The King of Pork: Meet Allan Benton, the Man Behind America's Best Bacon

Find out how a tiny smokehouse in Tennessee became legendary among the nation's top chefs.

Jamie Feldmar

Allan Benton is the king of pork. Never heard of him? Ask top chefs like David Chang, Sean Brock, or Hugh Acheson where they get their bacon. The answer is Benton, an unassuming 66-year old with a ramshackle smokehouse in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

A high school teacher turned smoked meat master, Benton has dedicated his life to the pursuit of making the perfect pork. His salt and brown sugar–cured country hams and extra-smoky hickory bacon are the stuff of legend, and his name appears on the hottest menus in the country.

In NYC, the nouveau dim-sum parlor RedFarm serves a dish of Benton’s bacon-and-egg fried rice, and the Benton’s Old-Fashioned—made with bacon-infused bourbon—has become one of PDT’s most iconic cocktails.

But despite the his reputation, Benton is one of the most humble and hardworking men in the business. “I count my blessings every day that these chefs like what I do,” he says. “We owe all our success to the incredible creative talents of the chefs who use my pork.”

Beneath the humility, Benton is driven by a ceaseless desire to make the best-quality pork products in the world. “I can tell you I’ve never gotten tired of cured pork in my life. I still am fascinated by it. I love the complicated flavors you get from a piece of well-cured pork. I love it,” he says.

Here, Benton talks about his Appalachian roots, working with celebrity chefs, and why he won’t sell to Whole Foods.

Special thanks to photographer and multimedia storyteller Jennifer Davick for contributing still frames for this story from her beautiful documentary, “Benton Family Cure.”

On growing up in the boonies

I was born in Scott County, Virginia. It’s very mountainous and isolated in the western tip of the state. When I was growing up in the ’50s, neither side of my family owned a car, truck, or tractor. They farmed with horses and mules, and they raised everything they ate. For my grandparents, pork was sustenance. Being enterprising Appalachians, in August of each year, they turned their hogs loose to run in the hills and find acorns. This produced extremely fine-quality pork. Thanksgiving was the traditional day for butchering pork in the mountains—we’d spend three days doing it, working with the whole hog. I never had turkey in my life on Thanksgiving until I was a grown man.
On getting started in the cured pork business

I had just gotten my Masters and was working as a guidance counselor in Tennessee when I looked at the salary I’d make and realized I wasn’t going to be able to make a living. I heard about a gentleman out in the country by the name of Albert Hicks, who had a tiny little country ham business in his backyard that he quit about six months earlier. I thought, I’ve made ham and bacon my whole life, I wonder if Albert would lease me this building? I thought I might go to law school, so I figured I’d do the ham thing until I got admitted to law school a year later. I wrote to a lot of food tech departments at universities across the South. I figured that if I was going to work with ham, I wanted to understand how to do it right. Our goal is to make quality products that will rival that of our European cousins. We try to buy the very best fresh pork that we can, then we put our spin on it, using my original family recipe from the log smokehouse behind the house where I was born, and it usually turns out okay. Chefs seem to like it.
On his first experience with a chef

For first 25 years I ran this business, I literally thought I was going to starve to death. My fortunes changed when John Fleer [called from] Blackberry Farm, a five-star resort in the hills of Tennessee. When he placed his first order, about a month went by, and I got a phone call from him saying he wanted to talk about the product I brought in. My first thought was, Oh no, something’s wrong with the ham. But he wanted to thank me for bringing it and told me the quality was exceptional. Then he hung up. I’d never had a phone call like that before. I didn’t even know what Blackberry Farm was—I thought it was some greasy spoon in the hills. A few months later, he calls again, saying he’s been playing around with my product, and he wants to develop a menu at Blackberry around products and was wondering if it was okay to put my name on the menu. He caught me totally off-guard. I told him I guess that would be okay, but if he needed an order every week, I was going to have to charge an extra 10 cents per pound to make the drive. He kind of chuckled and said he didn’t think that would be a problem. I wish I could take those words back—I had no idea what he was doing for my business. John starting sharing my product with visiting chefs from all over the country. [After that] my phone was ringing off the hook.
On being a brand-name ham man

We’re a tiny hole-in-the-wall business. We don’t make a lot of product. I really haven’t [increased] the amount of hams I cure much, I’ve just shifted the direction of my marketing. I don’t sell to greasy spoons or big chains—I just sell to high-quality establishments. I have zero marketing skills. Word spread from chef to chef, and I count my blessings every day that these chefs like what I do. We owe all our success to the chefs who use it. Quality is always the bottom line. I once told my dad, a few years [into running the business], I thought I was going to go broke for sure. I told him I was going to have to start quick-curing my hams to compete. My father said, “Son, if you play the other guy’s game, you always lose.” Make it the best that you know how, no matter what it costs. Sooner or later, quality will sustain you in this business. And I think those words were prophetic. I wish my father had lived to see the success we enjoy now.
On expanding (or not)

We’ve had opportunities, but our goal has never been to make a lot of ham or bacon. I have no doubt we could start using industrial pork, crank it out, and sell tons of it to Whole Foods. But you have to understand who we are. For me, it’s about loyalty to the people who’ve helped me get attention in recent years. And those people are the chefs. One way I can show my gratitude to them is to keep trying to make the best product I can make. We don’t want to make a lot; we just want to make the best.
On his hallmark extra-smoky flavor

Every now and then, I have a chef say, could you make me something a little less smoky? Once a chef in New York asked me for less smoky bacon. I kicked it around in my mind for a few days, and I called him back—it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, but I told him he needed to find another bacon supplier. Because ours is smoky. And I didn’t want to compromise what I’ve spent so many years perfecting. I’ve been in pursuit of this flavor for 39 years. I realize it’s not for everyone. But the people who like it seem to really like it, and if the dollar was all that motivated me, I would do whatever they asked. But it’s not just about the dollar—it’s about the pride and effort we put into our product.
On retiring (or not)

I’ve been in the business for 39 years, and I hope to have another 20. I will never step down until I have someone who is willing to help run this business. I want someone who is not just motivated by the dollar, but motivated to make something truly extraordinary. When you put your life into a business, it’s not about the money. I think the right person will come around who just enjoys doing what I do. I truly enjoy my customers and my employees. And I enjoy making ham and bacon. Therefore, I am blessed every day when I come to work because I truly enjoy what I do. And I want whoever comes into this business to enjoy those pleasures as well.

The King of Pork: Meet Allan Benton, the Man Behind America's Best Bacon

On growing up in the boonies

On getting started in the cured pork business

On his first experience with a chef

On being a brand-name ham man

On expanding (or not)

On his hallmark extra-smoky flavor

On retiring (or not)

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