The best part of the Zimmerhanzel story is W.B Brazil (pronounced "Brazzle"), a Bastrop County BBQ legend, who was a "stickler for detail." As a result, Zimmerhanzel's serves its smoked meat on brown, not white, butcher paper. And, because Brazil eschewed basting the meat with sauce, Zimmerhanzel's "...don't dope nothing up." Those are words for these times: serve it on brown paper and don't dope nothing up. If this is (fair & balanced) folk wisdom, so be it.
[x Austin Fishwrap]
Smoke Floats Again At Beloved Smithville Barbecue Joint: Closing Of Zimmerhanzel's Proved Just A Short Respite For Couple
By Michael Corcoran
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This is the kind of town that still blows a siren at noon sometimes, but for nearly three decades a more pungent form of clockwork has become a part of life here. You know it's 10 a.m. when Bert Bunte, who has run Zimmerhanzel's BBQ with his wife, Dee Dee, since he was 20 and she was 17, throws several pounds of onions onto the burning oak wood in his massive barbecue pit. On a windless day, the smell of burning onions wafts for hundreds of yards in each direction.
But two months ago, it seemed the zesty midmorning aroma would be just another piece of the past, like the highway between Austin and Houston that once went right through the middle of town.
A collective gasp greeted delivery of the December 18 edition of the Smithville Times, which announced on the front page that Zimmerhanzel's was closing in five days. The Buntes, still in their 40s with the kids grown up and moved out, had decided to see if there was more to life than 70-hour work weeks. There are few occupations that age a person like running a barbecue restaurant, and these two wanted to get out while they are still young. But the unexpected news hit this town of 4,000 like a punch to the gut. If you were to list the best things about living in any small town in Texas, having a great barbecue joint would be up at the top.
Bert Bunte got a job with the City of Smithville's water department, and Dee Dee Bunte was finally able to do things that we all take for granted, like being outside on a weekday when the sun is shining.
But the orange prefab building with the wacky tables beckoned. One day last month, Bert Bunte was installing a meter on a property next to the Zimmerhanzel's location and had an epiphany. "I was just staring at (the building) and I thought, `That's where I belong,'" he recalled. "I missed it like I never thought I would."
Dee Dee Bunte had a similar thought going into the post office one afternoon. Zim's regular Johnnie Ray Thomas was coming out. "What are you doing here?," he asked, then remembered that Dee Dee Bunte was no longer in the barbecue business. "I realized that my whole identity was tied to Zimmerhanzel's," she said.
You can see where this is going, but let's start over at the beginning. Like good barbecue, a good ending shouldn't be rushed.
The year 1980 was one of major change for the Smithville High senior they always called Dee Dee because her real name is Dana Denise. On February 13, almost 29 years ago to the day, her parents Edwin and Donna Zimmerhanzel set her and fiancé Bert Bunte up to run a new barbecue joint they opened on Royston Street, next door to the family's custom meat processing business. Three months later Dee Dee graduated from high school. The next month, she became Mrs. Bunte.
When they started, Bert and Dee Dee Bunte didn't know a thing about barbecue. Dee Dee's father, Edwin, coaxed 69-year-old Bastrop Country barbecue legend W.B. Brazil out of retirement to work side-by-side with the kids and show them the tricks. "Mr. Brazil (pronounced "Brazzle") was such a stickler about things," Dee Dee Bunte, 46, said, "like he always insisted on serving the meat on brown butcher paper, not white."
Nearly three decades later, she can barely remember a time when she didn't open the restaurant at 8:30 a.m. six days a weeks, to greet customers, work the counter and carve 20 to 30 briskets a day.
Bert Bunte, 49, runs the pit in the back and makes sausage fresh every day. Since 1980 he's been getting up at 4 a.m. each morning to fire up the pit, custom built by his father-in-law, a former welder. Slow cooking is the key, so the brisket, pork ribs, sausage and chicken are thrown on the grill hours before the doors open for the breakfast crowd. (Yes, there are folks who eat sausage and brisket before 9 a.m.)
Although Zimmerhanzel's closed at 5 p.m., the Buntes' work day wasn't usually over until about 7, when he finished spicing the meat for the next day and she did prep work and tidied up. Zimmerhanzel's was closed Sundays, but that didn't mean there wasn't more work to be done, including catering weddings. He was a groomsman for her sister Laura's wedding and still handled the food, slicing up brisket in his tuxedo.
