The restaurant is the sole remaining vestige of the town of Cele (pronounced "seal"). Chipped white paint and year-round holiday lights might discourage the casual passerby, rectified only by signage that assures Cele Store is still open. But inside is comprised of equal parts beloved barbecue joint, historical treasure trove, and movie magic.
Walking past the creaky screen door of the building (built in 1891), you’ll be greeted with a sight unlike anywhere else in Austin. Slanted floors yield underfoot and turn-of-the-century grocery items still line the shelves. You might want to be strategic about where you sit, lest you leave your bottle of Lone Star leaning a little too precariously.
"This used to be all groceries," says Janice Fuchs, daughter of the late Marvin Weiss and his wife Marilyn, who purchased the building in 1951. The restaurant is now leased by employees Don Carrol and Mike Randig. The Weiss family used to farm in the area—"We worked chopping cotton and whatever else."
Fuchs, 60 years old and the middle of three sisters, remembers playing in a playpen near the bar, where townspeople ordered Nehi red soda with beer and mixed the two together. For the past 35 years, she’s been a waitress at Cele Store, a blur of energy shuttling barbecue to patrons Thursdays through Saturdays.
In the pit
To the right of the saloon and main dining area, just past the small banquet room, comes the strong smell of smoke from a well-seasoned pit, where the bricks, ceiling, and windows have been licked black from years of use.
Leslie Hamann has been stationed here for 59 years. He started at Cele right out of school at 18 years old, cutting and weighing meat for orders. "I’ve been wanting to quit, but they won’t let me," he says, laughing. "I sometimes miss a Friday...and I miss the customers."
Every week, about 130 pounds of brisket, 120 pounds of spicy sausage, and 100 pounds of ribs are smoked over the pit and served up on butcher paper, along with pickles, onions, cheese, and sandwich bread. This all comes with Cele’s original owner Marilyn Weiss’s special barbecue sauce, a thin, tangy concoction. If customers want additional side dishes, just bring them from home, Fuchs tells patrons.
The meaty baby back ribs are infused with a rich, smoky flavor. The lean brisket is served chopped. Everything is priced by the pound, but the typical three-meat lunch or dinner is $14. Fix yourself a plate with a little bit of everything, plus a drizzle of barbecue sauce, and you’ll understand why people keep coming back. Thursdays are for sausage wraps and baby back ribs, and Saturdays and Fridays for brisket, sausage, and ribs.
Star gazing
Inside the main dining area, there’s an old phone booth scrawled with a note, "Fire CL 1-4100," which signaled the small farm community’s only lifeline to the outside world back in the day. Phones weren’t readily available during the turn of the century, so neighbors came to Cele Store for emergency calls. The booth now functions as a broom closet.
Fuchs says they might make some updates here and there, but Cele Store’s antiquated atmosphere is its charm.
"The movie people love it. They tell us not to change a thing," she says, noting that the building is listed among the top locations from the Texas Film Commission. Clint Eastwood’s A Perfect World, the 2003 remake of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Secondhand Lions, and the fourth Transformers all included scenes shot at Cele Store. Some of the props and photos are scattered among the tchotchkes displayed throughout the space. For Texas Chainsaw, the store was transformed into a gas station; in Secondhand Lions, it served as the backdrop for a fight scene with Robert Duvall’s character.
Fuchs said her dad used to enjoy the parade of movie stars through the little hamlet, and even volunteered as an extra once. "He kept calling Robert Duvall Michael Caine and vice versa. I’d say, ‘Daddy, that’s not Michael Caine!’"
To dance on crooked floors
As the communities surrounding the restaurant have grown, new fans have been discovering Cele Store. A few years ago, the restaurant started hosting bands on weekends. But you’ll still catch the regulars taking up their usual seats during the Friday lunch rush.
Just like they have for decades, old-timers gather around the store’s folding tables and talk about the weather, crops, hog hunting, and so forth. One 79-year-old patron with a blue baseball cap tells me, "Come back tonight and I’ll dance with you."
It’s an offer that’s almost impossible to resist.