My first exposure to the barbecued rib was delivered in the final forty seconds of every showing of The Flintstones that I watched as a kid. The closing sequence plays as follows: Having just watched a thirty-minute episode of his own life at the local drive-in, Fred Flintstone immediately pedals his granite rolling pin-mobile to the nearest burger shack, where he proceeds to order a rack of brontosaurus ribs so magnificent that it knocks over his vehicle, placing his entire family (his wife, a purple dinosaur, and a domesticated saber toothed tiger) in mortal danger. By the time they get home, the ribs have clearly been consumed and not a single person is hurt. Really, what didn’t I learn from this show?

Twenty years after my Bedrock education, I stumbled upon the world of competitive BBQ criticism, a hotly contested arena of legalism and metaphysical induction that bears precious little of Fred Flinstone’s Stone Aged grin. One of the most controversial of America’s contemporary culinary topics, the quality of a rack of ribs seems to call into question the very honor of its consumer in the world of the food obsessed.

Having spent a considerable amount of chewing time on my quest to deconstruct and devour the many facets of American BBQ, I’ve gained a healthy sense of skepticism when it comes to arguments over authenticity. While good Q does have its tales to tell, more smoking time doesn’t always lead to more smoky flavor, and sauce is not always something to be taken or left as a given. When mass consumption and unapologetically unrefined power are themselves American traditions, it’s sometimes hard to tell who’s being more dogmatic in the fog of BBQ war: those who refuse to touch a piece of meat that hasn’t been wood smoked in a backwoods shack for at least half a day, or those who will blithely wolf down a completely uninspired meat train at the local chain restaurant and frame cries of protest as paeans to food snobbery.

Home to a naval armory, a national wildlife refuge, a gated community of over 9,000 senior citizens and the second longest pier in California, Seal Beach has no history of BBQ culture. Yet, in this quaint coastal enclave, one restaurant has made a compelling statement for authentic, accessible Q at the gateway to Orange County. With a warm, inviting approach to its craft, Beachwood BBQ is showing local diners that that the undeniable edge of tradition can be a brink of joy, not intolerance.

The baby back pork ribs here won’t knock over any Stone Age autos, but I couldn’t imagine genuine brontosaurus being any more delicious. Striking a considerate balance between meaty and gritty, these just might be your grandfather’s ribs, summoned from the grave of subtlety to deliver a much needed sermon to the over-the-top BBQ fronts of super-sized America. Smoked for fifteen hours and instilled with a delightfully deep-reaching dry rub, Beachwood’s ribs retain the crackly exterior of Memphis’ finest half-rack. In defiance of all proponents of “fall off the bone” litmus tests, the texture then slips artfully into a slightly tender layer of pork that acknowledges backyard cookouts and the fun of tearing away that last stubborn morsel of meat. True to their heritage, these ribs offer a sophisticated flavor and juicy consistency that make sauce entirely unnecessary, but a variety of sauces are happily offered to those not quite ready to convert.

Refusing to rest at the die-hard judgment of ribs, Beachwood also offers a slew of West Coast tinged Southern specialties. The deep fried pickles are a praiseworthy nod to Dixie dining, but the real prize is their fried green tomato, adorned with fresh mozzarella and field greens, then doused with vinaigrette and sandwiched by a ciabatta-like potato roll. Like Pie in the Sky’s signature slice, Beachwood’s fried green tomato sandwich brings a time honored staple into the produce profile of California, resulting in the best vegetarian meal I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing.

Beachwood’s side dishes do fall a bit short of the high marks garnered by its entrees. The collard greens are laced with beloved pork gristle, but are too uniformly salty to qualify as addictive. The baked beans are neither bland nor memorable, and the smoked white asparagus, though attractive, has little to offer in terms of flavor. The sweet potato fries are beautifully crisped, but only ephemerally pleasing. The creamed corn is so hearty that it almost constitutes a bowl of corn chowder. The tangy slaw, an interesting tribute to the vinegar slaws of Carolina, leans a little too far into the garnish arena when it could easily present itself as a bona fide appetite spoiler. And the BBQ fondue, while tasty, is more of a novelty than anything else.

None of these faults, however, act as obstacles to satisfaction. Nowhere to be found are the canned and boiled accoutrements of the typical Southern dinner, drawing a paycheck from the coattails of BBQ as if vegetables are to be treated like Congressional earmarks. The sides at Beachwood BBQ, while far from perfect, round out the picture of comfort and care quite nicely.

Completing this picture is the staff at Beachwood, all of whom are friendly, attentive, and ready to make their own recommendations on food and drink. Aiming to draw diners of all backgrounds into their corner of authentic Q and craft brew, Beachwood is well on its way to historic status in a previously unexplored area of smokehouse evolution. And when time travel grants us the gift of prehistoric carnivorism, I’ll be the first in the house to shout, “Yabba dabba doo!”

Beachwood BBQ
131 1/2 Main St.
Seal Beach, CA 90740
562.493.4500

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This entry was posted on Sunday, February 17th, 2008 at 3:56 am and is filed under Los Angeles.