Gas, Brisket, and Nostalgia: A Trip to Buc-ee’s in Sevierville, Tennessee

As a child of the ’60s, roadside stops were practically a sacred ritual. My parents would pile us into the old Vista Cruiser station wagon, where you could sit all the way in the back, facing oncoming traffic, for epic drives to Florida. The back trunk-style pull-up seats had about as much legroom as my shoebox filled with baseball cards, G.I. Joes, Matchbox cars, and my Batman utility belt, in other words, holy tight space, Batman; your knees practically touched your chin. You could have opted for the much more roomy regular back seat, but there was something about that outward-facing perch that just screamed adventure. No seat belts, no airbags, no cell phones, no iPads, just 1,100 miles of staring at the cars behind you, taking in the little details, the billboards, the roadside diners, the clouds, absorbing the scenery, the people, the cars, the license plates, the endless road, because without distractions, even the small stuff was unforgettable.”

Road trips were long, slow-moving adventures, and the roadside stops, the Stuckey’s, HoJo’s, Lum’s, and A&W of the world, were tiny islands of wonder where you could stretch your legs, grab an ice cream, and, as you turned the page on your AAA triptik, set out on the next stretch of highway, an entirely new adventure waiting to unfold.

The joys of the roadside included Stuckey’s with its pecan log rolls, Howard Johnson’s orange-roofed HoJo’s with 28 flavors of ice cream and clam strips, Lum’s with hot dogs steamed in beer, and the occasional A&W, where the onion rings were a religious experience. These weren’t just gas-and-go joints; they were beacons of wonder, small kingdoms of kitschy merchandise, candy, and impeccably scrubbed restrooms. At HoJo’s, the highlight of the candy counter wasn’t just the candy sticks or fudge; it was the chocolate lollipops with pictures on them, carefully displayed right where you paid, a tiny masterpiece you could stare at before deciding which one to snag.

Fast forward half a century. Road trips are still in my DNA, but the era of 1960s roadside Americana is mostly a faded photograph. Cracker Barrel is a nice throwback for sure, with its rocking chairs and country kitsch, but the interstates still felt like something was missing. Enter Buc-ee’s, the modern-day temple of the pit stop. Over the last few years, I’d see a friend on Facebook post about a Buc-ee’s visit about once a week. Like some bizarre social media fever dream, everyone seemed obsessed with it. I’d been coaching in Ohio and Houston, spying the map for Buc-ee’s locations like a kid looking for candy, only to find them always just out of reach.

This weekend, Beth, my wife, and a another couple took a short trip to the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee to soak in the state park and admire the fall foliage, which was nothing short of spectacular. The mountains, the colors, the crisp air it was exactly the kind of getaway that reminds you why road trips were once sacred rituals. And then, as if fate had been saving the best for last, a glance at the GPS revealed a shimmering oasis less than an hour away: Sevierville, home to one of the world’s largest Buc-ee’s.

Before we even reached Sevierville, we drove through Pigeon Forge. My wife and I are not huge fans of the touristy stuff, but the drive along the Parkway, U.S. Route 441, is a throwback to the 1960s roadside attraction era. Attractions like the Titanic Museum, the Alcatraz East Crime Museum, and Beyond the Lens, alongside entertainment venues such as the Comedy Barn Theater, the Hatfield & McCoy Dinner Feud, and the Country Tonite Theatre, give the main road a kitschy, over-the-top charm. Add to that The Island complex with the Great Smoky Mountain Wheel, go-kart tracks, arcades, shopping, and dining, and you have a place that, despite all the modern trappings, makes you smile and think of simpler times and the old roadside fun. Even the Smoky Mountain Alpine Coaster, Rockin’ Raceway Arcade, and indoor snow tubing at Pigeon Forge Snow somehow feel like echoes of the kind of roadside spectacle that made road trips magical back in the ’60s.

