South Carolina’s First Family of Barbecue

In the summer of 1996, I made a conscious decision to turn my life upside down.  After an idyllic childhood in New England— a region where it’s perpetually fall, and where a soundtrack of James Taylor’s pop-rock hits always seems to be quietly playing in the background— I relocated to the Palmetto State.  

Yes, that’s right.  South Carolina.

At the time, at least, the cross-country move seemed like a wise decision.  I’d been given a unique opportunity to matriculate at a distinguished institution of higher learning— one so prestigious, it has the country’s only sports mascot which harkens back to the good ol’ days of legalized cockfighting.  Obviously, my academic future was unimaginably bright, and at the tender age of eighteen, I felt mature, confident, and self-assured.  Worldly, even.  I stood by my decisions, which is why, immediately after arriving in Columbia and spotting a giant pig on the side of the road, I knew where we’d have to stop for lunch.

Back then, during my very first visit to Maurice Bessinger’s Piggie Park, the most unusual thing I noticed was that the barbecue sauce was yellow.  I struggled to comprehend it— like, how was such a thing possible?  Of course, I’ve since learned that this is a point of contention between barbecue gourmands from North and South Carolina, whether one should use mustard or ketchup as a base for their sauces. Who knew it could be such a hot button issue?  Either way, the meat itself is always delicious.

My meal was amazing, of course— just like I knew it’d be.  But in South Carolina, awesome barbecue is literally available everywhere, and four long years passed before I made it back to the Piggie Park a second time.  But this time, when I sat back down in the dining room to celebrate my upcoming graduation, it was obvious that something had changed.  

Now, I’d grown a certain level of tolerance for the South’s quirks by that point, so I didn’t pick up on the subtle atmospheric shift until a Yankee tablemate helpfully pointed it out for me.  Dozens of Confederate flags now hung from the restaurant’s ceiling, covering nearly every square inch of the walls.  At the counter, next to the menus, a rack of free informational brochures championed the South’s glorious lost cause of secessionism.  These displays were impossible to miss— and the only reason I hadn’t noticed them four years earlier was because they hadn’t been there.  

See, back when I was in school, the political debate in South Carolina was about the fact that the Confederate battle flag still flew over the State House.  Apparently, this flag been raised above the building’s dome several decades earlier, at the height of the Civil Rights era.  In the 1990s, though, a number of opposition groups were hoping to put the state’s past behind them, and their momentum was growing. 

The issue proved so contentious, it even eclipsed the great debate over ketchup- vs. mustard-based sauces.  Sometimes, it almost seemed like the “War of Northern Aggression” had never truly ended.  On the one side were people whose ancestors had been enslaved; they were understandably upset to be living underneath the shadow of said banner.  And then on the other side were Southerners whose ancestors had fought, or even died, for their states’ militias; these folks saw the flag as a reminder of their great-great-grandparents’ sacrifices.  Calls to remove it were inevitably answered by cries of “Keep it flying”, and that it stood for “Heritage, not Hate”.  Eventually, in April of 2000, the South Carolina State Senate struck a compromise, and moved the Confederate flag to a much more discreet location on a corner of the State House grounds.  From July of 2000 to June of 2015, the flag was used as part of a memorial to the state’s Civil War dead. 

In Columbia, during the months leading up to this relocation, it was impossible to avoid the issue.  It seemed like everyone stood firmly on one side or the other, and Maurice Bessinger was no different.  He’d thrown his hat in with the Secessionists— of course— but as I’d later learn, this was hardly a new position for him.  Even as far back as the 1960s, Maurice Bessinger’s Piggie Park restaurants were battlegrounds in the Civil Rights movement, after an African American woman successfully sued the franchise for refusing to serve her.  Maurice became active in politics after the incident, serving as a chapter president for the “National Association for The Advancement of White People”.  Just a few years later, in 1974, he barely missed earning a seat as a state Senator, losing a hotly contested election by just a few dozen votes.

After decades of outspoken resistance to“Northern Aggression”, it was hardly surprising that Maurice Bessinger refused to back down, even after the Confederate flag was officially lowered.  He went on to publish an autobiography called “Defending my Heritage”, and argued the point that “God gave slaves to whites.”  In all of his Piggie Park restaurants, Bessinger took to handing out tracts which claimed that slavery couldn’t possibly have been evil, since the concept was discussed at great length in the Bible.  

The backlash was fierce, and ongoing.  Supermarket chains across the state pulled Bessinger’s famous barbecue sauce from their shelves, but Maurice remained steadfast in his views.  At the same time, his two brothers took great pains to publicly distance themselves from Maurice’s controversial stance.  Thomas and Melvin Bessinger, both successful restauranteurs in Charleston, continued to serve their family’s famous barbecue to all comers.  

Eventually— as it always does— time settled this dispute.  After Maurice Bessinger passed away in 2014, his children assumed ownership of the 8 Piggie Park franchises around Columbia, and adopted a much more inclusive posture.  And as I write this, I’m happy to report that all of the Bessinger family restaurants are still going strong today, earning them the undisputed title of South Carolina’s First Family of Barbecue.