I have to eat this stuff in my car. You might choose to do it anyway. Not grabbing extra napkins will be your sole regret. (Amy Drew Thompson / Orlando Sentinel)

I am parked in an isolated spot behind a Shell station, kneeling on the seat of my car, trying to get a shot of the to-go box perched on the center console, when the heavens open into a June deluge. It’s on the early side for an afternoon thunderstorm, I observe, noting an approaching blackness in the sky, but I am undeterred.

Obstacles have prevented me from hitting up this humble barbecue joint for several weeks now. It’s been on my list since a trusted contact tipped me off. And I am not letting the weather prevent me from getting optimal images, or from tasting it before it gets cold.

The Florida food reporter's life. Torrential rain prevents al fresco hood eating. I contemplate billing the company to detail my car. Days later, writing this caption, it still smells like barbecue. (Amy Drew Thompson / Orlando Sentinel)

I owe it to the man I now know as Joseph “Joe Kool” Hollis, who — like so many pitmasters — puts a whole lot of passion into what’s now imbuing my car with the aromas of oak and cherry, of brown sugar and vinegar and tasty, tasty pork.

I often kid that I should hit Tribune up for car detailing reimbursement, but these are the hazards of my job. I signed up for them. Tornado warnings, not so much.

The first one of those screeches across my phone as I’m heading back home. The clouds were low, black, seemingly rotating, but at least I’d gotten a taste of the bounty before pulling up stakes.

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That first rib didn’t get a half-inch off the pile before sliding completely from bone like a sheath. Sweet, smoky, tender, gorgeous. I had let the folks behind the counter choose my sauces — sweet for the ribs and tangy for the chicken. Both were on point, but next time, I’d get them on the side just to experience the primal pleasure of ribs smoked roughly three hours, then chargrilled for another layer of flavor and texture. Chicken gets the same treatment with a little less time.

The result is divine, which partners musically with the one-man band aptly named Joe’s Holy Smoke.

This is a rib dog. There are many like it at Joe's Holy Smoke, but this one is mine. Get your own. Attempts to eat it with your hands will be unsuccessful. (Amy Drew Thompson / Orlando Sentinel)

Hollis is also a pastor, yes. He ministered in a spot off Lee Road until the pandemic sent him and older sister Valerie Hollis home to do so via Facebook livestream. He caught the barbecue bug 20+ years back when a friend took to doing so outside nightclubs to make extra money, but Holy Smoke is a new endeavor — about two years old. Hollis was a commercial plumber for eight years before deciding on a career change, but was unsure where to shift.

“I was sitting on the back patio and it just happened that my mom and dad had bought this new smoker-grill,” he said. “But they never used it. It was just sitting there. And I thought, ‘Lemme fire it up and see if I still got it.’”

The neighbors smelled what Hollis was cooking. And they wanted to buy it. So, he obliged. This went on for a time — another message from the Holy Spirit that Hollis now recognizes in hindsight. Sometimes these came as an inner voice. Sometimes outer. And this time in the form of his brother, who delivered him a figurative smack upside the head.

The pastor pitmaster Joe "Joe Kool" Hollis. (Joes Holy Smoke / Courtesy photo)

He said, “Hey, you see what I see?”

“Man, you’re blind as a bat! All these people, knocking on your door, wanting you to make slabs and sandwiches? Bro, you gotta get back into the game!”

From there, the signs were fast and furious. A wrong turn during an errand led him to a Casselberry Chevron, where he felt compelled to ask about their kitchen.

It just so happened, the cashier said, they were looking for a barbecue guy. The landlord let him set up, rent free, for a month-plus to get started. Business was picking up, but the traffic was spotty. Up one day, down the next.

BBQ chicken dinner comes with two sides for $12. He's a saucer, that Joe. Ask for it on the side if you prefer. (Amy Drew Thompson / Orlando Sentinel)

“But, it seemed like every time I got down-spirited because it wasn’t quite taking off, every time I wanted to quit, something would happen to keep me in it: The owner would give me a break on the rent because he’d seen business was slow. Or a catering job would come along. Or someone from out of town would come in with a big order.

“It seemed,” says Hollis, “like God would send somebody to my rescue every single time I wanted to bail out.”

And when a friend popped in to tell him about the Shell station up the street — a far busier location that was about to become available — he didn’t waste time checking it out. The owner just happened to be in. He, too, gave Hollis a break on rent at the outset, allowing him to get situated. That was two months ago. Business is picking up. His sister works the counter, allowing him to be fleet of foot prepping plates.

This from a customer who came in as Valerie gave me a peek at my own order before that storm hit. Three beautiful pieces of chicken, laden with two shades of sauce alongside collards and rice ‘n’ gravy ($12). In the other, those ribs with beans and mac-and-cheese ($15). Sides, the recipes of which Hollis just played with ‘til they suited him, go for $3 apiece. I’d wanted a turkey wing that day, but they were out, so I went for the rib dog instead ($6), a saucy monstrosity of rib meat slid onto a hot dog bun.

Joe's sister, Valerie, helps at the counter, allowing the pit master to prep plates more expeditiously. (Joes Holy Smoke / Courtesy photo)

Soon, says Hollis, he’ll be doing barbecue tacos, too. The loaded potatoes, piled high with ribs, pulled pork or shrimp, go for $11-12. Hate on me all you want for saying so, readers, but he should be charging more. This ministry of meat could stand a little more tithing. Good barbecue is hard to find.

“Best BBQ in Orlando in my opinion,” my tipster texted. “You can tell me I’m wrong and I will go try the place you think is better (smiley face).”

I pulled off the road and ducked into a Publix when that tornado warning came through. Watching unmanned carts whizz around the lot amid fierce wind and horizontal rain, I texted a friend.

“Pub sub!” he wrote back.

No, I told him. If I was going to meet my end amid this act of God, my last meal — in my car, of course; jokes would be thick at the memorial — would have been one, too.

Joe’s Holy Smoke BBQ: (located inside Shell station): 7095 S. U.S. Highway 17-92 in Casselberry, facebook.com/JOES-HOLY-SMOKE-BBQ-101136972310496; instagram.com/jkholysmokebbq

Want to reach out? Find me on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram @amydroo or on the OSFoodie Instagram account @orlando.foodie. Email: amthompson@orlandosentinel.com. For more fun, join the Let’s Eat, Orlando Facebook group or follow @fun.things.orlando on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter.