"There's a new sheriff in town. She has a smoker and she's not afraid to use it."

So says the Twitter description for B-Side BBQ, an excellent new barbecue restaurant in West Oakland. But the "new sheriff" is already a neighborhood favorite. Chef / owner Tanya Holland is the seasoned veteran of the nearby successful soul food restaurant, Brown Sugar Kitchen, and her new restaurant is the "flip side" to her popular flagship establishment. She and her husband, Phil Surkis, have lived and worked in West Oakland for seven years and are helping to bring more great eats to the community.

My husband and I stopped by three days after their official open to visit the newly renovated space. The former home of Yardie Jerk, B-Side BBQ now has a warm, country-and-western feel with whimsical touches.

Tanya commissioned local artist April Banks to create artworks for the restaurant that will make you do a double-take. Look closely and you'll see Tanya and Phil making cameos in these classic western scenes.

They were already out of their smoked brown sugar rubbed brisket by the time we placed our order, so we chose the pulled pork sandwich ($8) and the St. Louis Ribs ($10 half-order / $18 full order). Sides come separately, and we went for the day's seasonal vegetable (collard greens with garlic, $4) and spicy coleslaw ($4). The "Dark and Stormy" sauce (made with molasses and honey) I chose for my barbecue was a perfect complement to the crunchy coleslaw heaped on my tasty sandwich. The ribs were juicy and hearty; be sure to grab some of the complimentary wet nap towelettes to help clean the smoky, saucy aftermath off of your fingertips (unless you go for the finger-licking route, which I highly recommend.) And definitely try the housemade lemonade ($3) if you're looking for a sweet refresher to accompany your meal.

Tanya and Phil currently split their time between B-Side and Brown Sugar. She was busy in the kitchen and the dining room, with Phil helping her and her staff serve her customers. Stay tuned for the next iteration of B-Side BBQ. More items are on the way for the menu, and they'll increase B-Side's hours over time. Phil also mentioned they'll be expanding the existing space to accommodate more seating and lengthen the bar. We'll definitely be heading back for the brisket and cornbread.

Tanya Holland, Chef / Owner of Brown Sugar Kitchen and B-Side BBQ

B-Side BBQ
Address: map
3303 San Pablo Avenue (at 33rd Street)
Phone: (510) 595-0227
Hours:Tuesday-Saturday 11-4
Facebook: B-Side BBQ
Twitter: @BSideBBQ

It's 4th of July weekend, and for a lot of Bay Area cooks that means heading outdoors and firing up the grill. Forum talks BBQ and grilling techniques, and compare notes on favorite foods prepared by fire.

Host: Dave Iverson

Guests:
• Amanda Gold, food writer for the San Francisco Chronicle
• Chris Ying, editor in chief for Lucky Peach Quarterly, a new journal of food writing published by McSweeney's
• Eric Markoff, chef at Anchor and Hope in San Francisco and developer of the BBQ program at Town Hall Restaurant
• Ryan Farr, owner, chef and butcher for 4505 Meats

Original Broadcast: Fri, Jul 1, 2011 -- 10:00 AM

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I have a new favorite way to cook chicken. I know. I know. How many "new" ways are there to cook the most commonly-eaten poultry in America? You've had it all, right? From roasted, fried, and sauteed to stewed with dumplings, baked with sauces and turned into soup. But how about slowly cooked on a rotisserie -- at home?

Yes. At home. I'm not talking about buying one of those birds encased in a plastic shield at the grocery store -- the ones that were supposedly cooked on a rotisserie earlier that day -- but really… who knows when they were roasted? I mean preparing a chicken that you cook in your backyard or on a deck -- slowly with the seasonings you like. What I want you to do is take your chicken right off the spit with your own hands and then eat it while it's hot and juicy. Sounds primal but delectable, right?

A couple of years back I gave my husband a rotisserie attachment for our grill and although we've used it a few times, we've amazingly never thought to barbecue chicken with it. But this Labor Day, our poultry world was turned upside down. We were having guests over so we wanted to try something special. My mom was staying with us, but because she's watching her cholesterol we wanted to grill something healthier than the ribs I had been originally contemplating. While Mom and I chatted with my favorite butcher Phil, I caught a glimpse of the beautiful chickens in the refrigerator case -- big and plump organic birds from Sonoma County -- and immediately bought two for our holiday barbecue.

