Cover my eyes with a blindfold, drive me to an unknown location, and I’d know immediately that I was in North Carolina — if I heard just one sound: the steady whack-whack-whack of a cleaver on a wooden cutting board as properly cooked pork is turned into a pile of barbecue. Nothing else sounds exactly like it, and no other place — not Georgia, not Texas, not Kansas City — prepares its barbecue…
2025-08-22
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