Barbecue is a boy thing, my companion wants me to know. After all, it involves great slabs of meat, bone-in or torn in great handfuls from a still-steaming carcass. And there's fire, he bleats: that hot, smoky, lusting beast that no mere woman can tame. Best of all, there's sauce. Messy, fire-engine red, a real man's concoction that kisses sweetly, then jumps up and bites you savagely in the butt.
Well, grunt, I reply. More power to you, if you want to spend hours burning dinner in the backyard. While I may not agree with my friend's gender-based appropriation of an entire cuisine, I know that time spent arguing with him is time lost eating. Let him have his dreams; I'm going to Joe's to feast on fine barbecue cooked by experts.
With his Walter Mitty-inspired chef persona, my dining buddy wouldn't last long working at Joe's Real Barbecue in downtown Gilbert. This is quiet 'cue, civilized 'cue, prepared and served by cheerful folks in little white paper hats. Presentation is polite, with hand-carved slabs of top quality meats carefully trimmed of all fat. There are no raging fires here, but streamlined ovens with under-chambers of Arizona-grown pecan wood. The sauce offers a timid peck on the cheek, slinks in with a furtive smack on the hiney, then runs away.
This 'cue takes no prisoners, but it succeeds oh so well by just asking nicely.
Housed in a historic 1929 building on Gilbert's main strip, Joe's is fashioned after a 1940s-style barbecue joint. A retro John Deere tractor takes center stage, supported by a clever built-in ice cream shop and murals of Gilbert's early farming heritage. Display shelves are stocked with cherished nostalgia treats like Gold Rush bubblegum, candy dots on paper, sugar lips, Boston baked bean candy and jawbreakers. I want them all.
Twangy fiddle music plays in the background. It's cute at first, then turns maddening. Suddenly I have new sympathy for my beloved grandma, who once suffered a cross-country trip packed in a car with her six young daughters playing dueling banjos with their mouths. My companion is eyeing the toy gun display next to the ice cream parlor, and I can see the thought bubble above his head: "If I use jawbreakers as ammo, I bet I could take out all the speakers."
Were the weather a little warmer, we would have escaped to the picnic tables in the restful little park outside. Another option is takeout, served individually or "in quantity" from a window along the sidewalk.
Fortunately, the rest of the concept works better than the noise. The format is cafeteria. The magic is in the meat.
With "real" barbecue, the trick is in keeping the heat away from the beef, pork, fish, chicken, vegetables or what have you. At Joe's, the wood fire is kept in a chamber separate from the meat. This indirect heat gently cooks for as long as 12 hours to seal in juices, while the swirling smoke imparts a sweet, mild flavor to its intended. With no harsh heat to sear and no lid lifting/meat turning required, the meat stays moist.
Joe's uses pecan hardwood, harvested from our own Grand Canyon State. A preferred wood among many professional chefs, pecan infuses a medium fruity taste that is much richer and smoother than such harsh woods as hickory. Thanks, Joe, from those of us who like to taste the food more than the lumber.
Ordering is easy. Grab a tray and fix your beverage. Mosey up to the sparkling clean service line and look over the offerings. Joe's menu reads like a Weight Watchers exchange plan: select one bread, one, two or three meats, one or two sides. Dress up your dinner at the condiment bar of chopped onions and peppers. Snag some thankfully huge napkins and a clutch of moist towelettes, and you're in business. Don't worry about cleaning up -- this is a classy joint that buses the tables.
It's a good thing Joe's opts for slow smoking, because with the fastidious fat trimming, the meat could easily suffer a dry death. As it is, the best of the bunch does sport some succulent marbling. Aptly, it's those barbecue potentates, pork spareribs (half slab $9.95/full slab $15.95/three ribs with any meal $3.50). Crisp-edged and glorious, these hefty morsels surrender to the fork in the blissful joy of achieving their very piggy best.
My companion and I are at odds over the jumbo beef brisket sandwich (all jumbo sandwiches $5.95). Thick-sliced, it tastes dry to me, but he insists that brisket should never be served otherwise. My preference is for pulled meat -- I think it helps tenderize the thick chest muscle meat, and the stringy result embraces more sauce. Joe's accommodates me with a fine chopped beef option and giddily good pulled pork on lightly toasted, buttered soft rolls.