Normally I would bake my chicken, but as Labor Day was one of the only warm days of the summer, I rejected this idea. I wanted to be outside. I suddenly remembered the rotisserie spear hanging in the broom closet (yes, that's where we keep it). I then brined my birds and followed this up with a nice olive oil, lemon zest, garlic and herb marinade. The next day we were ready to go.

Once those chickens roasted on the rotisserie in our grill for an hour and a half, they were perfect. There's something about the rotisserie that is just right for cooking chickens. You get that great caramelized grill flavor, but without the risk of drying out the meat. All that spinning on the rotisserie spit seemed to melt the marinade into the chicken, heightening the flavors and making it succulent and moist. My only regret is that I didn't stick a pan of potatoes underneath to catch those amazingly delicious juices that slowly drip drip drip while the bird cooks. I'll be sure to do this next time.

Following are some general directions for cooking a chicken on a rotisserie spit. These are more guidelines than an actual recipe because using the rotisserie is not an exact science. There is so much that could vary the outcome, from the weight and number of the chickens, to whether you brined the birds or not. But don't panic. If you just check on your chickens after about a half hour, you should easily be able to see when they're cooked through. Just be sure to use an instant read thermometer to double check and then you're good to go.

General Guidelines for Making Rotisserie Chicken
1. Brine and marinate chickens the day before cooking. Use whatever marinade you like best. I am partial to mixing olive oil with lemon zest and juice, crushed garlic and fresh herbs.

2. BEFORE you heat the grill, remove the grates and heating elements from the barbecue so you'll have enough room for the chicken to spin.

3. When ready to cook, heat grill to 350 - 400 degrees. Don't heat it all the way up or it will dry out the chicken.

4. Place marinated chicken onto the rotisserie spit (using the directions that come with the attachment) and place in the grill. Turn motor on and grill for 30-40 minutes.

5. Check on chicken to see how it's doing, but don't leave the cover raised for long. When the chicken is cooked through (about 1 hour for one 4 lb bird or 1 1/2 hours for two chickens), turn off motor and remove chickens from the spit CAREFULLY making sure not to burn yourself.

6. Let chickens sit for about five minutes and then carve.

Happy 4th of July! To me, the 4th of July is a small-town holiday, and not just because of the inevitable disappointment of San Francisco's fog-shrouded fireworks. This is a day for shiny fire trucks and kids with red-white-and-blue ribbons woven through the spokes of their bikes riding down Main Street, for the scent of hamburgers grilling at the neighbors' house, for popsicles dripping sticky down your arm and the magic glow of sparklers in the deepening twilight, an appetizer to the fireworks booming over the high school football field.

Walking down the street in Novato, where I'm house-sitting for the next few weeks, every shop is festooned with flags, glitter, and red, white, and blue. From Mill Valley to Noe Valley, goofy patriotism wins the day when it comes to decor. Can there be too much bunting? Too many Uncle Sam hats covered in stars and stripes? Too many cupcakes topped with raspberries and blueberries?

Unlike, say, Thanksgiving, the 4th of July is a holiday where everyone wants to eat, but no one really wants to cook. For one, unless you live right in chilly San Francisco, it's too hot to be in the kitchen, not when there's ice-cold beer in the cooler and lemonade on the patio. Get someone--your husband, your butch spouse--to man (or woman) the grill, pile up the sausages, salmon, or burgers around them, hand them a cold drink and presto! Your entree is complete. There remains only the sides, and anyone can pour out a bowl of chips, put out some hummus and salsa (we're a melting-pot country, after all), toss together some potato salad and lay out the buns, pickles, lettuce and tomato.

Oh, would that it were that easy! I've been to many, many summer barbecues like that, and there's always a catch. You see, getting the grill started is the duty of the host. And somehow, the host is always too busy cracking beers and kicking back with the bros to notice how half the guests (usually, in my experience, the less chip-inclined female half) are ready to gnaw their own arms in hunger by the time the charcoal is finally ignited. Note to grillers: charcoal takes a long time to heat up and burn down. Longer than you think! Really! Even you with the flick-the-button propane grills, some preheating is necessary, especially if you're doing ribs or chicken.

Rather than start surreptitiously searching my hosts' drawers for matches, though, I've learned a trick that never fails: Bring gazpacho.

