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Pit Stop at Stevie J's Stevie J's Owned by grill man Jason Stevenson. Corner of 15th Street and Broadway. Open: Monday to Saturday, 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. I t's fve o'clock on a Tursday evening, and Jason Stevenson's day is just now starting to roll. "Talk to me," he says. "I'm gonna fip these ribs." Despite his dexterity, the tongs fail him and a rack of pork ribs slips to the grass. He shakes his head, holds open a plastic Kroger bag and drops in the tainted batch. "Te dogs will love this," he says. I'll let the mishap slide because (1) Stevenson, 42, works the third shift at a cleaning and maintenance company in west Louisville, so for all I know the man just woke up; (2) he's manning nine barbecue smokers at once; and (3) everything that comes of his grills (turkey legs, pork ribs, rib tips, chicken thighs, steaks, Polish sausages) is gold. Tose dogs will be in hog heaven. Te stop at 15th and Broadway has no signage to tell you that you're at Stevie J's, an outdoor barbecue joint. Te only immediate enticement is the aroma that seeps through your car doors, which has you about to cause a wreck trying to fgure out where it's coming from and how you can get closer. I spot the clouds of hickory smoke and pull to the curb. No, you don't stick around to eat; you take your order home because you won't look civilized while gorging on this stuf. But the in-and-out pick-up procedure is far from impersonal. Given the casual setup (a picnic table, a tiny tent and bins of condiments), the thumping speakers and the welcoming faces, the place feels more like joining a friend's picnic at the park. Tough Stevenson, with his long black apron and ice-studded ear lobes, runs Clockwise from top left: pork ribs; master smoker Jason Stevenson; more ribs; Frank Holmes manning the grill. the show, others help out — and keep him entertained. His girlfriend, Julie Arnold, sweetly smiles as she preps white Styrofoam containers with sides (baked beans and potato salad) and white bread. Others help handle the smokers, including Frank Holmes, who wears a white dust mask to keep from breathing too much smoke, and Malik "Philly" Tompson Sr., who acts endearingly upset that he missed the photo opportunity for this story. And then there's Big Todd, who sits to the side, ofers his two cents and fashes a gold-toothed smile every By Mary Chellis Austin Photos by Jolea Brown moved around some. You gotta do what you gotta do," he explains. How much does he sell? "You see that stack?" he asks, pointing to the Styrofoam boxes set up on the table. "We go through maybe 60 or 70 on weeknights and about 100 on Saturdays." What makes Stevie J's oferings so irresistible? Well, piling on KC Masterpiece barbecue sauce is an undeniably tasty addition, but I have a feeling it's the hickory wood, the CharGriller-brand professional smokers and Stevenson's skills that produce the fall-of-the-bone ribs and other menu "Just God-given talent. I started cooking in the yard. Somebody asked me if I wanted to sell it." — Jason Stevenson so often. Tese folks spend an impressive amount of time and work just to set up for four hours of dinnertime glory. (Stevenson says he stays open until around 9 p.m.) He cooks out year-round and his crew shows up frst thing in the morning to handle the four truckloads of supplies and eight hours of prep time. I've arrived early for my appetite, and a steady stream of customers is fowing through. A regular, Debra L. Smith, stands next to me, waiting only a few minutes for her two orders of rib tips. "Tey give so much food," she says of the large portions that $7 to $9 can get you. "Tere's another guy on Dixie Highway. He's highway robbery." Te next customer throws in extra cash for a tip; Stevenson counters by ofering a free beverage (bottled water, canned soda) from a blue cooler just big enough to double as a seat. Not only does Stevie J's draw people from the area; some make it a destination stop. "Te mayor came by last week — Mayor Fischer," Stevenson says. Te west Louisville native says he does well at the Broadway location. "I used to be on 26th Street, but have items. I watch him splash water on a fame and shut the half-cylinder-shaped lid, causing smoke to escape from the sides. So where did Stevenson learn to cook like this? He looks at me as though he's surprised. "Just God-given talent," he says. "I started cooking in the yard. Somebody asked me if I wanted to sell it. I have no prior cooking skills." Stevenson takes a break from handling customers and belatedly introduces himself with a fst bump, so as not to get my hand dirty from grease and sweat. He hooks me up with a box stufed with ribs, potato salad and baked beans, all wrapped in tin foil. I carry it, bowling ball weight, with both hands. Te drive home has me tantalized. Te aroma of smoked meat and sweet sauce infltrates my car through the layers of packaging, and, wouldn't you know, a little after fve o'clock no longer seems too early for dinner. I race home and don't waste a minute; I eat, rolling my eyes in satisfaction. Later, I dig into my hog trough for seconds. "I just started with one rib, one grill," Stevenson says. "I'm still learning every day." 7.13 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 75