And then, just when you think the road trip has delivered all its kitschy delights, the GPS whispers a temptation too good to ignore. Less than an 6.1 miles ahead on the Parkway, past the Alpine coasters and arcades, lay Sevierville, home to one of the world’s largest Buc-ee’s. This wasn’t just another pit stop; this was the holy grail of modern roadside Americana. All the nostalgic magic of Pigeon Forge suddenly felt like warm-up acts, because we were about to see, in living color, what years of social media posts and roadside legend had been hyping

And Buc-ee’s… did not disappoint.

The moment you step through the doors, it’s impossible not to be swept up in the energy. “Welcome to Buc-ee’s!” the cashiers call from both sides, a cheer that somehow manages to feel personal and official at the same time. I admitted to them, with no small amount of embarrassment, that we were Buc-ee’s virgins. They smiled knowingly and said, “Your life is about to change.” And with that, we were launched into controlled chaos.

People of all ages darted through the aisles, some clutching red shopping baskets, others piloting the red carts like NASCAR drivers in a snack-filled Grand Prix. It was as if everyone had just won one of those dream contests where you get everything you can cram into your cart in sixty seconds. Yet amidst the hyper-speed frenzy, there was a rhythm, a kind of joyful flow to it. It was chaos, yes, but curated chaos. And the smell—oh, the smell! To paraphrase Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore in Apocalypse Now, I love the smell of fresh brisket in the morning.

Buc-ee’s brisket is a bit of a legend in its own right. Smoked for 12 to 14 hours at a Texas facility, it arrives at each store ready to be hand-carved or chopped, seasoned with a proprietary blend of salt, pepper, and spices, then served on a soft bun with white onions, pickles, and a smoky-sweet barbecue sauce. Staff members proudly announce “fresh brisket on the board” as it’s served, and the effect is intoxicating. I tried both the sliced and chopped versions, and while both were fantastic, I have to give the edge to the chopped—the texture and seasoning just hit that perfect sweet spot.

The bakery was another revelation. One look at that pastry lineup and, to quote the Rolling Stones, "it could make a grown man cry." I went straight for the cinnamon bun, (do not share this article with my cardiologist ) and yes, it was every bit as glorious as the posts I’d been seeing on social media for the last couple of years. And because no trip to Buc-ee’s is complete without them, we grabbed some Beaver Nuggets. Sweet, crunchy, slightly addictive little pillows of glory, that did not disappoint.

Then there’s the jerky wall, which deserves its own standing ovation. Pre-packaged or deli-style, the selection runs the gamut from Sweet & Spicy to Cherry Maple, Korean BBQ, and classic Steakhouse. Each flavor is top-notch and perfectly curated to make you wonder if jerky has been secretly perfected somewhere in Texas while the rest of the world was sleeping. And unlike George’s Costanza's famous line in Seinfeld—“Well, the jerk store called, and they’re running out of you”there is absolutely no chance of running out of jerky here.

And finally, the merch. Oh, the merch. T-shirts, coffee mugs, hats, magnets , you know it’s silly, and yet, you can’t help but get caught up in it. There’s something infectious about the whole experience, the combination of chaos, food, and kitschy Americana that makes you feel like a kid again, wandering through a roadside kingdom where everything is oversized, over-the-top, and somehow exactly what you didn’t know you were missing.

By the time we left, bags in hand and carts somehow miraculously balanced, I felt the same thrill I did as a kid climbing into the outward-facing back seat of the Vista Cruiser, shoebox of baseball cards in tow, staring at the cars behind us for 1,200 miles with nothing but the open road and our imaginations. Buc-ee’s is the holy grail of roadside Americana, a temple to the kitschy, the absurd, and the utterly American. It’s chaos and order, smell and taste, nostalgia and novelty all rolled into one massive, slightly overwhelming, but completely joyous package.I couldn’t help but wish my parents and that old Vista Cruiser were still around; this would have been the only thing that could have made the experience even more magical, a perfect bridge between the roadside wonder of my childhood and the joy of the road trips my wife, family, and friends take today.