Snobbery is wrong. I admit this. But I just can't help it. I was raised in Kansas City where a hickory smoked rib is a perfectly acceptable teething biscuit, which is why after five years in L.A., I had yet to eat one bite of brisket.

I was, frankly, scared. BBQ in L.A.? Put one avocado anywhere near my rack of ribs, and I might never recover. So when I decided to venture out into the wilds of Venice and into a serious dive of a BBQ joint, it was like the first blind date after a torrid, steamy romance. It might be great, but you're prepared for the inevitable comparisons and disappointment.

I'd been sniffing around this particular joint, Glencrest BBQ, for four years. Literally sniffing around. It's on my way to the gym and often the best parking is right in front. And right around 8 a.m. is when they start up the smoker.

What I couldn't discern from the outside was what kind of BBQ the place served. No indication anywhere, and the internet was of no use at all. Sure there were amateur reviews but nothing at all about the regional variation* a K.C. born-and-bred girl could expect. Blind date, indeed.

Once inside, they threw me. The whole place was the size of my living room with an open kitchen that, well, shouldn't have been. The A/C was broken, the linoleum mismatched and the bar stools swiped from a Ford parts department. They said so right on the seats. All of which, I considered promising. It's all about the smoke. Good BBQ does not come on white table cloths.

The menu, written on a chalkboard, listed sides like collard greens, sweet potato pie and red beans and rice. It was going to be southern style through and through, I thought. I ordered the ribs with beans, coleslaw and cornbread to go and, ten minutes later, lugged five pounds of food back out the door for just over ten bucks.

Back home, I opened the container and did a double take. The sauce was thick and a deep reddish brown just like my beloved K.C. style. Not at all what collard greens would lead a girl to expect. I dipped my finger in and licked it. It was, well, neither. Not any southern style I'd ever had. Too thick for that. Not K.C. for sure. Too much vinegar and not enough sweetness for that. The ribs themselves were huge. No dainty baby backs here. These were full-on brontosaurus bones. The biggest of which were perfect. Tender, moist and with that gorgeous pink color just under the surface that only hours of smoke will give you. The smaller ones, however, should've been pulled before the moisture vampires had gotten at them.

Two of the three sides were uneventful. The third, the coleslaw - well, let us never speak of that again.

All in all, it was fine. Not the torrid affair I've been carrying on back home with a slab of brisket and a hunk of hickory wood, but at least I'm back in the game.



*A quick and probably unnecessary primer: There are four major types of BBQ in the U.S. - Texas style, Carolina style, Memphis style and Kansas City style, all with innumerable variations and digressions. Texas uses primarily mesquite wood and a thinner, more vinegary sauce. Carolina tends toward fruit wood, omits tomato from the sauce altogether and is heavy on the pork. Memphis relies on a paprika-based rub to color the meat and sometimes forgoes sauce completely. And Kansas City style, which I think we can be sure Jesus himself prefers, uses hickory, is heavy on the beef and most importantly comes with a sweet and spicy molasses-based sauce thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.