Smokin’ BJ’s. Smokin’ Dick’s. Heh-heh. These carnally named barbecue joints tend to coax the Beavis out of many a Butt-head. But their names are not mere plays on down ‘n’ dirty fellatio: Smokin’ BJ’s takes its “BJ” from the first initials of its co-owners’ names, while Smokin’ Dick’s is named after the restaurateur’s dad. But phallic nomenclature and familial homage is where the similarities end with these vastly divergent slow-cookeries.
Blink and you’ll miss Smokin’ BJ’s, which occupies what appears to be a small espresso shack amid the gloriously inharmonious bric-a-brac of Highway 99 as it soars toward Everett. Primarily a drive-thru proposition, Smokin’ BJ’s does feature a lone picnic table near a locked pen housing both its Dumpster and detached cooker. This is where Bottomfeeder and an adventurous East Ballard businessman named Brad would enjoy our first bowl of meat soup.
Not to be confused with beef stew, meat soup is a leftover artist’s amalgam of celery, onion, carrots, potatoes, links, brisket, and pork—in effect, the remnants of dishes that might otherwise end up in the aforementioned Dumpster. Laudable based on its environmental merits alone, BJ’s meat soup is succulent in its execution. And if the cutting-room floor is delicious, it goes without saying that our link and pork sandwiches were way above bar as well ($7.75 for a “sandwich meal,” which included meat soup, cornbread, and beverage). Wash it down with a glass of sweet tea that would pass litmus in the Deep South, and you’ve got the perfect lunchtime picnic for a hot asphalt jungle.
Smokin’ Dick’s, meanwhile, boasts a vast, well-lit interior with a large plasma TV and $3 pitchers of High Life. That’s right: $3 pitchers of High Life—any day, any time—making Dick’s a magnet for thirsty college students on a tight budget (and aside from residents of a handful of 17th Avenue Greek palaces such as the Fiji house, college students are virtually always on a tight budget). So conscious is Dick’s of this foamy gold attribute that Bottomfeeder and a smokin’ (naturally) blond Michigander who could pass for college age were asked if we actually wanted to eat food with our Miller one recent Tuesday evening.
To that end, Smokin’ Dick’s is best enjoyed over a platter of suppertime ribs. The “St. Louis” rib combo ($11.75) fell off the bone on cue. Served with cornbread (delicious), Texas toast (very Midwestern), and baked beans (so-so), it easily surpassed the merely serviceable chicken wings at Dick’s, which were salvaged via the inclusion of thick-cut, salty fries ($7.25 for the pairing).
But hey, look: It’s pretty tough to fuck up barbecue. While great barbecue is mind-blowing, even bad barbecue tastes pretty damn good. Which brings us back to fellatio: After dining at Smokin’ BJ’s and Smokin’ Dick’s, I’m not sure I remember the names of any other barbecue joints in town (Peco’s What? Home of Good Who? Jones How?). The challenge of this entire genre is to separate oneself from a like-minded pack that boasts little flair—albeit plenty of flavor—on its collective menu. Promising a hummer on the marquee is a helluva way to turn the trick. But, shoot, does it ever work. mseely@seattleweekly.com
