Growing up in Carthage, my barbecue allegiance was spoken for before I ever had a choice in the matter. Kansas City was king — its rich, molasses-thick sauce clinging to smoked meat like a winter blanket. Even the word "barbecue" meant something specific in my mind: burnt ends, ribs lacquered in sauce so sticky you’d spend the next ten minutes wiping your fingers, and brisket slices that barely held together under their own weight. Kansas City barbecue wasn’t just food; it was home.
But now here I was, sitting at Salt + Smoke in St. Louis, staring down a plate full of meat and a table crowded with sauce. The meat looked beautiful — brisket with a blackened bark that promised smoke and depth, ribs that shimmered with caramelized fat, and pulled pork piled generously in the corner. The scent alone had me halfway convinced St. Louis knew what it was doing.
I’d already tested the waters earlier in the trip, grabbing some barbecue at the City SC game. I told myself I’d be open-minded — this was supposed to be a taste test, not a trial. And, to my surprise, I couldn’t fault the meat. The pulled pork was tender and rich, the smoked chicken moist and flavorful. They knew their way around a smoker. Maybe St. Louis barbecue wasn’t an imposter after all.
But barbecue isn’t just about the meat — it’s about the sauce.
That's where things fell apart.
At the City SC game, I poured some sauce over my pulled pork — and out came something that looked more like salad dressing than barbecue sauce. Thin, watery, and vinegary. I gave it a shot, but it barely clung to the meat. The flavor was fine, but I kept feeling like I needed to pour more just to make it stick. I thought maybe I’d gotten a bad batch.
Now, at Salt + Smoke, I was willing to give it a fair shake. A table full of sauce options stared back at me: sweet, tangy, spicy, mustard — a lineup that seemed more like a chemistry set than a condiment station. I grabbed the sweet one first, seeking something familiar. It was... acceptable. The flavor was solid, but the consistency felt unfinished, like someone had started reducing it and forgot to finish. The spicy sauce had some kick, but again, it slid right off the meat like rain down a tin roof. The mustard sauce saved the day — tangy, sharp, and determined to stick. If all St. Louis sauces were like that, we’d have no problem.
But they aren’t. And that’s the thing — St. Louis sauce demands quantity. They call themselves "Sauce City" for a reason: they consume more barbecue sauce per capita than just about anywhere else. And once you see their sauce, you understand why — it takes a lot of it to get the job done. It’s not a flourish; it’s a flood.
I left Salt + Smoke satisfied but still unconvinced. The meat was fantastic — no argument there — but the sauce still felt like an afterthought, a thin dressing that struggled to hold its ground. Kansas City sauce clings to the ribs like a loyal friend. St. Louis sauce feels like it’s trying to escape.
I’ll give credit where it’s due: St. Louis barbecue is better than I expected. The meat stands proudly on its own, and if someone offered me a plate of ribs or brisket from this side of the state, I wouldn’t say no. But if you’re going to call yourself Sauce City, maybe—just maybe—you should consider thickening things up a bit.
I came to St. Louis knowing I’d be tested. I left knowing I’d remain loyal to Kansas City — but with a newfound respect for the imposter.