Gazpacho, my friends, is the 4th of July barbecue's best friend. Face it: no one really wants to eat salad at a barbecue. Undressed, it shrivels; dressed, it turns to sludge after an hour in the sun. All those leafy greens take up valuable paper-plate real estate, space that could be better filled with pita chips and guacamole. But when the good parts--the tomatoes, the cucumbers, the olive oil and vinegar--are diced, pureed, and chilled into an easily drinkable soup, what was once superfluous becomes madly refreshing and much more satisfying than a pile of lettuce. As California native M.F.K. Fisher wrote in How to Cook a Wolf, in 1942,

"...it is the perfect summer soup, tantalizing, fresh, and faintly perverse as are all primitive dishes eaten by too-worldly people.

It is good for lunch, or for supper. It is especially good if you have a barbecue, and want some legitimate and not too alcoholic way to keep your guests busy while you turn the steak: put a big tureen of it on the table, and let them serve themselves into cups, and eat toasted crusts with it if they want. Then when you declare the entree done, whether it be filet or ground-round patties, you will find appetites sharp and wits fairly clear, and a satisfying patina of conversation glimmering in the air."

There are many different gazpachos, all born from the baking summers of Andalusia in central Spain, and since adapted all around the world. Right now, since truly fabulous local tomatoes are still a month away, my current favorite version uses strawberries to boost that perfect balance of acid and sweet.

Many recipes call for canned tomato or V8 juice; I find it too tongue-coatingly thick and metallic for something as pure as this salad soup. Ice water helps the cool vegetables along; you can add more ice cubes after chilling, to keep it cold on the buffet. Serve in a punch bowl or pitcher, with glasses or mugs alongside. It also makes a great first course for a sit-down lunch; in that case, add a spoonful of finely diced strawberries, tomatoes, and cucumbers to each bowl, and drizzle with basil oil just before serving. Or, for true 4th of July kitsch, you can top each bowl with stripes of creme fraiche and "stars" of fresh blueberries. Hurrah for the red, white, and blue!

Strawberry Gazpacho
Sweet summer strawberries give a certain je ne sais quoi to this excellent warm-weather refresher, especially in the early summer before local tomatoes are ripe.
Makes 1 ½ quarts (6 cups)

Ingredients
2 pints strawberries, preferably organic, hulled
1 red pepper, seeds removed, chopped
1 large tomato, cored
½ sweet onion, such as Maui, Vidalia, or Walla Walla, peeled and chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled
1 large cucumber, peeled and chopped
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil, or to taste
1/4 tsp sea salt, or to taste
freshly ground pepper
1 cup ice water, or as needed

Basil Oil
1/2 cup basil leaves, loosely packed
1/3 cup olive oil

Garnish
1 pint strawberries, hulled and finely diced
1 cucumber, peeled, seeds scooped out, finely diced
generous handful of small pear or cherry tomatoes, seeds removed, finely diced

Preparation
1. Combine strawberries, vegetables, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper, and ½ cup water. Stir well and refrigerate for one to three hours to let flavors blend.

2. Pour mixture into a blender and puree until smooth. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt, vinegar, or oil as needed. Add more water if gazpacho seems too thick. If desired, strain through a chinois or medium strainer for a smoother texture. Refrigerate for several hours, until thoroughly chilled.

3. While soup is chilling, make basil oil. To preserve the leaves’ bright green color, blanch basil in boiling water for 10 seconds. Drain and pat dry. Puree with oil until smooth. Cover tightly and refrigerate until needed.

4. Just before serving, dice garnish ingredients and toss together. Pour soup into small bowls or shot glasses. Top each serving with a spoonful of garnish and a few drops of basil oil.

Emeryville may have its charms--the world's grooviest office, an Apple store with parking, Rudy's Can't Fail Cafe--but streetside barbecue was not among them.

Now, though, with the opening of Primo's Parrilla, Argentine asado has come to the neighborhood, as authentic as it can get some six thousand miles from the pampas.

Growing up in Argentina, Primo's Parrilla owner and asador Javier Sandes learned early on that food was what brought the family together. His father grilled; his mother cooked, and everyone, friends and extended family alike, would gather around the table to talk and laugh and eat. Good meat, like good chimichurri sauce, was always there, rubbed simply with salt and cooked slowly over the coals so the fat melted into the meat, basting it from within.

