I’m also a big believer in North Carolina barbecue. I’ve been to places like Memphis, St. Louis, and Kansas City. Believe me, Carolina ’cue stands up to any of it.

As far as Eastern or Western Carolina ’cue goes — it doesn’t matter to me — I like them both. This column is not going to argue about which one of them is the best. There aren’t enough pages in this magazine for that debate. Besides, all of us know it’s an impossible task. It’s like choosing the best gumbo or pecan pie. Everyone will have their own personal preferences.

If the directions to get there include the phrase, “… and then you turn off the paved road,” that’s promising.

However, I do believe that the best places to eat ’cue are always the joints. For those of you that don’t know, a barbecue restaurant is not a barbecue joint. Let me elaborate. Once I ate in a barbecue establishment in Kansas City that had white tablecloths. It was decent ’cue, but white tablecloths? Oh, puh-leez. Just a few miles away was another place that had a policeman patrolling the parking lot and a beat-up screen door in front. That, my friends, is a joint.

To be a true barbecue joint, I think you have to be a little scared to go inside. Start with a sketchy part of town. If the directions to get there include the phrase, “… and then you turn off the paved road,” that’s promising. Cinder block buildings are always a good sign. Maybe the original building has been added on to a couple of times. A barbecue joint can even be a part of a gas station or a convenience store. And you know you’re at the right place if it has a gravel parking lot with a couple of sheriff’s cars out front. (Unless their blue lights are flashing, then it might be best to eat somewhere else.)

Once you’re inside, a barbecue joint needs to have lots of stuff hanging on the walls, mostly from in-state college football or basketball teams. Traffic signs and fake metal snuff ads will not do. That reeks of Applebee’s. Photos of old coaches are especially desirable. I went in one place that had an ancient, yellowed picture of Frank McGuire. That’s perfect.

If there are a few trophies from barbecue competitions sitting around, that’s more than acceptable, but not mandatory.

It also helps if there’s any type of neon beer sign that’s prominently displayed. Bonus points are awarded if some of its letters aren’t working. Then you could have an ’udweiser or an ’iller Lite.

And of course, a joint will always have The Smell. That magnificent scent of smoke and meat should fill the air the minute you open the door because the pit is in the dining area. If I could only make that fragrance into a men’s cologne, I’d be a millionaire.

And there’s a final trait of a barbecue joint, which is the most important: it must have great ’cue. Sides can be OK, because that’s what they are — sides. Barbecue is always the star of the show, so it had better be first-rate. And if you ask me, the ’cue you eat in a joint just seems to taste better than a restaurant (especially one with white tablecloths).

I’ll take a cop in the parking lot anytime.