A Time Capsule for the American South

There’s nothing challenging about a meal at Southern Soul. The license-plate covered barbeque joint on Saint Simons Island takes the south’s wet wood-smoked barbeque culture, and, even in a time in culinary history with more pressure to innovate than ever, changes nothing. Their menu remains nearly the same; their kitchen, even after a major fire in 2010, inhabits the same renovated roundabout gas station; and their operation is manned by the same two guys that have been perfecting their craft together since 2005. It’s this overt ordinariness, though, that makes Southern Soul such an extraordinary gem. Owners Griff Burkin and Harrison Sapp have denied the age of tall, centrally plated masses of parsnips, herbs chiffonade and euro-butter quenelles. Instead, they serve a sloppy pile of fat, vinegar, and carbs on a half sheet pan and a roll of parchment paper, because they know what they’ve fathered: a time capsule for the barbeque of the south.

It's quite incredible that, even after features on Pitmasters and Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, Southern Soul’s customers are primarily locals. For one thing, it was clear that I, a mussels mariniere-loving city boy, was the only diner in that sticker-covered entryway without any clue what I’d be ordering. Kids fresh off the bases of peewee baseball games approached the register with more authority than I ever could, even with my catalog of detailed food knowledge, could’ve possibly brought up. What was an incredibly significant, culture defining moment for me as a critic was, for the locals of Saint Simons Island, just another day at the smokehouse.

What is just another day at the smokehouse for these folks, though, is another day in a high-quality dive serving a hundred years of tradition. Southern Soul owners and low-and-slow masters Griff and Harrison have developed an operation so well lubricated and fueled that it seems no one can replicate the techniques of their critically acclaimed back-of-house. Perhaps the most innovative thing they’ve got going on is their impressive array of four house made barbeque sauces ranging from sweet, caramel roux-iness to straight brine, or their oddly but tastefully sweet collard greens. And, as any good barbeque joint should, Southern Soul puts an emphasis on its sides. Dainty, deckle-drenched white bread, cidery potato salad, slimy polenta-fried okra, and doughy hushpuppies reminiscent of county fair donut holes all serve as talented background singers for footlong strips of brisket—so fatty that just as the beef’s smokiness hits, the cut has already melted into the tongue.

This is as good as “two guys, one idea” gets. Places like these serve as benchmarks in culinary history, and they happen to be incredibly heartful. Even after moves, building fires, and oddly timed media surges, the Southern Soul mission hasn’t budged. Griff and Harrison have created a place where diners know each other not peripherally, but genuinely, and where food is smoked, sliced, and braised not with ingenuity, but with humility. It might even prompt a bit of humility in those who eat it.