Running a barbecue joint makes for a grueling schedule, made even more stressful, Dee Dee Bunte said, because her husband is a perfectionist. "He could hardly sleep some nights because he'd be worrying about something or other at the restaurant. Everything has to be just right." For years, Bert Bunte had talked about selling the restaurant, which the Buntes bought from her parents 10 years ago.
One day he heard about the job opening in the water department. It was his if he wanted it.
Bert and Dee Dee Bunte had a heart-to-heart one night and decided that health and peace of mind were more important than running a thriving barbecue business. They knew they were letting down Smithville, but they were burned out. "It was the hardest decision we've ever made," said Dee Dee Bunte, whose great-great-grandfather Jacob Zimmerhanzel came to America from Bohemia in 1866 as a 16-year-old. Running authentic pit barbecue joints in Texas is a Czech-American tradition, but the Buntes, after much agonizing, finally agreed that it wasn't going to run their lives.
"Everyone was so understanding," said Dee Dee Bunte. On the advertised final day of operation, the lines snaked through the restaurant and went out the door. Tears were shed and the staff heard "We're sure gonna miss you" about a thousand times that day. The mood was that of folks coming to pay their respects. Dee Dee Bunte said she had little idea, until the closing was announced, just how much the town would be affected.
"There was just this big hole in the community," said retired county judge Clarence Culberson. "I was giving a speech after the MLK Day parade (on January 19) and I said that the only thing that would make this day more glorious was if we could all go to Zimmerhanzel's afterward." Although Smithville's black and white neighborhoods are separated by railroad tracks, as in most other small Texas towns, the barbecue joint was a place for all. When Culberson finished, Smithville Mayor Mark Bunte told him not to worry; his brother Bert Bunte had decided to reopen in a couple of weeks. Culberson went back to the mike to make the announcement and everyone cheered.
When Zimmerhanzel's reopened February 5, the lines were almost as crazy and unrelenting as when they closed. "We're sure gonna miss you" was replaced with "We're sure glad you're back."
Although not as famous or highly ranked as Louie Mueller's barbecue joint in Taylor, Snow's in Lexington, Cooper's in Llano or Kreuz and Smitty's Markets in Lockhart, Zimmerhanzel's is a strong B plus, receiving an honorable mention on Texas Monthly's most recent list of best barbecue joints in Texas. On Saturdays, the busiest day of the week, Dee Dee Bunte estimates that 50 percent of the clientele is from out of town. A sign at the Smithville exit off Texas 71 welcomes visitors to "The Home of 'Hope Floats,'" the Sandra Bullock movie filmed here in 1998, but to residents of nearby Rosanky, Flatonia, Cedar Creek and other farming communities, Smithville is home to the best barbecue in Bastrop and Fayette counties.
"I hope people don't think we're crazy, that we can't make up our minds," Dee Dee Bunte said. "It's just that we've been doing this since we were pretty young. We had to step away from it for a little while to truly appreciate what we had."
So it's back to work for the Buntes, who've spent more than half their lives smoking and cooking and slicing and serving meat, adding their own touches to the simple seasoning - black pepper, red pepper, salt — from an old man who also couldn't walk away from the business.
Brazil abhorred basting with sauce, believing that the best flavor came from the smoke. "I don't dope nothing up," he told the Bastrop County Times in 1984.
But he did have that one trademark touch: throwing onions on the fire in the morning to give the meat a little extra kick. Tradition carries on with the Buntes and the 10 o'clock smell is back, letting everyone know that Zimmerhanzel's is once again open for business.
Zimmerhanzel's BBQ
307 Royston St. Smithville
512-237-4244
Open Mondays-Saturdays from 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. (or when the meat runs out) ♥
[Michael Corcoran moved to Austin in 1984, from Honolulu, a town he loathed while growing up, but can't stop writing about it. Corcoran, who most closely resembles the token white bouncer on "Soul Train," has written for the Austin American-Statesman since 1995. When in need of an ego deflation, he checks out the Amazon ranking of his book All Over the Map: True Heroes of Texas Music, which came out in October 2007. (No. 794,622, eat my dust!) He knew as early as sixth grade that he wanted to be a music critic, All the other kids used to pretend to be Mick Jagger; he used to fantasize that he knew Mick Jagger. Corcoran never gets tired of that joke.]
Copyright © 2009 Cox Texas Newspapers
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Copyright © 2009 Sapper's (Fair & Balanced) Rants & Raves
