(FORTUNE Small Business) – Whenever I go back to Texas, which is where I was born and raised, I indulge in the four basic Lone Star food groups: Tex-Mex, Shiner Bock, chicken fried steak, and barbecue. Now, I'd like to say upfront that I'm not one of those maniacs who thinks that 'cue belongs in a category separate from and elevated above all other foods. In fact, I was strangely ambivalent about barbecue while growing up, probably because (even in Texas) it's too often slathered with so much sauce that you can hardly taste the meat itself. And the meat, my friends, is what barbecue is all about.

In search of the meat, I decided to make barbecue the centerpiece of a recent driving trip that I took through the barbecue belt of central Texas with E, my girlfriend. I had something specific in mind; a brief description of the City Market in Luling should be instructive.

City Market is on the town's main drag, notable for the pervasive smell of barbecue and various visual references to the annual Watermelon Thump, a big local event. (Seriously.) Inside, the place looks like your average, homey, small-burg eatery. But in the back there is a door to a dark room. In that dark room is a counter, and behind the counter are some sweaty men, and behind the sweaty men are the big, black pits. The whole room is blackened, actually, from years of barbecuing. An order of, say, sausage and brisket, accompanied by slices of white bread, is placed on top of several large sheets of butcher paper. Get a plastic knife and carry your meal to one of the tables in the front. "What about forks?" you may ask. "No forks," smiles the chipper woman selling drinks and sides. "Just use your hands." Beef brisket or shoulder clod, cooked in those big old pits for many hours, is fall-apart tender. Perfect. Just throw in a bottle of Shiner, maybe some pickles and onions, a side of potato salad, possibly a nice hunk of pepper-jack cheese, and your health insurance card for admittance into the nearby hospital when you have your heart attack.

Smitty's, just up the road in Lockhart, is similar. Lockhart has no annual "thump" of any kind, but it does have two other barbecue restaurants of note: Black's (great pork loin) and the Kreuz Market. The latter is in a new, humongous building right outside of town. Smitty's and Kreuz used to be one place, but a family feud resulted in the split. I don't get involved in feuds between experts with heavy knives and large ovens, but both places are outstanding.

West of Austin in the town of Driftwood is Salt Lick, a restaurant that points in the direction of normal. They even have forks. This place was a favorite of E's on the strength of its ribs, the tomatoey sauce, and the excellent side dishes. In Taylor we visited Louie Mueller's, the most fantastic-looking old 'cue joint I've ever seen, a living Larry McMurtry invention. The style was pure old-school, and the jalapeno sausages were a highlight of the trip.

That was supposed to be it, but on the drive home to New Orleans, we needed one more fix. I'd brought along Lolis Eric Elie's excellent book, Smokestack Lightning: Adventures in Barbecue Country, which praises Hinze's in Sealy just off I-10. (There's one in Wharton, too.) It looks like some kind of fast-food joint, and I was skeptical at first, but the barbecued chicken was outstanding. Despite my reservations about sauce reliance, I bought a bottle here, in the vain hope that we could re-create meals like this when we got home. But we can't, of course. Except maybe for the part about eating with our fingers. And maybe the trip to the hospital.