Danny Meyer & Co.'s Blue Smoke

What wondrous times; finally, a breakthrough for light-skinned, slim, best-dressed, large-breasted multiple hit-and-run perpetrators. But even more wondrous than that is the existence of meat smokers in the middle of Manhattan. I spent a summer working in St. Louis, jetting back to spend weekends in a colonial in Watchung?a time-stands-still town where conversation on summer weekend mornings was, "Goin' down the shore?" "Yeah, goin' down the shore."

I liked Watchung and I hated St. Louis. It was roiling heat during the day, and in the evening scary streams of lightning would crackle against a sick violet endless sky. A local took pity on us out-of-towners and showed us the sights one evening. At dinner, he quickly discerned that I didn't go to lunch with the rest of the crew. He said, "So at lunch, you guys talk about Lane." A coworker confirmed, "Yes. Sorry Lane," and gave me a shrug indicating it was nothing personal, but really, what else was there to talk about.

But while they ran up their expense accounts at lunchtime, I made them look bad by submitting receipts for my daily Dannon from the subsidized on-site cafeteria. The food in St. Louis was mostly bad anyway. Everything in St. Louis was mostly bad. With one exception, the barbecue. You couldn't get bad barbecue there. Maybe that's why people live there.

Not much is so enticing as slow-cooked meat. I was once lured to Carlstadt by the promise of a pig roast. At a party the week beforehand, I mentioned how I was looking forward to it, but Walt, a New Jersey native, said the pig would probably arrive precooked in a box. Being a rube, I said, "Walter, you can't get a pig in a box. You need a spit. And a keg. And a band." I had to eat my words as well as some not so tasty pig in a small unshaded backyard under an unrelenting sun while Jimmy Buffett CDs played in the background. Walt explained, "Lane, this is a Bergen County pig roast."

Blue Smoke's "urban barbecue" assaults you with its sweet smoky smell on entry, drawing you into a bustling joint with red booths lit by spokes of caged bulbs, aluminum lanterns and lots of track lighting. A smoky-blue cracked mirror overlooks the front red-floored barroom of Danny Meyer & Co.'s latest venture. Pussy willows decorate the large brick dining room in the rear. Early Saturday evening, middle-aged couples sit at the bar; later it's three and four deep with bedroom community residents warmly dressed in bulky sweaters, car coats, sensible shoes, and expensively coifed in the latest Garden State do's. The jukebox is Maspie (middle-aged suburban professional) heaven?U2, Sinatra, Dylan, Barry White, Miles Davis, etc. There's a surprising dearth of children, but the one I spy seems quite content sharing a raft of ribs and dipping into a bucket of fries. Kid-pleasing root beer and barbecued potato chips also on the menu.

The forcefully cheerful hostess' smile falls when she hears I have no reservation. Coats are whisked away, and seating is immediate. We're led upstairs to a dismal low-ceilinged dining alcove with rec-room carpeting, vents and pipes. But there is a view by the iron-edged balcony. The other poor slobs without reservations are up there with us, oddly an artsier crowd than below. Looking down at the scene, my companion makes fun of me: "No one else here is wearing hot pink stretchy things." The waiters sport "Blue Smoke" t-shirts and sweatshirts in white, gray and black; some for sale. A photographer with tripod sets up in back of me.

My companion gripes, "There's no corn. There should be corn." Only seasonal vegetables are found here. A cartload of wood is wended through the front room by two cooks. Even though we ordered sandwiches, I ask for bread and am glad I did. My dad always said you can tell a restaurant by its bread, and this loaf bodes good things to come. It's better than homemade; sliced from a sesame-seeded sturdy-crusted dense white loaf. Ice water is brought. Service is not friendly so much, but tries hard to be helpful.

Our knowledgeable waiter says wines have been selected to complement the menu, that you can't go wrong. They're out of Fitz's diet root beer and a requested Syrah, but the Rhone Gigondas (the waiter corrects my poor pronunciation) '98 on first almost sweet sip says I've got a secret that on second sip is a lavender invasion. The Brooklyn Brewery has hit a home run with their Blue Smoke Original Ale. It's a medium hue, drinkable on its own and a very copacetic companion to the smoked meats. Ours had gone missing at first, but our alert waiter tracked it down; it is served ice cold.

