N.C. Barbeque: Allen and Son


  1. Graham: Route 54 just south of I-85, (919) 578-5270
  2. Chapel Hill: Hwy 86, between Chapel Hill and Hillsborough, one mile north of I-40 "if you've gone to the railroad tracks you've gone too far. " (919) 942-7576
    hours: 10am-8pm Mon-Fri; 7am (breakfast)-8pm Sat; closed Sundays
  3. Pittsboro: U.S. 15-501, between Chapel Hill and Pittsboro, just north of the Haw River Bridge roadside BBQ (919) 542-2294


Sometimes it's so good to find out just how wrong you can be. Allen & Son is a perfect example. See, I had eaten there once a few years ago, and I was mighty disappointed with my meal; I vowed never to go back.

But then I started doing these barbecue reviews, and, in the spirit of fairness, objectivity, and the Porcine Way, I decided I should go back to Allen & Sons for a newer, more well-informed perspective. So, my football-jock-turned-computer-jock pal, Jason, and I crammed ourselves into his car, you know, the one that smells like a dead squirrel, and we headed out of town for some pig. What the hell, I was already holding my breath because of the unholy stench emanating from his shit-brown (sick shit, to be sure) Escort; I might as well hold my breath through some nasty pork, as well.

But I started to reconsider my prejudices while I was in the process of micturating in Allen & Sons' small, clean, well-lighted crapper. "Maybe this piggy will be good," methunk,"maybe I won't have to schlep all the way out to Durham or Hillsborough for some decent NC barbecue anymore." I thought this would be just a pipe dream, but whattaya know?, my dreams came true! (If only I had been dreaming about making the beast with two backs with Jennifer Anniston, and that had come true. But, anyway . . .)

Talk about tasty. Even the iced tea tasted good. Jason and I ordered two combination plates (barbecue, brunswick stew, cole slaw, and hush puppies). The cole slaw was peppery-good. The brunswick stew was okay, but I've had better. And the hush puppies were mucho gusto, although they were a tad on the greazy side. We also ordered some baked beans and okra, and those suckers were winners.

Yes, yes. You want to know about Mr. Pig. Was it good? Will Adam go back for another round of Chapel Hill 'cue, or will he in fact schlep all the way to Durham again for his fave meal.

What? Haven't you been reading this? I told you I was pleasantly surprised. Yessirree. Allen & Son, as it turns out, makes some KICK-ASS barbecue. This stuff was tender, had a slightly smokey flavor, and I wanted a whole nuther plate when I finished the first one.

Good thing I stopped myself, though, because Allen & Son also makes killer desserts. Homemade everything, right down to the vanilla ice cream. But if you have dessert there, I have three words for you: peanut butter pie. Trust me on this one.

So, even if you have to drive there in a car that needs to have its interior SANDBLASTED, take a little trip out to Allen & Son. You'll know you've passed the one on 86 if you cross the railroad tracks and pass the gas station that used to be a little hippy health food store. --The Mayor


OK, now that Adam has finished dissing my car (his doesn't even work), I'll add my comments to the above review. Ever the pragmatist, here are my rules of the road for Allen & Son:

  1. Shake the BBQ sauce. They use real butter in their sauce, and serve it warmed. Adam complained that it was a bit too greasy, but I noticed that he had simply poured the top inch of melted butter on his plate. After a good shake, the sauce that I added to my pig was mighty fine.
  2. Go on a Friday night. That is when _the crew_ works. Crystal was our friendly host and Sikret, the other waitress, stopped by with an amusing comment or two during our dinner. As for the cook, Dan, he is the man.
  3. Make sure that you aren't the only one ordering peanut butter pie at the table. What Adam neglected to tell you in the above review was that it was _my_ peanut butter pie he was gobbling down. [The fork wounds in my hand have almost healed--Mayor McCheese]
  4. Enjoy the fine taxidermy.

Finally, yes my car does smell bad. But I look on the bright side of things. It simply adds one more great reason to drive with your windows down. -- Jason


I hate to be the one to spoil everyone's little party, and I can forgive Jason (new converts are often overzealous) but the Mayor has let the fire in his belly get the better of his brain again. I mean, look at that gushing praise. This place is fine, and I've nothing against it, but if this were the best barbeque I'd ever eaten this site would never have existed.

I didn't eat with them that day, so maybe is was just the fumes of Jason's car that made Allen & Son's seem so relatively rosy. Or maybe they got stoned on the way over, who knows. Just maybe that was the day that all the cooking really came together and I just missed it.

Having eaten there several times, I've found it to be only slightly above-average. It's not as good as Bullock's over in Durham, but it's a mite closer to our Carrboro/Chapel Hill domiciles, and it's a nice change of pace when you've seen all those autographed celebrity photos one time too many.

We tend to go to the Chapel Hill location, which is actually way out in the country north of the "State Zoo" (what Ol' Jesse calls this "liberal" college town--but of course The Man We Love to Hate probably thinks Rush and Newt are liberals), and the staff here claim that this is the best of the three. The building is poorly heated, cinder-block, and you're just as likely to be seated in a plastic chair which can made for chilly eatin' in winter. But the rural setting alone seems to improve the flavor; at least for now until the real estate agents strike a deal with someone in local government and build some toxic dump or yuppie condos.

The service is pretty slack; the whole band ate here before our March show at the Lizard and Snake and several times our meals were botched. I was hung over, thanks to Jason's lovely gift of a gallon of cheap wine the night before and I was counting on the barbeque to get me through. I learned a powerful lesson: Don't believe the Mayor. Like all politicians and intellectuals, everything he says is serving some self-justification. Greasy southern breakfasts and barbeques are *not* good hangover cures. If you don't believe me, ask Anthony if you can borrow the videotape of our show that night. Ugghh. --Alec


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