Chef Atkins stopped in for barbeque a few nights ago and picked his bones clean. Rex Reed swooned over the ribs and promised to return with Liz Smith, the chicken-fried steak cognoscente. No sooner had Virgil’s Real Barbeque switched on its blazing red neon beacon and unlocked the door than the first Dixie orphans wandered in, homesick for hush puppies and Boylan’s Birch Beer. Truckers and bikers, quiche-refusniks, BBQ cultists, an amazing armada of tubbys and Bubbas, and all the dear souls who’ve been suffering snapper and arugula so long, they’re just desperate to wallow awhile in the forbidden.

        So maybe you won’t catch Anna Wintour here, gnawing pulled Owensboro lamb on rye. And the cover-girl clique wouldn’t dream of risking those ironing-board midriffs on the $37.95 “rock n’ ribs combo” -- every rib a giant hog ever had, plus stuffed jalapeno peppers, a couple of sides, and six bottles of Rolling Rock chilling out in an ice bucket. But still, expect Virgil’s to smoke. Who says Elvis is dead?

        And the ribs -- authentic or not, who cares? -- we’ll have them both ways, wet and dry. No sissy baby backs: This is grown-up grub -- moist, flavorful, fabulous. What chicken gave its all for these brawny wings? An eagle, perhaps. I count seven sweet-and-savory appendages to dip into a swampy blue-cheese sea.

        No mistaking the place. The wonderfully pungent and spicy perfume that wafts your way. The posters of national barbecue challenges, the aprons and menus from our land’s champion cookers. The walls of this rustic duplex are a museum for souvenirs collected by the creative geniuses behind Carmine’s and Ollie’s in their artery-defying research odyssey on the BBQ circuit.

        The welcome is friendly. So far. We’ll see how it goes when the ravenous hordes are pawing the ground waiting for tables to turn. Is the pork a bit pink? That’s a sign of wood-smoking. I read it on the place mate, a gourmand’s map of Greaseland. The wines are priced right, but how about the beer? Choose from 83 labels, some in 25-oz. bottles, or sip fruity iced tea or lemonade (“fresh squeezed,” it says, though I spied a Minute Maid jug in the cupboard).

        Be greedy like our four and go home with doggie bags that would embarrass even a mutt. Or count on sharing marvelous buttermilk onion rings with blue-cheese dip (quick, while they’re hot), and deep-fried jalapeños, oozing molten cheddar or cream cheese. No fault to find with the zesty chili. The rich Brunswick stew is a mess of meats with not enough carrots to spoil the fun. At $3.50, an Everest of woeful hush puppies is cheap. Enough said. And two big wedges of iceberg and slices of tomato with Thousand Island dressing plunge me deep into childhood reverie.

        “Pig Out” says the menu. No arm-twisting needed. All of us are snatching from the Brobdingnagian smorgasbord of grease and sugar -- chopped Texas brisket and Carolina pork, a robust smoked sausage, a quarter chicken (dark meat, the way we prefer), those spectacular ribs. You’d never catch me settling for chicken here, good as it is, or catfish fillets, or even tonight’s grilled salmon with splendid corn relish (entrées, $10.50 to $24.95 for rib steak). In the beginning...there was meat! That’s my religion. Everything comes with two sides - mashed potatoes, dirty rice, nice pickled beets, collard and kale in a toss, mustard slaw or potato salad (classic, perhaps, in someone’s hometown but not all that wonderful here). Ah, Memphis barbecue beans: There’s the winner, stewed with whatever’s left in the kitchen - brisket, smoked ham, sausage bits. Chunks of corn bread served with most everything could be spicier. But the plump, buttery biscuits are worth the extra $3.50. Anything not hot enough? Squirt-bottles of Virgil’s piquant sauces stand in a huddle on every table.

        Only my pal from the South is seduced by the banana pudding. To me, it has all the charm of Cream of Wheat. Ms. Sarasota loves the pecan pie too, classic Crisco and all. Well, the kitchen’s still shaking down. The joint’s been open barely long enough to get the smokers going full-steam. Who knows what country goodies are yet to blossom? There’s brunch in the works. And grits, heaven knows. Meanwhile, there’s a Civil War raging between tables, says chef-owner Michael Ronis, Texas versus Kansas city. North Carolina against South. Dare you put tomato in the vinegar sauce? What is the one and true slaw? And just wait till the Texas posse tucks into his dandified chicken-friend steak. Crushed potato chips and corn flakes instead of bread crumbs? Is it brilliant? Or is it sacrilege?

Click here to return to the Vintage Archive Listings page.