The church of barbecue

Where good enough is good enough

It was a little drab, the kind of place you could drive past without noticing. It was a little timeworn, the kind of place you might drive past on purpose. Unless you knew better. Unless you knew that on the other side of those drab, timeworn, corrugated metal walls you’d find something more nourishing than you ever imagined.

Photo: Don Shaw

Kepley’s Barbecue. Yes, -cue. If you spell it with a -que somebody is going to shake their head and say “bless your heart,” and not in a good way. Bar-B-Q. BBQ is also acceptable, or just Q if you’re short on time.

Now, if you know anything at all about the South, you know that good barbecue is not just a staple, it’s a religion. And as with every religion, there are different ways of worshiping. Wood-smoked or electric cookers. Pork shoulder or whole hog. Sliced or chopped. Lexington-style or Eastern. Red slaw or white. With or without extra dip, the sauce you dribble on your pork to give it that little extra punch. Everyone has their beliefs about which combinations are right and which establishments offer the most certain path to gustatory heaven.

In 1968, when my father brought our family back to High Point, North Carolina from Kansas, I was six years old. By then, Kepley’s had already been in business for 20 years, and the founder, Hayden Kepley, had passed the baton to a new pair of owners: Charlie Johnson and Bob Burleson. Another 33 years later, Charlie retired, but Bob carried on, and on, and on.

Bob Burleson in his late 80s. Photo: WGHP TV

Starting out as a curb boy when he was just 16, Bob grew up with the business. Later, his children did the same. His daughter, Susan, who became a co-owner when Charlie left, tagged along with her dad from the time she was three years old. And when he died in 2022 at the age of 90, she kept going. Until now.

Last month, soon after announcing her retirement, Susan opened Kepley’s doors to the adoring public for the last time. For 77 years, the Burleson family devoted itself to making sure people got what they needed from an establishment that ended in the same military-surplus Quonset hut where it began. No renovated interior. No outdoor patio. No snazzy, new location across town. The same green awnings, low ceilings, ordinary Formica booths, cluttered countertops and walls greeted customers across decades. The only things that expanded at Kepley’s were the pig-art and the smiles.

The tea was sweet, the Cheerwine cold, the hush puppies crisp-tender, and the barbecue—Eastern-style with the bright tang of vinegar and the prick of a little pepper—reliably satisfying. It was just right for a midday meal, a tailgate picnic, or a night when the home team needed a break from cooking. We counted on Kepley’s.

Though I left North Carolina 30 years ago, my barbecueship with Kepley’s didn’t end. Most every time I made a visit back home, it would turn up on the menu for a simple supper. And when my parents came to visit us, they’d tuck some in a cooler to share while we were together.

Maybe it was those across-the-miles memories that prompted the notion of a final homage to Kepley’s, though I did not predict where it would end up when it first popped to mind. It started with a relatively easy ask of a brother who still lives in High Point: Would he buy and freeze a quart or two that I could retrieve on some undetermined date in the future?

I knew Kepley’s (“Pigs Can Fly”) offered shipping, a convenience that manifested after Martha Stewart mentioned the restaurant on national television. But we were headed out of town the same week any package was bound to arrive.

My brother, the BBQ guy, with two of his high school pals.

Instead, owing to my brother’s generous, ingenious nature, he took that service upon himself. He bought the Q, froze it, and two weeks later shipped it to us on dry ice, along with a double-order of hush puppies.

I’ve never in my life been so excited about a UPS parcel! I checked the tracking updates repeatedly as it made its 48-hour journey across three states. Like a scent-trained dog, the closer it got the more agitated I became. When the map told me it was less than two miles away but the estimated arrival increased by three hours, I howled and very nearly set out to find the truck and pluck the package right off the back of it.

Finally the brown step-van appeared. I sprinted to the door and lifted the box into my arms like I was rescuing Moses himself from the River Nile.

“I sure am glad to see you!” I hollered to the driver who was now nearly back to the truck. “Barbecue! It’s barbecue in here!” The guy grinned but gave me a look that said he had nothing left to offer a chatty type like me.

And so it was that on a recent weekend, we had a last supper. I piled the barbecue into a double boiler and popped the puppies in the oven. I made a red cabbage slaw. When the meat was hot and the cornmeal crust golden brown, we scooped generous portions onto our wedding china plates and dug in with our real-deal silver. For an added flourish, we spooned ketchup from a crystal bowl but set the bottle of Tabasco sauce right there next to it.

For nearly eight decades, the Kepley’s crew made good food. But it took more than that to become a local institution. Walking through that door made you feel closer to a way of being that was harder to find beyond those paneled walls. Inside, the arms of community welcomed you, gave you a smile, invited you to sit a spell.

Kepley’s wasn’t exceptional because it offered award-winning fare or entertained occasional visits from celebrities. It was a place where you felt connected, valued, a place where you mattered. It wasn’t that it had no imperfections—most anything that lives into its 70s will have its share of those. Rather it was how everything worthy, and right, and real about the place meant you never really noticed any flaws. And the way I see it, there’s something downright holy about that.

~Elizabeth

All righty, folks, let’s hear it. I know you’ve got opinions about barbecue, and you’re surely thinking about your own Kepley’s-like places right now. I’ve enjoyed a few others in my life, none of them Q-joints. Tell me more about yours!

And just another little note here: I often conclude my weekly offerings with an invitation to like and share, to meet me and others in the comments, or to step in with a paid subscription. While it could never stand in for a place like Kepley’s, my hope is that Chicken Scratch brings you a similar kind of welcome and leaves you feeling more ready to manage life outside these words. And I hope, if it does, that you might consider whether that’s worth something to you.

Wishing you all a nourishing week. I’ll see you soon!