The wine, traditional barbecue, and small-town vibe make this North Carolina town an unexpected delight
By Paul Ehrlich
I’m sitting in a booth at the Lexington Barbecue in Lexington, North Carolina, scanning the menu for ribs. But here, in the self-proclaimed barbecue capital of the world, they’re nowhere to be found—-not in any spot I’ll try over the next few days.
The only meat served is pork shoulder: sliced, chopped, or coarse chopped, served with a thin, tangy vinegary-based dip. The absence of ribs isn’t a glitch in the matrix; it’s a different barbecue universe shaped by a generations-old style of cooking: pork shoulders fired in brick ovens for half a day over oak and hickory coals — a barbecue tradition that goes back more than a century and has a characteristic style.
Lexington’s claim as a barbecue birthplace stretches back to 1916, when there just a couple of tents lined downtown and pitmasters like Sid Weaver and Jesse Swicegood sold smoked pork sandwiches topped with a distinctive mayo-less, ketchup-based slaw. Presidents, rock stars and athletes — from Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton to Bruce Springsteen and football legend Johnny Unitas — have all come to pay homage to the Hog.
More than a century later, barbecue restaurants still prepare their meat much the same way they always have. That tradition is celebrated each year at the annual Lexington Barbecue Festival, which draws more than 100,000 visitors from across the country.
The Art of the Pitmaster
Nathan Monk’s family has owned and operated Lexington Barbecue for three generations and has preserved the traditional cooking methods for more than six decades. “It’s brick ovens and pork shoulders—not whole hog or Boston butt, but Smithfield shoulder,” he says, referring to the leaner, lower cut prized for slow cooking. “And that won’t change.”
There’s a roadside feel to the place — part highway stop, part local institution — a no- frills landmark on Smokehouse Lane. The building is plain and white-painted, marked by a billboard sign in the parking lot. Behind it, chimney stacks send up streams of smoke from the wood-fired pits. The air is filled with the scent of hardwood smoke. We’re standing behind the restaurant, where the wood fire burns.
“No marinade, no brine, no rubs, no additives,” says Monk. “The only thing we do is put salt on them and let the smoke do the work.” They start off around 18 to 19 pounds each and, over the next 10 hours, render down to about 11 to 12 pounds of richly flavored meat. “We go through about a thousand pounds of pork a day. Weekends more.”
Having the science, now for the test. Back in the booth, the food arrives: a chopped barbecue sandwich served in a paper-lined plastic basket, a scoop of slaw, a cup of dip, and a side of fried hushpuppies. The first bite is tender without falling apart—lean meat from inside the shoulder, mixed with smokier outside bits closer to the fire. The dip cuts in with a little heat and just enough zing; not the sticky, sauce-slathered barbecue I came in looking for. In this universe, ribs never mattered.
What Defines ‘Best’ When It Tastes So Good?
Like New Yorkers debating the best slice of pizza, people here don’t argue over whether Lexington-style barbecue is good, only over what makes the “best” version—how much sugar belongs in the dip, whether a sharper vinegar bite is more authentic than a sweeter one, if slaw should lean sweet or tangy, and whether pork is best chopped, coarse-chopped, or sliced, whether chopped meat should be minced fine or left pleasantly chunky.
I tried other spots, like the Barbecue Center. “Here you go, hon,” says Kathy Conrad, who has worked here part-time for 25 years. She slides over a coarse-chopped pork sandwich, still warm from the block. Juicy, slightly smoky meat, a soft bun, and a heap of sweet, savory slaw on top. Nothing fancy. Simple food that looks easy—yet like a good martini or a proper Caesar salad, doesn’t always land this perfectly.
“Maybe our only difference is the dip,” says owner Michael Conrad, Kathy’s cousin. “Ours is ketchup, vinegar, spices, sugar, and water. Just that we’ll put a little more of this and little less of that.”
Barbecue Center is the oldest spot in downtown Lexington still cooking on pits. It started out as the Dairy Center, by Conrad’s uncle, selling only ice cream. A barbecue pit was added in1955 for added income during winter. In the late 1950s, it moved to the current location, the name changed, Conrad’s dad took over, and now Conrad and his brother run the joint. But the ice cream remains, including a four-pound banana split with three softball-sized scoops of ice cream.
“Lexington-style barbecue keeps pulling me back,” says Matt Mabry, an IT risk manager from Uwharrie, North Carolina. “Traveling a lot for work, I’ve eaten barbecue from Memphis to Texas to the Carolina coast — and I love them all. But [Lexington’s] shoulder with a vinegar-pepper dip and just a hint of tomato hits the spot.”
Lexington—More Than Just Pit-Fired Pork
That kind of loyalty says as much about Lexington as it does about the barbecue.