When Sandes moved to the Bay Area, he brought with him his father's grilling skills and his mother's love of feeding a crowd. Soon he was making Argentine-style barbecue in the backyards of friends all around Oakland. One of those friends was Walker Bass, who told Sandes that he really should go into the barbecuing business full-time. Bass, along with Sere Peterson and Hammad Atassi, became an investor and part of the team, and soon Primo's Parrilla was born: a truck-and-grill operation bringing lunchtime asado to the people of Emeryville five days a week. (The truck, the crew and the meat are also available for private parties and events.)

The first day, a guy who lived in the neighborhood showed up, having followed his nose--and the wafting allure of meat and smoke--from six blocks away. "The smoke is our best advertisement," laughed Sandes as he spread glowing hardwood coals (a mixture of almond wood and mesquite) under a grill laden with butterflied chicken, whole tri-tips, and fat Italian sausages from Molinari's. Grilled, split and grilled again, the sausage is tucked into a chimichurri-smeared roll to make choripan ($9)--a frequent daily special that always sells out.

Besides the choripan, there are hand-made, flaky-crusted empanadas ($3.50 each, 2 for $6), filled either with chopped chicken or a mixture of beef, onions, olives, and red peppers, redolent of cumin and similar to Cuban picadillo. Grilled chicken ($10), juicy and moist, is finished with splash of lemon juice, paired with a generous scoop of mashed sweet potatoes flecked with spinach, a lively green salad dotted with red pear tomatoes, bread and a plastic cup of vibrant chimichurri, without which no meat could be served in Argentina. Similar to Italian salsa verde, it's a chunky slurry of minced parsley, garlic, olive oil, and hot pepper. "This batch has aged for about 3 weeks," Sandes points out. "It just gets better the longer it ages."

The real piece de resistance, though, is the tri-tip ($12), with a well-muscled chewiness and a deeply beefy flavor. It's grass fed, pasture-raised meat from Tallgrass Beef, the closest Sandes can get to Argentine beef in this country. And for dessert? Alfajores ($2), flaky cookies oozing dulce de leche, made by local bakers Dolce Vita.

Twitter: @VamosPrimos
Facebook: Primo's Parrilla

January, 2002, Ohio

The editors at Bon Appetit should be finishing up their summer grilling issue right about now. It will come out in August. Buried among the advertisements for lunch meat and recipes for three-minute meals centered around canned goods, a massive photo spread depicting a plush suburban backyard will introduce the menu and the accompanying four inches of article. In the picture, beautiful plates of perfect steaks sliced to reveal pink and ruby interiors, salads, rolls, assorted colorful enticing sides will perch on a broad buffet table standing in an impossibly verdant carpet of grass. Slender, attractive people of all races will be draped over handsome lawn furniture, ladies wearing breezy summer skirts and sun hats, guys sporting casual collared shirts and sandals. Their adorable children will be sitting on their laps, rolling around with clean, well-groomed puppies at their feet, smiling as they pause to spoon up another chomp of mac-'n'-cheese. In the center of the frame, a monstrous grill will glaze the scene with warm wisps of cozy smoke. What I describe sounds more like a shoot Gourmet would have done, but I'm sure Bon Appetit will pull out all the stops it can. After all, the spread will be designed to get readers stoked on throwing their own summer grilling parties. Unfortunately, those, with their leathery chicken breasts, lumpy mashed potatoes, misshapen pies, normal-sized adults, bratty, sunburned kids, and greedy, flea-ridden mutts, won't measure up.

For me, however, summer isn't the time I really like to cook out. I don't buy into the convention that warm weather and clear skies should always encourage fire-building. It doesn't make tons of sense to create heat outdoors on a truly hot day unless you're abandoned in the wilds of rural Idaho without your trusty Vulcan range. Furthermore, I actually tend to crave the foods associated with cookouts during winter.

There's a reason for that. I went to college in northern Ohio, not far from Cleveland, just ten miles from the shores of Lake Erie. In case you don't know, the weather fluctuations in that part of the country are brutal. Every year, when I would arrive at school in late August, temperatures often approached 100 degrees, and the air was humid, thick, hanging around your neck like a rope. It was like Kentucky, except there were more trees to hid beneath there. When it's so hot, you sweat through your clothes within five minutes of leaving the house, cookouts lose their luster -- until the sun goes down.

