The Queue for the ’Cue at Mad Jack’s Mountaintop Barbecue

Words and Photos by John Hardberger

As a native Texan—and thus a barbecue snob from birth—I was surprised and even a little suspicious to hear tell of wait-worthy barbecue in Cloudcroft, of all places. Queuing for ’cue is common practice in the barbecue heartland of Central Texas, where the smoking process has been refined by dynasties of pitmasters. The wait at such sites of meat pilgrimage has become an essential part of the experience. Take Franklin’s Barbecue in Austin, for instance: In response to waits that regularly exceed three hours, would-be diners often tailgate in the parking lot, setting up camp before sunrise with folding chairs and coolers of beer.

That’s all to say I knew what I was getting myself into when I hitched a spot in line at Mad Jack’s Mountaintop Barbecue. I’ve stood in a lot of brisket lines, including some of the longest and most famous. I’ve even camped out, predawn, at Franklin’s. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what Mad Jack’s owner-operator, James Jackson, was smoking.

Mad Jack’s is a second act for Jackson, who didn’t start barbecuing until he was well into his forties. He was born and raised in what many consider the barbecue capital of Texas, the charming Austin satellite of Lockhart, and as a high schooler he swept floors at The Original Black’s BBQ, a legendary institution. He graduated in 1980 and went to work at the Chrysler dealership his dad operated. “I figured I’d do it a few years, maybe go to school after. That was the plan. But two years turned to thirty,” Jackson said. At forty-seven, after the dealership got shuttered in the 2008 recession, he decided it was time for a career change.

For guidance, he turned to Aaron Franklin—proprietor of the aforementioned Franklin’s Barbecue—who, after establishing himself as one of the up-and-coming legends in the world of smoked meat, started documenting his process on video and sharing it on YouTube. From these videos, which cover everything from building your own smoker to how to trim a brisket, Jackson learned much of what he credits Mad Jack’s eventual success to.

Through several years of trial and error—including a short-lived but successful food truck at the site of the former dealership—Jackson refined his recipes, favoring tradition and simplicity above all else. When crowds at the food truck began to strain his limited infrastructure, Jackson sought out a long-term home for his dream barbecue joint. Like many Texans (including yours truly), he’d vacationed in New Mexico’s Sacramento Mountains and developed a love of high-altitude living, which led him to explore real estate offerings in Cloudcroft. There, with some cash squirreled away by his late father in the trunk of a junked Mercury Montego, he bought the two-story main street building that once housed the popular Mountaintop Mercantile. In 2015, Mad Jack’s opened its doors and started spreading the gospel of authentic Central Texas ’cue.

But what, I hear you ask, is “real, authentic Central Texas ’cue,” anyway? One key qualification is the pantheon of meats being smoked, the big three being beef brisket, pork ribs, and sausage—the latter typically stuffed with jalapeños and cheddar cheese. Everything’s smoked over Texas post oak, usually overnight, then weighed out and purchased by the pound. Important to note: Texas-style ’cue does not typically come pre-sauced. In fact, to rely on it overmuch is something of a faux pas; quality meat prepared right, the reasoning goes, does not need sauce to shine. Throw in classic sides like pinto beans, potato salad, coleslaw, or mac ’n’ cheese, and accouterments like pickles, onions, and white bread, and you’ve got yourself a well-rounded, Texas-sized barbecue feast.

In some ways, Jackson hews pretty close to this classic setup: He picks up trailers full of Texas post oak while visiting his grandkids in Central Texas and serves the barbecue from a classic line. In other ways, he’s made innovations in keeping with his adopted home. Mad Jack’s sausages forego the traditional jalapeño-cheese combo in favor of Hatch green chile, the heat of which nicely complements the smoky filling—leftover brisket and pork rib trimmings, ground in-house. While Mad Jack’s serves the classic pork rib, the menu also features a dinosaur-sized bone-in beef rib, a cut of meat to make Fred Flintstone jealous. You could easily make a meal out of just one of these ribs, which are rich in flavor and smoked prime rib tender, though cadets from nearby Holloman Air Force Base have been known to compete over them, seeing who can finish a rack or—god forbid—two.

The real star of the show, though, is the brisket, that true mark of a pitmaster’s skill: Mad Jack’s is unbelievably moist, almost buttery, its fat rendered down to melt-in-your-mouth, umami goodness over its thirteen-plus hours in the smoker. Jackson gets his hormone- and antibiotic-free beef from Creekstone Farms—the same company that supplies a number of Central Texas mainstays, not least of all Franklin’s. The other essential component of good brisket is the crust, a thick outer layer of salt, pepper, and other seasonings that seals in those precious juices as it caramelizes into a deliciously blackened, candy-like shell. The crust on Mad Jack’s brisket follows a classic formula: “Keep it simple, stupid.”

“Salt, pepper, and not much else but time,” was all Jackson would tell me. 

Believe it or not, the most certifiably Texan thing about Mad Jack’s might just be the line, which is both a unique social experience and an opportunity to develop a proper appetite. It can get pretty long; from Memorial Day to Labor Day, Saturday’s queue frequently runs two or three hours. When I visited on a Thursday in early May, I waited a mere half hour, chatting with a couple of RVers visiting from Boca Raton. Given the quality of the ’cue at Mad Jack’s, I would’ve happily camped out at sunrise.

105 James Canyon Hwy, Cloudcroft, 575-682-7577