Now, folks ‘round these parts don’t agree on much. There’s the eternal debate over sweet tea sweetness, the proper way to fry catfish, and whether Cousin Earl’s mullet is a fashion statement or a cry for help. But if there’s one thing everyone in Alabama can tip their hat to, it’s Big Bob Gibson and his downright peculiar concoction: White Barbecue Sauce.
You see, Big Bob wasn’t your ordinary pitmaster. Towering at six-foot-four and as broad as a hickory tree, the man could flip a hog with one hand and still have the other free to tip his hat to a passing lady. Bob worked the railroad in Decatur by day, his muscles forged from swinging a sledgehammer and carrying the weight of the South’s sweltering sun on his back. But come Saturday night, Big Bob traded his hammer for a basting brush and got to smoking meat that’d make angels weep.
Now, one summer evening in 1925, legend has it, Big Bob had a hankering to shake up the barbecue world. Folks already swore by his pork and ribs slathered in tomato-based sauce, but Big Bob had a mind as restless as the Tennessee River after a storm. He wanted something new, something bold, something that’d make folks scratch their heads before coming back for seconds.
So there he was, standing in his backyard pit, staring at the smoke rising like a preacher’s sermon on Sunday, when inspiration struck. Some say it came from the mayonnaise jar sitting on his wife’s kitchen counter, others say it was divine intervention. Either way, Bob grabbed that mayonnaise, a jug of vinegar, a pinch of this, a shake of that, and a heaping spoonful of horseradish — because he figured if it could clear sinuses, it could spice up chicken too.
When he first slathered that pale concoction onto his smoked chicken, folks at the church picnic weren’t sure what to think. “Looks like he done spilled his coleslaw dressing on the bird,” old Mrs. McAllister muttered, but Bob just smiled, knowing he had a secret up his sleeve. When the crowd finally bit into that smoky, tangy, creamy masterpiece, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t go back for seconds — and thirds if they had room.
Before long, people were coming from every corner of the county, then the state, and then the whole blessed South to taste Big Bob’s magical white sauce. Some claimed it had healing properties, curing everything from heartbreak to gout. Others swore it was the perfect peace offering for feuding neighbors. But Big Bob? He just kept smiling and basting, never letting on if there was more to the recipe than mayonnaise, vinegar, and a dash of Southern charm.
Today, the legend of Big Bob Gibson lives on in Decatur and beyond. Folks will tell you he didn’t just create a sauce — he gave Alabama barbecue its soul. And if you ever find yourself under a shady pecan tree with a plate of smoked chicken slathered in that heavenly white sauce, you might just feel a ghostly tap on your shoulder and hear a low, hearty chuckle: “Don’t forget the napkins, now.”
And that, dear reader, is how Big Bob Gibson turned barbecue into folklore and gave the world a taste of Alabama magic.