The most memorable cookouts from that period of my life didn't happen at the end of summer, but instead months later, in the middle of winter. At Oberlin, we had something called Winter Term. It lasted the whole month of January. For three out of the four years, you used that time to fake an internship or cobble together a half-assed pet project. By the time senior year rolled around, I had done this three times. That January, I didn't do anything except freeze, sleep, read, watch mysteriously free cable on a crummy TV set, drink, and cook out. Winters in northern Ohio are forbidding. There would be a foot of snow on the ground and my friends and I would think nothing of putting on coats and firing up the bright orange smoker I'd salvaged from the basement of my parents' house. That year, I was still in the early stages of fighting off a long, persistent case of vegetarianism. I usually cooked a mako shark steak for myself. You could taste the mercury through whatever soy-garlic marinade I threw together. I might as well have barbecued a thermometer. When car-less, we often walked fifteen minutes to a lonely IGA for supplies. That month, I honed a cole slaw recipe that hinged heavily on lip-numbing quantities of Srirachi sauce. The dressing could never decide if it wanted the shredded cabbage, carrots, and peppers it adorned to skew towards the mayo or vinegar sides of the cole slaw spectrum. I always added both, along with olive oil, in loose measurements, and the final product invariably split the difference. My process was simple. I would pull all the condiments and potential flavoring agents out of the fridge and cupboard and start adding dabs of this and that: in addition to Srirachi, Dijon mustard, sprinkles of sugar, salt, pepper, celery seed, fistfuls of scallions, and herbs like dill and parsley. After the meal, we'd leave the dirty plates and scraps outside and head in to watch Iron Chef or something. We'd forget about the mess and, by the time we remembered, the leftover mashed potatoes would be frozen clods the color of dirty snow.

As much as I'd love to replicate those cookouts here, San Francisco winters are short on bluster. Besides, eating in the rain isn't as appealing as eating in the snow. Hard rains also pose challenges to outdoor cookery. Still, I think it could be done. It'd be nice to have a big back patio and a huge tent you could set up, or at least a deck with overhang permitting enough space beneath for a grill to stay dry. Cooking on the deck would work too. If you rigged a beach umbrella or even a large portable one so that it hung right above the grill, you could essentially cook out while remaining inside, just reaching out to flip a burger or toast a bun before ducking back in again. You would probably want a second umbrella just to keep above yourself, so that whatever you were ferrying back and forth didn't get soaked. Maybe you could tape one to the back of your head. I really just need to get a grill now -- and find a way of sneaking it past the nosy lady downstairs. Hiding the smoke and smells emanating from preparations more sophisticated than the shark of senior year will be another matter entirely. I need to hurry though. The days are warmer; the rains are less frequent. Grilling season's almost over.

For those unwilling to flaunt fire codes, San Francisco is home to a few good public grilling spots. Dolores Park is nice enough, and I've been told you can reserve barbecues and picnic areas for small, well-behaved parties. Golden Gate Park hosts plenty of epic cookouts -- notably local house label Dirty Bird's monthly Sunday carne asada parties in Jerry Garcia Meadow. Even if you -- like me -- side with Ali G. when it comes to actually listening to house music, these outdoor bashes are a lot of fun. The best place in town to cook out is also the diciest. When I first moved here, some friends and I relished Saturday night bonfires on Ocean Beach, roasting hot dogs on sticks to go with the twelve-packs we'd haul in. Sands and stifling winds stood in for Ohio's snow drifts, and while the food was fairly rudimentary, the misty primitive setting made up for any culinary shortcomings. Though we always cleaned up after ourselves, others weren't so considerate, and the authorities became increasingly peckish. One night a few years back, we were carrying on as usual and, just as I was applying a thin drizzle of mustard to a blistered dog, Officer No Fun walked up swiftly, abruptly heaved a few shovels of sand on the fire, and warned of $200 fines in the event of future infractions. That was that. Ever since, most my cookouts have been snow-, rain-, and sand-free. They've happened at Brothers Korean BBQ.

Note: Don't read this if you work for CPS or find my other posts disgusting or offensive. Move along now. I mean it.

Self-basting Henry preps for grilling

Tough times call for tough decisions. The California unemployment rate now stands at over 12 percent, and I've been underemployed since April. My cup of beans and rice runneth under, so I'm taking a cue from all those folks who have told me Henry is so cute they could just eat him. In short, I have a modest proposal.

