Southern Bar-B-Q

Friendly staff, good BBQ, easy parking, great portion sizes for price. And especially considering your other choices in Muscle Shoals I’d say this is a good choice for some grub.

I had my first southern bbq last summer (’11)…my girlfriend worked there for a couple of years in high school, and even afterwards for a few years. So with me being from Texas, I had no clue what she always was raving about with this place. First off, it is nothing fancy, which was my first like of the place. You walk in, and the smell hits you like a blanket of heavenly manna. We ordered jumbo bbq extra hot. which here is pulled pork with no sauce except a few shakes of tabasco. Also we got slaw dogs, something I never heard of in Tx. The slaw here is what they refer to as «red slaw».to this day, I can still taste them. We probably went twice last year. We came back this year, and before we get into Muscle Shoals, she’s calling her mom to order Southern for us as soon as we get there. Ate it probably 3 or 4 times this trip lol! The staff at Southern was very nice, and their sweet tea was really good also… Get here if you can!

A steady stream blue smoke floats up over the silent, slumbering houses. The sweet smell of slow-​roasting pork creeps in through the cracks in the windows and tickles the nostrils of the sleeping inhabitants.
They wake. The invisible aroma dresses them. They ride it out the front door, over the fence, over the skating rink, and it sets them down in the metallic pit where it grew from, sweet and savory, the smell of the deep south.
They can’t resist it.
The pulled pork sandwich calls them by name, not even having to ask whether they want the sweet tea or not. They always do. Everyone does.
They have no choice but to eat the cole slaw heaped on top. The pork sandwich never goes anywhere without it. They are inseparable partners that never fail to please the tongues. And bellies.
But the pork sandwich knows they haven’t had their fill. He calls his cousin, smoked chicken sandwich, who is rowdy and has what some call an attitude. He blames it on the spice.
The smoked chicken sandwich crawls over, just out of the grill, dragging his blanket of cole slaw with him, white sauce dripping down his sides. On a leash behind him trots the beef dog. He’s been rolling around in the chili and slaw again. But that’s the way they like him.
They can’t stop it. The smoked chicken sandwich goes down fighting, kicking, and smoking. At least the white sauce softened the blows. But it kicks so good. The dog leaps down after his master, leash and all.
They pat their stomachs, the sweet tea like syrup running down their throats, sweet enough to replace dessert.
Then the smell vanishes.
They wake up.