As Independence Day 2004 rolls around, let us take a moment to reflect upon the fine American tradition of barbecue. Oh, the Aussies have their grilled barbie, and even the Mongolians stake claim to the word, but only in the United States (and, to be honest, only in the South) has barbecue transcended a mere cooking process to become an actual food. Road signs littering the highways from here to Maryland declare "BBQ!" alongside grinning pigs. Nowhere do they proclaim the wonders of "Bake!" Though the etymology is as disputed as the spelling (barbeque, Bar-B-Que, BBQ), one theory posits that the word may be derived from a native Caribbean word meaning "sacred fire pit." Barbecue aficionados would agree with the "sacred" part. According to Southern tradition, no simple grill gathering can aspire to the term. Barbecue here refers to a very discrete group of dishes, characterized by tough cuts of meat (usually pork) slow-cooked over wood heat to extreme tenderness and smoky flavor, and either accompanied by or basted with a spicy, sweet sauce. Barbecue. It's a meal and a method.
And, like all cuisines borne of poverty conditions (there's a reason it's the tough cuts of meat, folks), the best barbecue is usually found at the most shabby-looking places. You want your barbecue joints to boast few frills. You want them to focus on the flavor of their main product. Indeed, fancier barbecue joints rather miss the point. Here is a meal where you want to get your hands dirty. Paper napkins, maybe a side of coleslaw, beans or Texas toast. That's all you need.
At relative newcomer Rib Shack BBQ, that's all you get. The one-room shack is devoted to kitchen and administration zones, so a few covered picnic tables are all the joint offers by way of a dining area. The property is dominated by two giant, black smoking barbecue contraptions, the larger of which can reportedly hold up to 1,000 ribs at a time. At least one is merrily puffing away at all times. This is the shack's most effective advertising, as the delectable odors drifting down Fort Harrison Avenue draw a large number of locals every lunch (including staff from nearby Morton Plant Hospital). They've also opened a new location on 600 West Bay Blvd., which is setting that neighborhood on fire — so to speak.
Landscaping is very important to an outdoor establishment, and the story behind the landscaping at Rib Shack BBQ's Fort Harrison location is a doozy. Soon after the January opening, a storm damaged the ancient, ailing live oak that graced the yard. Rather than paying to have the damaged section carted off for mulch, the restaurant turned the wood into fuel for the barbecue. A tall stump remains as a tribute to the tree whose upper branches were at one time responsible for the smoky barbecue the nearby diners enjoy. Rib Shack BBQ uses oak for its barbecue because the more traditional hickory wood isn't common in Florida. I wondered, as I ate, if this would not be a worthy fate for that skeleton of a tree at Dayton Andrews on Gulf to Bay Boulevard.
Barbecue at Rib Shack can take more than 12 hours to go from pig to plate, and from the first bite of pulled pork to the last picked-clean rib bone, it's clear that a masterpiece takes time. The simple and straightforward menu is divided into sandwiches ($4-$6.19, depending on the type and amount of meat between the buns), barbecue dinners with a choice of two sides ($6.25-$8.50), family size dinners ($15.50-$23) and barbecue a la carte.
Since the menu is basically four kinds of meat in different meal permutations, I'm going to stick to reviewing the barbecue rather than the various platters on which it can be served. Suffice to say, all of the meal options are a damn good deal. There will almost definitely be more food per person than you can finish.
Of the meats, my favorite was the charred, smoky chicken, which I thought best retained its juiciness while soaking up the lion's share of the smoky flavor from the cooking process. Also, the messy pulled pork sandwiches would satisfy any barbecue lover. More tender than its chopped beef counterpart, the pulled pork also brought out the best in Rib Shack's Johnnie Mack sauce. (The sauce, invented by a proprietor's patriarch, can be bought in 24-ounce bottles for $5.25.) Perhaps because the sauce was designed for pulled pork and pork ribs, I found that manner of meat best highlighted Johnnie Mack's superb balance of tomato, molasses, vinegar and fire.
Which brings me to the ribs. Charred to a crispy blackness, the rib meat tended to be more well-done than I prefer, but it is in keeping with the Southern tradition. The ribs were basted in the sauce during cooking, then spread with additional dollops before being served. The ribs were crunchy, chewy and perfect for munching.
Other than meat, Rib Shack serves three sides: coleslaw, piquant beans with traces of meat in its barbecue sauce, and a spicy, cool take on potato salad. According to my dining companion, the baked beans were the "side dish that eats like a meal." Though some potato salads can be mushy, gooey affairs, Rib Shack's version surprised me with its range of veggie and potato textures tossed in a refreshing and ultra-flavorful dressing. And after all that meat, it was good to taste something on the light side.
For dessert, the Rib Shack offers sweet potato pie. That's it, and that's enough. My dining companion and I had a fork duel over our single slice ($1). But we learned our lesson; you can get a whole pie for $10. Once again, the restaurant keeps it simple and spicy, with excellent results.
So, this summer, don't bother firing up your own grill — barbecue at Rib Shack is inexpensive, authentic, and awesome.
And they deliver.
Freelance writer Diana Peterfreund dines anonymously and the Planet pays for her meals. She may be contacted at diana.peterfreund@weeklyplanet.com. Restaurants are chosen for review at the discretion of the writer, and are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Jul 1-7, 2004.