I’m one of those Jews who was raised on pork BBQ. My dad grew up in Tennessee, and he brought his taste (and standards) for BBQ when he moved to Kansas City, where I came into the picture. I grew up eating at the best spots in KC (ask me for advice if you find yourself there, but you can never go wrong with LC’s) as well as my dad’s own Tennessee-style BBQ. I also made regular trips to Texas over the years to visit cousins.
Since moving to Minnesota in 2011, I’ve longed for decent BBQ. Yes, there’s a smattering of OK spots in town, but I struggled to find any place that would keep me coming back for more. Then, about a year ago, my wife and I were wandering the Minneapolis Farmers Market when the intoxicating aroma of smoked meat drew us to it like a cartoon critter towards a pie on a windowsill. That’s how we found Just Paula’s.
People were gathered around a smoker chatting, with hip-hop and R&B playing and beautiful smoked meats being served. It felt like a family cookout. I knew from the smell alone this was going to be special. I ordered the ribs, and with one bite, I practically transcended.
Just Paula’s is a passion project of friends Anthony Simmons and Ulysses Zackery. Simmons, who’s originally from Philadelphia, grew up in the kitchen. From an early age, he was helping out with his mom’s (the titular Paula) catering business. Since then, he has worked at every level in the restaurant industry, from dishwasher to manager.
Zackery, who’s from Minnesota, also grew up in the kitchen—he was one of five siblings, all of whom had to learn to cook. “If you didn’t like what was for dinner, you can make something yourself!” he laughs, a phrase I, too, grew up with.
Both Simmons and Zackery have been making food for people most of their lives, and they met through gatherings at a mutual friend’s regular Sunday hangout they dubbed “Skol Food Sundays.” That’s where they started making food together.
One summer day in 2021 Simmons was wandering the Minneapolis Farmers Market and thought to himself, “There’s so much good food here, but where’s the meat?” He tracked down the market manager and asked what it would take to serve BBQ here.
Not a lot, it turns out: He filled out some forms, asked Zackery if he wanted to join him, and by the following Friday they were at the market with their smoker, lovingly dubbed “Night Train.” (Night Train is fairly modest in size, but Simmons and Zackery smoke through the night—on each drive to the market, it’s already smoking, hence the name.) Five years later, Just Paula’s sells out every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday by 1 p.m., if not sooner, going through 900 pounds of meat every weekend.
At Just Paula’s BBQ, everything is made from scratch and carefully dialed in, from the dry rubs that are meticulously designed for each meat to the signature cherry and oak (“choke,” as they call it) wood they use for smoking.
And yet, none of that really captures the ineffable quality that we often describe as tasting home-made. Industry experts they may be, but the Just Paula’s duo don’t strike you that way. Spending time with them feels like hanging out at a family BBQ: People are swapping stories, telling jokes, and singing along to music. The food is made and served with warmth. “You taste the love,” Simmons says.
Their burnt ends, while pretty different from Kansas City burnt ends, surprisingly remind me of the homey brisket I had with tsimmes from the Jewish holidays of my youth. The pork chop for their new pork chop sandwich tastes like bacon in steak form.
The ribs, though, have truly stolen my heart—complex, but not complicated, they’re rich and deeply smoky. The fat melts, but there’s still a bite, a chew, a texture. A charred crust, brimming with spices. (“No mushy meat,” says Zackery.) It’s not heavy-handed, but it’s more than the sum of its parts. There’s sauce served on the side in mild and hot iterations. I haven’t tried the mild (because why?), but the hot is approachable, so don’t worry, native Minnesotans. And, with every order Simmons exclaims joyfully, “Make it hot-uh!” The sauce, while not necessary, folds into all the flavors of the meat nicely.
BBQ people love arguing about BBQ. Kansas City vs. Texas vs. Tennessee. I’ve had them all, but if you ask me, the best never quite fits into a category. Simmons and Zackery sidestep the argument entirely, cheekily calling their approach “Minne-delphia style.” They’re not trying to mimic anything, really; they’re just trying to make the best food they can for the community they are a part of. Maybe you saw them giving free food to people in need while ICE terrorized the cities this winter.
To keep up with demand and to satiate more palates, they’re planning on opening a brick-and-mortar in the near-ish future. On top of their current lineup, they’ll be adding sliced meats and lots of sides to the menu including pastrami, so you will certainly find me there. Sandwiches, too.
“The problem with sandwiches in the area is that too often there is too much bread, not enough meat,” Simmons tells me, scrolling to a picture of a pastrami sandwich with meat piled high. I can’t wait.
