pulled pork followed, glossy strands brightened with just enough vinegar to keep the richness in motion rather than weighed down.
At Lawrence Barbecue, 150 E Cedar St, Cary 27511, the tray arrived like a friendly challenge—and I was more than ready to accept it.
Ribs were next, the bark a peppery crust that snapped and then surrendered, proof that texture can be a conversation. I paired bites with pickles that hit like bright cymbals, and slaw that cooled the tempo without dulling the groove.
Cornbread made it feel like a table at home, crumbly but not shy, ready to mop up the drippings that pooled like little plot points. I loved how each meat carried a different kind of smoke, oak leaning this way, hickory leaning that, and nothing tasted tired.
Even the sauces behaved like highlighters, not magic markers, letting the meat read as itself.
Nothing felt rushed, and nothing wore too much makeup. The best plates do that, letting you write your own bite order and remix the rhythm until it feels personal.
If you want the spirit of the place on one sheet of butcher paper, this is your map. Start with whatever leans your way, but circle back to brisket and ribs before you call it.
You will leave with a slow grin, the kind that only patience and good smoke can draw.
Brisket Burnt Ends, Little Cubes Big Drama
The burnt ends arrived like tiny comets, dark and glistening, trailing aroma that said buckle up.
Each cube carried a double personality, bark that cracked like a quiet fire and an interior that softened the moment it met heat from my tongue. They were sweet at first whisper, then savory thunder, a chew that turned silky like a magic trick.
I started slow because these bites demand pacing, a measured fork, a pause to let the caramelized edges speak.
There is a point where fat melts into flavor and the glaze shines without cloying, and that is the rhythm I chased. Pickles kept me honest, snipping through richness with sharp little scissors so I could go again.
What landed hardest was the depth, layers that unfolded as the tray cooled, like reading the same line and finding a new meaning.
Salt kissed, smoke buzzed, and pepper left a steady echo that never shouted. With white bread as a blank page, I built little stacks that tasted like barbecue haiku, short, concentrated, and complete.
These burnt ends proved how edges matter, how corners collect story in a pit the way crust on bread holds secrets. They felt celebratory without needing a big occasion, just a reason to sit and pay attention.
When a bite finishes clean yet sticks in your memory, you know it is doing honest work.
If you are tempted to call them candy, I get it, but give them the respect of silence between bites. Let the glaze dim and the bark speak, then nod when the smoke steps back into the spotlight.
You will understand why small squares can carry such cinematic weight.
Pulled Pork With Vinegar Truth
I have believed for a long time that North Carolina pork tells the truth through vinegar, and this plate confirmed it.
The meat arrived in tender ribbons, each strand glimmering with juices and a bright spark that made the fattier bits dance. One forkful in and the tang settled me like a deep breath after a sprint.
I dragged bites through extra sauce to test the acid, and it passed clean, cutting without crushing.
The flavor moved forward, not sideways, which kept me building mouthfuls that felt light even as they rumbled. Slaw on top added crunch like a sentence snapping shut in perfect grammar.
What I loved was humility, the way pork stayed center while the sauce acted like a respectful editor.
Pepper whispered, not barked, and a little heat came late so I noticed the sweetness first. The texture carried a gentle chew, proof that low heat and time negotiated a peace treaty.
On a bun, it turned into a soft thundercloud, fluffy and assertive at the same time. Without bread, it became a map of Carolina priorities, smoke, tang, balance, repeat.
I took notes with my taste buds because that is how you remember the small, essential moves.
If you are chasing the soul of this region, start here, then move outward. Keep the pickles nearby to refresh the lens and taste the edges of the pork again.
In the end, you will not just be full, you will be convinced.
Pickles, Slaw, And The Bright Edit
The sides here felt like a bright edit, punctuation marks that sharpened every smoky sentence. Pickles came in crisp coins and spears, dill-forward with a lean snap that reset my bearings.
Red onions glowed like neon and then cleared the runway for the next chew.
The slaw walked a careful line, creamy enough to soothe but not so heavy it turned the page slow. I piled it over pulled pork to prove a theory about contrast, and the crunch landed like applause at the end of a tight guitar solo.
There was a little sweetness, a little tang, and a rhythm that kept each bite upright.
I rotated sides between meats like a DJ with two decks and infinite patience. A pickle bite, then brisket, then slaw, and suddenly the tray started telling a faster story.
When a meal needs lift, these are the parts that get it off the ground without stealing the show.
What I appreciated was clarity, the way herbs actually spoke and vinegar did not shout. Everything tasted curated without feeling fussy, like the flavors had been introduced and got along naturally.
You can measure care in the crunch level, and these cups were calibrated right.
If you think sides are just extras, this lineup will persuade you otherwise. Keep them in rotation and watch the meat taste fresher each time.
It is amazing how a bright edge can make the whole picture pop.
Mac And Cheese, Creamy Intermission
Mac and cheese arrived bubbling at the edges, a creamy intermission between smoky acts.
The top held a gentle crust, browned and a little toasty, while the inside pulled in soft strings that promised richness without a nap. I leaned into the first spoonful and let the warmth smooth every sharp corner of the plate.
The cheese blend tasted considered, not just loud, with nutty notes that paired well against peppery meats. Noodles held their shape and did not surrender into mush, which matters more than people admit.
A faint buttery echo finished each bite and made me take another on instinct.
I liked how it behaved alongside vinegar sauce, neither curdling the moment nor getting pushed off the stage. The dish acted like a friendly bridge, filling space without stealing focus.
And when I needed reset comfort, I went back and found the temperature still steady and welcoming.
Texture whisper-talked the whole time, creamy but with little peaks from the top that snapped softly. Those contrasts gave it personality, a reminder that side dishes can have plot, not just presence.
When a spoon clinks the cast iron and you do not notice your pace slowing, that is success.
If you crave a counterweight to spice and smoke, this one commits.
Share it if you must, but know a second scoop will call your name. Some intermissions deserve a standing ovation of their own.
Banana Pudding, The Soft Encore
By the time I reached dessert, I was sure nothing could out-charm the sprouts, and then banana pudding slid in like the soft encore.
Layers stacked neatly, wafers tucked like little promises, bananas fresh and bright instead of tired. The spoon met a cloud and then a cool custard that tasted like memory done right.
I found cinnamon peeking in, not bossy, just enough to make the vanilla sing with a cozier tone. The wafers softened at the edges but still snapped in the centers, a textural wink I chased around the jar.
Each bite kept the sweetness measured, which let me finish without wishing for a reset button.
There is something about pudding that slows the table down, and I leaned into that gentle fade. I alternated layers, hunting for the perfect ratio and hitting it more than once.
The last spoonful tasted like a tidy exit, comforting without sagging into heavy.
It made the meal feel narrative, beginning with smoke, middle with crunch, ending with a creamy period. I appreciated how it avoided shortcuts and let vanilla and banana be themselves.
No tricks, just thoughtful pacing that warmed the landing.
If you think dessert at a barbecue joint is an afterthought, this will change the angle. Order it early if you are sharing so no one steals the final spoon.
You will walk out with a quiet smile and a pocket of nostalgia.