Among carnivores and vegetarians alike, the mere sight of juicy baby leg -- peeking out from the gap between the hem of Gymboree overalls and the top of the Robeez soft sole -- is enough to trigger salivation of Pavlovian proportions. Breastfed Henry weighs about 23 pounds now, and I figure that whether stewed, roasted, baked or even boiled, in a fricassee or a ragout, he'd make a most delicious and nourishing wholesome food. In fact, I'm fairly certain I could get several meals out of him, not counting soup stock.

Babies are high in fat and must therefore be quite tasty. Think about it: the ratio of fat to muscle in babies, especially before they start walking, likely exceeds that of ducks, and we all know ducks are scrumptious. Ergo, babies must be even more scrumptious.

There's also the convenience factor: babies make great, quick and easy weeknight suppers. Though this recipe suggests roasting, I'm a crock pot fan myself. Throw the baby in the crock pot in the morning with some carrots, celery, bay leaf, and water, and presto, by the time you get home from work, dinner's ready.

But let's put aside advantages of taste and convenience for a moment and focus on the most important thing: the planet. Eating my baby is the only environmentally responsible way in which I can address my pantry problem. If you too are a mom, a foodie, and a tree hugger, you can't afford NOT to eat your baby.

First of all, when it comes to eating local, you can't get much more local than your child's nursery (or, for those of you without children, the family-based child care center around the corner). I can feel good knowing that a meal I prepare from my baby has virtually no carbon footprint: I have hauled him myself with a Baby Bjorn for nearly 11 months now, so the only energy expended has been courtesy of my own caloric intake.

Secondly, babies are free-range and cage-free (especially babies that co-sleep). I don't have to worry that my meal never saw the light of day or felt green grass under its feet. I've taken my baby to the park at least three times a week since he was born. One could also argue that he's grass fed, as he just ate grass while crawling toward the swings in Willard Park on Sunday. When you eat your own baby, you can rest assured knowing exactly what he ate and when, down to his last spoonful of organic squash from the farmer's market that you steamed and pureed yourself. If you're really careful about your baby's diet, you can even rest assured that he, and therefore you, isn't tainted by that heinous hydra of the industrial food complex: corn.

Babies are also available all year round, so say bye bye to what I call "out-of-season guilt," the kind that garnishes lamb in November and tomatoes in January.

It's actually hard to imagine a more sustainable food than baby, particularly breast-fed baby. If you eat only organic, local food, and your baby eats only breast milk and organic, local food, wears organic clothes (Think of it! No plastic grocery bags!) and G-diapers, as soon as you've thrown that kid in the crockpot, you've become a model sustainable eater. What other food can you create with your own body and feed with your own body? In food terms, it's a perfect circle.

Save the planet: eat your baby.

End this barbecue season with a bang.

** Disclaimer: No babies were actually barbecued during the photoshoot for this post thanks to an Eye Candy Photoshop filter. Don't try this at home...or anywhere else.

Photos and Photoshop by Wendy Goodfriend

Barbecue is literally the slowest of slow foods, not a sauce, but a process, a ponderous and primitive one often measured in days as much as hours. It's much more than mere technique. Like a Bedouin goat roast or a Hawaiian luau, barbecue is a festive carnivorous rite, the sort of party humans all over the world have thrown ever since they could catch the beasts they wanted to eat. Barbecue is a distinctly American tradition, however, and it warrants esteem in our food culture, one that increasingly values authenticity, heritage, and, importantly, a bargain. Historically, barbecue began as poor food. Indirect smoking with hardwood chips and charcoal renders sumptuous feeds from large, inexpensive, uncompromising cuts of meat the non-wealthy can readily afford. Today, due to trend as well as economic circumstance, food writers and chefs champion sustainability, rhapsodize about nose-to-tail eating, and fetishize la cucina povera across cultures. Hip local foodies head to starred eateries to scarf humble ribollita and marrow, and food glossies aggressively explore the homey cooking traditions of everyday people in distant locales.

Even though food tied firmly to a place invariably tastes best in its native setting, barbecue should have a stronger presence here. Sadly, like real bagels and perfect pizza slices, there's something about it San Francisco doesn't quite get.

L.A. export Baby Blues BBQ sits in an old pharmacy storefront on Mission Street at the base of Bernal Hill in San Francisco. The restaurant headed up the S.F. Chronicle's flimsy "new-school" Bay Area barbecue round-up back in February. In the article, the proprietor described his establishment's style as a hybrid, with dry rub from Texas, greens from Kansas City, and grilled shrimp from New Orleans. While only one of those things necessarily has anything whatsoever to do with barbecue, I withheld preliminary judgement, assuming I'd look for proof in the pork. The same writer, Amanda Gold, penned a largely favorable review less than two months later, hailing Baby Blues' offerings as "spot-on," and singling out the brisket and ribs in particular for accolades.

