DINING REVIEW: Meat is right on ‘cue

You can smell the slow-burning mesquite coals in the Volkswagen-size smoker at The Firehouse as soon as you pull into the parking lot. The smoky incense wafts over West Colorado Avenue - sweet and smoldering like the first sip of an anejo mescal, but sharp and fresh like the hot border deserts where the wood was grown.

The passenger in my car raised his nose - silence for a few moments - then turned with the grin of a 6-year-old about to tear open Christmas presents and said, "Boy howdy, that smells good! Let's eat."

I had brought my friend, Mr. Barbecue, to test the city's newest smoked-meat boutique, just as I had brought him to every pork and brisket joint I've ever reviewed. I brought him because he grew up 'cueing whole hogs at pig pickins on a tobacco farm in the Carolinas.

Since then, he has seemingly stopped at every pulled pork shack between here and there and can discuss, at length, their regional merits.

He says he can tell a good brisket by how it hits the counter.

His rulings on barbecue aren't always nice, but they're usually right.

We pushed through the doors of The Firehouse's converted - wait for it - firehouse.

Joe and Kari Tresner opened the place in October to serve the Texas-style smoky barbecue Joe had been perfecting for years in his backyard.

It was lunchtime and the place was packed. The word must be out, I thought.
Under glaring, bare lights, people crowded around small tables covered with red-checkered tablecloths with upright spools of paper towels rising from the centers like big white candles.

We opened the menus. After much hemming and hawing and a side story about how his grandma told him how to pick the right okra from the garden (it should be the size of your little finger), Mr. Barbecue ordered a platter with smoked chicken, brisket and pulled pork ($13.49). I went for the ribs, ($10.49), and my wife (who met us there) chose fried (the menu calls it Broasted) chicken ($8.49).

There was the matter of choosing sides (fried green beans, coleslaw, beans, etc.), but, Mr. Barbecue said as he leered from table to table, sizing up the meat, "It doesn't really matter. That's not why you're here."

Barbecue is probably the most argued-over cuisine in the country, fraught with regional partisans who debate the merits Carolina mop sauce or dry Memphis ribs.

Want silent comfort food consensus? Serve mac and cheese.

Want endless debate? Get Texas and Kansas City 'cue disciples to list the proper protocols for what they consider "real barbecue."

"Some people will sauce it up too much," Mr. Barbecue said as we waited for our plates.
"I say, don't be messin' with my barbecue. If it's good, it doesn't need sauce. Just serve a little on the side."

Just then our plates arrived. Piles of pork, chicken and beef glistened gloriously unsauced on Mr. Barbecue's platter. He tore in.

The slow-smoked pork butt looked like good pulled pig should: disparate strands, some pale and moist, some tough and ruddy brown, a few spots almost black from the smoker, each contributing its own character. It was delicious. And with a splash of the vinegary mustard sauce on the table, it was even better.

Most local barbecue places slice their brisket. Here the brisket pulls an all-nighter in the smoker, then is torn ragged until you could almost twirl it up with a fork like spaghetti.

"Boy that is really good," Mr. Barbecue said between bites. "It's rich. It's almost shiny.

Oh, man. I like that."

The smoked chicken didn't fare as well. The breast was dry. I've never thought a smoker did good things to chicken.

But the fried chicken is some of the best in town. The perfectly crispy crust was not too salty or greasy, and hid a delicious, moist flesh.

Ribs rate highly, too. The slender, lean pork ribs have a lot of surface area to soak up maximum smoke, and a crispy, delicious amber veneer forms from hours on the grill. The ribs are served with a touch of sauce (not truly wet, but damp) - and the sauce here, which has the sweet bite of apple cider vinegar and fresh spices, is a worthy escort.

There are other delights hiding on this large menu.

The green chile chicken soup, a Texas spinoff of classic Mexican Sopa Azteca, is a fiery treat packed with fresh chiles, crispy tortilla strips and slices of scallion and avocado.

I'm kicking myself for not seeing the soft tacos on the takeout menu I stuffed in my pocket until I got home. (My editor says they're great ... and the first tacos he's topped with barbecue sauce. They come with either beef or pork, or both.)

There are few criticisms you can aim at Firehouse. The service is as good as the food.

The pies in the dessert case are homemade. I'd like better lighting and some booths, but barbecue often thrives in Spartan settings.

On the way out, I asked Mr. Barbecue for his ruling.

"Whoooo boy, that's tough," he said. He debated the virtues of every barbecue place in town, one by one, then rebutted himself. Then started again. He wouldn't give a straight answer.

You got the feeling, watching, that 'cue lovers argue so much because it give them an excuse to go back and test the meat again.

The Firehouse
**** (True 'cue, good fried chicken, too)

Address: 718 W. Colorado Ave.
Contact: 447-8829
Hours: 11 a.m.-9 p.m., Mondays through Saturdays; 11 a.m.-8 p.m., Sundays
Entrees: $6.99-$13.49
Vegetarian: Some sides
Liquor: License pending
Plastic: Yes