Bear Pit BBQ

653 SW 153rd St (Burien), 431-2690.

In all my years of eating and talking about eating, I've found that no one is more grumpy and inclined to be disappointed than a barbecue expert. This devoted, slightly fanatical breed cleaves to very strict systems of standards and regional variations. Me, I just like to eat--the barbeque has to be really bad for me to notice--but a grumpy barbecue expert can give things some context.

Which is why when I heard rumblings about a very good barbecue joint in Burien, I grabbed the grumpiest expert I know: Phil Campbell, author of The Stranger's "Meat and Greet: Phil Campbell's Ultimate Guide to Seattle Barbecue" [June 14, 2001], a man for whom "not bad" is pretty much a rave review. As it happens, I am also married to him.

As we drove out to Burien, Phil started grumbling. "If they don't have their own smoker," he said, "we're leaving." I assured him we would do no such thing. He grumbled a little more into his jacket collar.

When we got to Bear Pit--a low, flat, suburban bar-type building bordered on one side by a vacant lot--he insisted on walking around to the back to look for the smoker. Luckily, we were prevented from doing so by a chainlink fence. Bear Pit's interior is painted in shades of pink, blue, and rust that suggest there might once have been a Mexican restaurant here; it is populated by stuffed bears in honor, I guess, of the name. This is fine--barbecue experts are not inclined to be won over by décor, and tend to be suspicious of it. I was relieved to learn, via our soft-spoken young waiter, that Bear Pit has, in fact, two smokers. Phil asked about the sauce's regional provenance, and the waiter didn't know. "It's homemade," he said, "from an old recipe." ("Imagine not knowing where your sauce is from," Phil muttered.)

We ordered pork spareribs, which are Phil's special favorite (the Papa Bear plate, with coleslaw, beans, garlic bread, and your choice of potato, is $12.95). He was a little put out by the garlic bread; the bread, he informed me, should be plain--merely a vehicle for the sauce. I chose smoked sliced brisket (the smaller Mama Bear plate, same sides, less meat, $7.95) plus a hot link ($1.25) and corn fritters (six for $3.25).

When our food arrived, there was a dramatic little pause. "The real test," Phil said, picking up a cluster of ribs by a bone: The bone slid cleanly out of the meat--a very good sign. He dipped the meat into the sauce and I waited. "Not bad," he said. Later he said, "Not bad at all."

We agreed that the regular sauce (sweet, but not sickly, with a nice tart counterpoint) was better than the extra spicy (just sweet). I thought my brisket was tremendously good: sooooo tender and smoky. I ate most of it, in fact, without the sauce. (Later, I learned that some barbecue experts unconditionally decry machine-sliced brisket, which Bear Pit's was. I consulted another brisket expert about this, and when I told him that I'd had machine-sliced brisket, he gave a low moan. "Ooooooh noooooo," he said. "If it's good brisket, it should just fall apart on its own." I told him how tender the meat was. "Then they probably just did it for convenience," he said. For shame.)

Phil seemed to be enjoying his ribs, until he got to the last few, where he found some fat. The other test, apparently, of how well cooked the ribs are is whether or not the fat is completely rendered out of the meat by the long cooking. But I was enjoying myself. The hot link was slow-burn hot, the corn fritters sweet and grease-free, the coleslaw cool, and the potato salad mayonnaisey. The point, I think, of all these sides is to provide a backdrop of bright, cool contrasts for the deep, smoky meat, so your mouth doesn't get tired or overstimulated. It works.

I liked pretty much everything. We finished our meal in silence and started home, each thinking our own thoughts. Phil sighed into the dark car. "Not bad at all," he said.