The brisket was, in fact, good -- shredded, not sliced as is customary, slightly sweet, with a broad, warm flavor that belied the stringy appearance. On the other hand, the chicken was desert-dry and the pork shoulder shockingly tasteless. Sauce helped but it shouldn't have been necessary. Good barbecue doesn't truly need sauce, maybe just a splash of vinegary Crystal. The Baby Blues macaroni and cheese was pretty tasty but that came as no surprise. The tidy tureen of pasta, butter, cream, and cheese congregated in creamy, crust-topped ooze resembled a miniature version of one of the less flamboyant goofily greasy things you'd see on thisiswhyyourefat.com. Pork and beans: dreary canned ones of various stripes, topped with some of the same tasteless pork shoulder. Mashed sweet potatoes: one-dimensional and cloying. Great sides are not a prerequisite for even serviceable barbecue but they sure help, especially when a bunch of people are trying to eat until they can't walk.

Dodging categorization is no boon when it comes to barbecue. Homogenizing its varied nuances with the perceived intent of garnering broader appeal smacks of desperation or at least excessive compromise, not inclusivity. Barbecue pit-masters, are curators of sorts. They consciously nurture and carry on a tradition, just making something they really, really know exactly the way they think it should be made for anyone who happens to be interested. Diners prize authenticity when it comes to regional Italian fare; they should when it comes to barbecue as well.

Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree even hoping to find what we're looking for at a place like Baby Blues. Throughout the barbecue belt, you'll eat some of the best barbecue in the world at church benefit suppers, desolate country grocery stores on two-lane roads, and strange little delis straddling dusty cracks in the interstate, not just at grand 'cue emporiums with bright lights and long lines.

Fittingly, in keeping with another current trend, that of back alley catering and restaurant-esque entities sprouting up all over town, the d.i.y. barbecue operations churning away on the edges of the local food scene actually best the likes of Baby Blues, Memphis Minnie's, and Big Nate's. There's definitely something appealing about outlaw status, and barbecue wears it especially well, even here. While the best pork barbecue I've had in San Francisco had to fly 2,000 miles from a deli case in Allen County, Kentucky, there are a few local super-smokers doing it right under-the-radar:

Try ordering a spread from Oakland-based Sneaky's BBQ for your next business meeting. Since 2008, the smoker-in-chief, a native of South Carolina, has been faithfully recreating the barbecue he knew back home -- husky, succulent pork shoulder with pepper-flecked vinegar-laced red sauce and racks of chewy baby-back ribs -- and delivering it, quite sneakily, in an unmarked van (red like the sauce), to homes, offices, and even park parties. It's popping off on Yelp and Chowhound for a reason. It tastes like vigilance. When you're eating it, you easily imagine the whole ritual -- the meat hitting the grill just after rush hour, and coming off, sticky-black, hours and hours later, as well as the sleepless night vigil, the sense, perhaps, of beers drunk and cigarettes smoked, of bleary eyes peering down and smudged hands reaching to open and close flutes at the proper intervals while the rest of the neighborhood sleeps.

The Broken Record is a mildly Zeigeist-y bar in the Excelsior. Chef Ryan Ostler, an alum of Boulevard, doesn't own it but he cooks from behind a wooden, windowed counter buried in the back. He's a Mission Street Food veteran, no stranger to the underground eatery game. The bar's offerings run the gamut from frito pies and amazing 'kraut-topped boar and pheasant sausages (sweet, high-flying stoner-pub party fare, yes, but not barbecue) to pulled pork sandwiches (serious barbecue). Of course, it's a chef's whim kind of place at heart. Sometimes, you show up and the pork isn't done. Or it is done, but it hasn't been carved up yet. Or it was ready hours ago and now there's none left. According to Ostler, they smoke every day, but quantities are limited. If you miss out, eat a sausage. Barbecue is not, after all, on-demand.

Baby Blues BBQ
3149 Mission St. in San Francisco
415-896-4250

Sneaky's BBQ

The Broken Record
1166 Geneva Ave. in San Francisco
415-963-1713