By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
By New Times
The complaint I hear is all too frequent: There are no good, family-owned American restaurants in the West Valley. Mexican food, maybe, and national chains of all types, for sure. But where can a hungry diner find a delicious meat-and-potatoes meal, cooked with real love, after crossing into the Avenues?
The quest for such a place has become a personal challenge of sorts. I find myself constantly checking and rechecking the area, much like one who keeps opening the door to his empty refrigerator on the chance that somehow, the food fairy has miraculously visited.
My diligence has finally paid off. I've found Dillon's Restaurant, plopped down last year on the remote strip of Thunderbird just west of Loop 101.
20585 N. 59th Ave.
Glendale, AZ 85308
Brontosaurus beef rib platter: $15.99
Pulled pork platter: $8.99
Smoked salmon: $13.99
Catfish platter: $7.99
623-979-5353. Hours: Lunch and dinner, Sunday through Thursday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., Friday and Saturday, 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Dillon's is primarily a barbecue joint, and owner Rich Dillon knows his stuff. A former meat packer in Missouri, he previously was a bigwig at K.C. Masterpiece Barbecue and Grill out of Kansas. All his food is prepared fresh daily for each shift -- both lunch and dinner, he says (although, with the meat taking up to 18 hours to smoke over pecan, I'm not quite sure how chef Peter Salazar pulls this off). True to Dillon's Midwestern background, he brings all his ribs in from Iowa.
The place looks like it was born in the Midwest, too. From the outside, it looks like someone's home, with a green picket fence, old-fashioned gables, white slump block and a shake roof. From the inside, it's living-room-inviting, with parlors decked by French doors, plush flowered carpets, cozy floral-patterned sofas in the foyers, country-style art on the walls, and everywhere, clever pig figurines. I love the lush green plants and the cozy fireplace stocked with candles during the hot summer months.
There's a sports-style bar off the foyer, oddly enough, but it's not intrusive; once my companions and I settle into our meals, we never know it's there, even though one evening we're seated right outside its side entry.
Of course, it would take a nuclear explosion to distract us from Dillon's onion rings, absolutely some of the most delightful crispy critters I've ever chewed on. It amazes me how decadent a stark pairing of vegetable and batter can be; the sweet onion rounds practically float off our polka-dot tablecloth under their joyously crispy coating. The so-called ancho chile sauce served alongside tastes like spicy Thousand Island dressing to me, but then, these rings don't need any gilding, anyway.
Spinach enchiladas aren't exactly barbecue-house regulars, but nobody at my table is complaining. We're all too busy stuffing ourselves on an oversize tortilla bursting with fresh creamed spinach, Jack cheese and, supposedly, marinated artichoke hearts under a creamy, mild chile-spiked sauce. Add in more artichoke, and I'd make this dish -- available as an appetizer or an entree -- a regular part of my diet.
A Dillon's specialty, Southwestern smoked stew, needs exactly nothing to make it marvelous. Stocked with tender nubbins of beef and pork, plus tomatoes, potatoes, carrots and celery in a thick broth, it's feisty with lots of cracked pepper and the billowing aroma of smooth smoke. Parting may be sweet sorrow, but I'm downright depressed when I have to pass my bowl to share among my companions. The only failing here -- I don't find any of the menu-advertised homemade seasoned croutons, which would lend a quite pleasing crunch.
AWOL croutons handicap an entree-size chicken club salad, too. Too bad; they'd be just the thing to spark up an otherwise predictable toss of romaine, iceberg, purple cabbage, carrot and lusciously ripe tomato slices. I like the salad's crisp fried chicken breast strips quite a bit, though, served admirably juicy and grease-free. Toppings of ham and chopped bacon are smoked on-site, and taste of it -- fresh and full-flavored. I drench it all with a spunky ranch dressing that's surely never seen the inside of a bottle, shutting my mind against the enormous calories contained within. This dish is just too good for me to care.
Calorie-cautious diners would do well to stay as far away as possible from Dillon's Brontosaurus beef rib platter. Remember the opening of Flintstones cartoons, where Fred stops at the local park-'n'-eat rib joint? And how the waitress staggers out with a rack of ribs so huge that when she places it on his "car" door tray, the entire vehicle tips over? That's our table collapsing in the background.
No exaggeration -- I have never in my life seen anything as monstrous or as mouth-wateringly macho as this rib plate. The table creaks when our server places the portion in front of my dining companion, and I swear, I can barely see him peeking over the top of this pile of 13 meaty bones. Servings average about four pounds, we're told.
The only challenge with this meal, other than finding sufficient gullet room, is how to eat it. Don't wear your Sunday best -- even with the bib thoughtfully provided, a rubber suit is highly recommended. The rack overflows the plate, the sauce seeps all over everything, and the gargantuan bones defy convenient cutting. Indeed, a few ribs into his meal, my companion is completely covered in sauce -- his face, his hands, his elbows, his sleeves; likely, he finds residue in his belly button upon returning home.