The line at Louie Mueller was moving slowly when we visited, and the woman taking orders had no time for small talk. But our request for a beef rib stopped her cold. “You know what you’re doing, right?” she said. “That’s gonna be more than two pounds of meat. Yep, could be seventy or eighty dollars.” She slapped the counter, turned and pulled the rib from the warmer, and dropped it onto a tray, causing the rendered fat and tender beef to roll like waves on an angry sea. The first salty, buttery bite made clear that this is one of the best pieces of smoked meat you’ll find anywhere. The brisket, sliced as thick as a New York strip, and the all-beef sausage, which audibly snaps (and drenches your chin) when bitten, are also near-perfect specimens. And that’s why few things are more sacred in Texas barbecue than a meal at Louie Mueller.
Louie Mueller Barbecue
Louie Mueller Barbecue has been described as a “cathedral of smoke,” and indeed, many of the trappings of organized religion are present here: the sacramental offerings, the priesthood in their ecclesiastical red apron-robes, the flock of devoted congregants, even the disciples (Austin barbecue star Aaron Franklin credits a bite of
In the words of owner Wayne Mueller, black pepper is a food group at Louie Mueller Barbecue, in Taylor. There isn’t a whole lot that it doesn’t go into, and its pervasiveness around the restaurant means it will find its way into unexpected places like your cup of
Forty-nine years of post oak coals in the pit have smoke-cured the building, which previously housed a ladies’ basketball court and a grocery market. Louie moved in with his barbecue business in 1959; his son, Bobby, took over more than three decades ago, but not a thing has suffered from