The author slices moist brisket.

At Hill Country, a new barbecue restaurant in Chelsea, three impressive pits bathe hundreds of pounds of meat in the smoke of smoldering Texas post oak. It’s where dead pigs, cows and fowl come if they’re lucky—a carnivore’s heaven. So when pit master Robbie Richter asked me to work in the kitchen—a noon to 10pm shift—I jumped at the chance. A pit is the most sanctified place for barbecuers, who are notoriously territorial when it comes to their craft. And with at least nine NYC low-and-slow joints having opened in the past year, I couldn’t think of a better time to see exactly how they slice it.

Upon arrival, I was outfitted with a white jacket with snaps, a white apron and an unlimited supply of vinyl gloves. In my front pocket went the pit worker’s indispensable tools including a black Sharpie (for keeping track of the meat that’s been prepped), and a meat thermometer (it’s as important to check the temperature of the raw meat as it is to see if cooked meat is done). I felt like Sam the Butcher.

We started in the basement, trolling the locker room, two fridges and two prep kitchens (one for the meat and one for all other foods—“there’s a constant struggle between meat and vegetable,” said Richter), as well as a pocket-sized pastry kitchen and dry storage filled with goods like pickles and chipotle peppers. Before we made it back upstairs to the pit, Richter spontaneously decided to offer short ribs as the “pit master’s special,” Hill Country’s nightly addition to its otherwise static menu.

We hauled a couple of 70-pound boxes from the refrigerator, pulling out Cryovac-sealed cuts heavy enough to kill a man with one well-aimed thwack, and commenced to peel the thick skin from the concave side of each rack. I can see why so many chefs are drawn to handling raw meat. As I dabbed blood from the beef ribs and butterflied chickens, which involved pulling out the neck and some organs, removing errant feathers, cutting out the spine with kitchen shears and slitting the breastbone so that the bird would lay flat, I wondered if pro chefs got the same peculiar thrill that I did. Like any repeated activity, it had a Zen quality.

Back at the pit, I checked the temperatures of glistening briskets (ideally, they’d be around 170 degrees), learned how to pull the hulking eight-pound pieces from the oven using just two sets of tongs, and layered them on a sheet pan when they were ready to be transferred to the warmers—carefully. Sold for some $18 per pound, dropping one would have been about a $144 loss for the restaurant. The pit crew deals with that kind of stress every day. Yet slicing meat is possibly the most revered—and nerve-racking—task you can have at any ’cue haven. In addition to learning how to cut the different types of meat, there’s a specific Hill Country lingo to master. A “dolly” is the chicken’s white meat (like Dolly Parton—get it?), a “tomahawk” is the thigh and leg, a “red” is a jalapeño cheddar sausage and a “white” the nonspicy variety, and so on.

From the finishing pits—three impressive vessels behind the service counter that hold a portion of the meat that’s ready to go—carvers pull chicken, brisket, Cornish hens and other meats to slice up for patrons, who order them by the pound, cafeteria-style. At first, I was trusted with fetching reds and whites, which could be retrieved by the string that tied them. Soon, I was cutting all of the meats.

Alfred, the pit’s drill sergeant, had given me the best advice (slide the knife back with its “ass in the air,” then slice forward and follow through), and after ten minutes I noticed that the carving crew had wandered off—leaving me alone. “They threw you in the fire, fed you to the dogs, put you in the shit,” assistant general manager Geoffrey Williams later told me. According to Richter, it usually takes weeks for staff to be allowed behind the carving station.

I finished, sweaty, reeking of meat and with a finger soreness that lasted through the weekend (many of the men sport injuries—one has what he calls brisket elbow). Knowing that I didn’t have to repeat the intensely physical tasks the next day gave me a sense of relief. It also gave me a special appreciation for the guys who do this for a living, and the techniques they’ve developed to streamline a difficult job that’s executed under the gun. Pit worker Donovan taught me how to hook my thumb under the wing of the raw Cornish hen just so, making it easier for me to season both sides with the rub. Victor instructed me to use the towel to get a good grip on the pesky membrane on the back of the rack of beef ribs. Some people are just cut out for this.