Lexington (population 20,000) has a small-town appeal. It sits in a region known as the Piedmont, marked by rolling hills and set between the Atlantic and the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Lexington was once anchored by furniture, textiles and tobacco. Then NAFTA hit, and the jobs slid south, chasing cheaper labor, leaving behind empty brick factories and a kind of hollowed silence. Tobacco held on out of habit, but foreign competition and those photo-realistic warnings on cigarette packs stripped away whatever romance remained.
And still, Lexington didn’t fold. It pivoted — quietly, almost warily — letting change seep in while the familiar stayed put. Tradition isn’t preserved behind glass; it’s lived. Grandparents, parents and children still share the same church pews and high school halls. Childhood sweethearts become lifelong partners. Family businesses pass, seamlessly, into third and fourth hands. In Lexington, progress hasn’t replaced the past; It has simply made room at the table.
Along Main Street, many businesses operate out of the same decades-old premises. Lanier’s Ace Hardware (est. 1940), over 30,000 square feet, is “The Place to Find What You Want.” And not much nothing has changed at Conrad & Hinkle Food Market (est. 1919), signage included, along with its popular homemade pimento cheese.
Across the street, under a red-and-white striped awning, is the Candy Factory (est. 1978), a “confectionary time capsule.” In a building dating back to 1890, the place overflows with candy-colored memories: Red Bird peppermint puffs, Mallo Cups, stick candy, licorice, Atomic Fireballs, Bit-O-Honey, wax lips, and an array of retro hard candies and toys. The wooden floors are worn from decades of foot traffic between candy jars, antique candy-making equipment and vintage collectibles, while a player piano often greets visitors with old-fashioned tunes. Stacks of candy boxes perch above the shelves—a museum-like display that transports me back to childhood and my first cavities.
The columnated, two-story Old Davidson County Courthouse, built in 1858, is now a history museum. Yet Main Street also has two cannabis dispensaries, a doughnut shop owned by Cambodian-American brothers and, among the latest, Fox & Olive, an upmarket home décor store opened in 2023, with outdoor speakers that play folk and lively gospel, causing some passersby to stop and spontaneously dance.
The Future—Unfolding in Plain Sight
Nowhere better can the city’s future be seen unfolding in real time than the Depot District, a short walk from the south end of Main Street. The Lexington Depot District Revitalization is reshaping the former industrial corridor into a vibrant destination designed for living, working and entertainment. Centered on a new passenger rail station planned to be operational in the next five years, the district will feature an amphitheater, dining options, breweries, and modern residential developments, creating a dynamic hub for visitors and locals alike. “We’re not reinventing Lexington so much as returning to our roots,” Morgan Brinkle, executive director of Lexington Tourism, tells me. “When manufacturing declined, the city had to evolve. While we’re not returning to furniture production, we’re reconnecting with the buildings and history that first put Lexington on the map by reimagining those spaces.”
As Lexington reinvents itself for a new generation, that same spirit of renewal is beginning to shape another cornerstone of the city’s identity: its emerging wine scene. A growing number of winemakers are adding a new layer to Lexington’s evolving cultural landscape.
Once defined by tobacco fields, the region is cultivating a different agricultural legacy. At the southern edge of the Yadkin Valley—North Carolina’s first federally designated wine region—Lexington now serves as a gateway to a growing corridor of more than 40 wineries. Among them are small Lexington producers and Childress Vineyards, where European-style wines are shaped by gravelly red-clay soils that echo Bordeaux.
Native muscadine grapes—including scuppernong—have long grown in the region and were traditionally used for sweeter-style wines. Today, however, the region is defined largely by dry styles made from European grapes and French-American hybrids like Chambourcin, Vidal Blanc, and Traminette. NASCAR legend, Richard Childress is widely credited with putting Lexington wine on the map through the development of Childress Vineyards, one of North Carolina’s largest wineries. Tuscan-inspired and built on a Las Vegas scale, the estate includes restaurants, tasting rooms, shops, and a 30,000-square-foot winemaking facility. More than 70 acres of vineyards grow 15 European grape varieties that produce over 30 dry and sweet wines.
In the tasting room, Rhonda Daniels, wine educator, pours what she describes as the winery’s flagship offering: a 2019 Cabernet Franc. “2019 was a banner year because of the lack of rain,” she explains. “The vines had to work harder to pull nourishment from the soil, and that stress creates more complex grapes.”
Riding back to the airport on Highway 64, I spot a roadside sign in the shape of North Carolina, with the words Tarheel Q. “That’s another of Lexington’s top barbecue spots,” says my driver.
The parking lot is crowded with mostly long-haul trucks. Well, I think, one more for the road. I slide into a booth and, without glancing at the menu, know exactly what to order.
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