The drink menu is retro, rife with Grandma's favorites. Among them a Manhattan, a Rob Roy and an Old Fashioned. The kind of drinks I recall as being as noxious as Opie and all of Hollywood leaping to their feet to laud an accused child molester and de facto homewrecker. The sorts of drinks that are too strong to drink quickly, the type of drink you sip while seated in a round-backed wooden chair with a dried-out leather seat, looking out of a bay window while the clock ticks and a dusty dog snores at your feet. More fun are the Dark and Stormy (ginger beer with rum) and a mint julep. There is a nod to the modern world with the inclusion of a blood-orange margarita and a caipirinha. A huge black white-lettered sign above the bar lists the libations; there are eight taps and plenty of bottles. During the week, the bar crowd's a bit younger; neighborhood workers having some brews before heading across their respective bridges and tunnels.

Big platters of dry-rub ribs are disappearing all over the place, aluminum buckets hold the gnawed bones. A sandwich of smoked Usinger's bologna from Milwaukee ($8.50) is a thick singed slab on a perfect bun, with a great deal of slaw and crunchy pickle slices. Smoky and meaty. I'm a connoisseur of bologna sandwiches and I pronounce this (I love my life) the best bologna. My parents were convinced I'd been switched at birth, as while their favorite sandwich was pastrami with Gulden's on Russian cornbread downed with a Cel-Ray, mine was olive loaf on white bread with mayo, milk please. They said I was not a real Jew.

The cole slaw here is generously peppered, and spiked with shreds of carrot and green pepper. Not soggy in the least and served right in the sandwich. A college cheesesteak haunt, Primanti's in Pittsburgh, served not only the slaw in the sandwich, but the fries as well. In a just-baked roll. The doors didn't open till midnight. One night I was sitting with a group. A slick young man approached and handed me his card. It was in glossy color and had his phone number and photos of all the different pills he could provide. Post steak-sandwiches, our table went back to the station where the ON AIR lamp was dismantled and the glass sign used to chop a substance upon. Then we went to John's cozy apartment where we looked through his old Beatles records and patted his shy mixed-breed, Mary. His mother was an advice columnist and the dog had been a stray. My suitemate Dana claimed to have "discovered" Primanti's. She said that pre-Dana, only truckers frequented the place. I had disliked Dana immediately. She was tall and thin with wayward yellow curls. She was practicing ballet leaps in the hallway and conversing cheerily with me and anyone else who happened by. A few days later she made fun of my jeans, "Vanderbilt's?" I protested, "Jones New York." "You and I both know that's worse." We were really good friends from then on. She had done some modeling and been in commercials. She'd been to charm school; she taught me how to accept a light from a man. I wanted her to marry the big blond punk rocker she was dating, but she married a big blond physicist instead, after which I didn't see her so much.

We aren't approached by any enterprising freelance pharmacists at Blue Smoke. A saucy, smoky and succulent pulled pork sandwich ($9.95) is also served with slaw and pickles. Onion rings ($4.95) are a good-natured joke as they are nongreasy renditions of a fast-food chains' that I've had in the distant past. A&W perhaps? The paper-thin onion is overwhelmed by the oversized crackly coating. White manna mashed potatoes ($4.50) topped with strings of salty fried onions have gravity but not lumps. The plastic diner squeeze bottle of "BBQ" sauce is no liquid dynamite, but adds a heated spark. A shaker of "magic dust" is also on the table. I find them both unnecessary.

Coffee is Washington-state-trucker rotgut. After a sip, my dyed-in-the-wool eight-cups-of-mud-a-day companion's face instantly lights up. "Oh! This is good coffee." Perhaps the richest, nuttiest roast I've had in a restaurant; albeit a bit rough. Sticky toffee pudding ($5.95) is a large square of forgettable spice cake sitting in copious amounts of toffee syrup covered with bits of pecan and a satin sworl of sour creme fraiche. I don't detect any bits of date (that are usually found in this dessert), it's more like gingerbread. The "pudding" is as boring as Charles Gibson, but forkfuls of the tangy rich yogurty topping dipped in the sweet syrup are fun to lick at. Banana cream pie ($5.95) has a crisp, nutty, cookie crust, a blanket of whipped cream and raw walnuts over all. But its innards have wet chunks of something that I guess must be banana in a limp filling; on the whole, not worth the calories. I enviously eye a neighbor's chocolate malted. For festive occasions, a whole pie or a cake with candles can be ordered.

Portions didn't seem so big at the time, but we're barely able to stand post-repast. I smell of smoke the rest of the night, but it's a small price to pay. The sound and the scene isn't my cup, but the 'cue is, so see you there.

Blue Smoke, 116 E. 27th St. (betw. Park Ave. S. & Lexington Ave.), 447-7733.