The story of barbeque is the story of the American settler.

For years my family and I have attempted to visit a genuine roadside gem called Malson's on our travels. Since we live approximately 785 miles from Kingsland, Georgia, it has taken awhile to time it right. However, third road trip is the charm...and oh, were we charmed. The dark art of southern barbeque has captivated and bewitched Malcolm. Every destination, method and style of barbeque grabs his ardor by the cajones and he becomes transfixed. While the nippers and I enjoy these meals, much of our dedication is to Father and not fare. Be that as it may, if you want it as good as it could possibly get, GO. HERE. NOW. Never before has a tin shed off an exit of Interstate 95 held my heart so tenderly. The aroma that dangles in the air carried us out of our car like something in a Warner Brothers cartoon. The sauce was mustard based and hit all the right notes, tangy, sweet, spicy, fragrant. Besides the lack of ambiance, the smoke, the sauce, all delicious, there was something that I couldn't put a finger on. Seeds of some kind in the mop (perhaps clove?) so scarcely there, surprised some of us who caught one in our teeth to release the intense bouquet. To Master Malson, we bow.