“Do we still have ribs?” the guy at the counter turns and asks through the window into the kitchen.
They did. And this is the first sign we note of a good joint. Good places of this sort run out of foods because those foods are made in small batches, carefully tended, and when they’re gone you’re out of luck.
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“You want the sauce on the side?” we’re asked. And that’s another good sign. There are certainly joints that slather their meats in sauces worthy of such slatheration. There is a certain honesty, however, in putting a platter of meat out there, just as it’s come from the grill or the smoker, as if to say, “This is what it is.” And leave it up to you to dress it—or not—as you please. There’s a confidence in that kind of presentation.
And then we asked why a place like this wouldn’t have collard greens and the guy said actually, they did. He just didn’t have them on the menu board. So that’s when we launched into a tirade, fueled by outrage as authentic as John Boehner’s tan, about being denied our greens rights being slighted and how it must be a racial thing. The guy took it well. Any place that can handle one of our contrived hissy fits is bound to have something going for it.
The place is Gobble Stop Smokehouse. The “ribs” are turkey ribs. Which of course are not ribs at all. They’re taken from around what amounts to the turkey’s shoulder blade. So we need right now to get that straight.
If you remember your turkey anatomy (and who could forget it?) we’re talking about the muscles from the groups, on a turkey’s shoulder, of a spinatus, a trapezius, a rhomboideus, a teres major, a serratus ventralis and dorsalis, a subscapularis, and a teres minor. (We may or may not have made one of those up.) This part of the bird was once scraped of its meat that was then used as filler. Around the turn of the century, somebody—well, specifically, Mr. Ted V. Kuck—came up with a machine that could remove the bone and its meat in a single piece. A single, delicious, moist, and reasonably healthy piece.
The fact that Mr. Kuck has not yet received a Nobel Prize is a sad and scathing indictment of that assemblage. But we digress.
Gobble Stop is devoted, not just to these wonderful ribs, but to smoked barnyard fowl in general. No pork or beef in sight. Chicken is smoked whole and sold in halves. Smoked chicken is pulled into threads and packed onto a pretzel bun. Breasts are smoked, then marinated in hot sauce and piled on a bun with melted provolone and fried onion rings, and made into a Philly chicken sub, with sautéed red peppers, onions, and mushrooms.
Turkey comes in an even wider variety. Whole legs. Dark meat “tips.” White meat layered on sandwiches. Turkey’s ground and patted into patties and served like a juicy Thanksgiving burger. The same ground turkey patties are topped with a char-broiled chicken breast (below) in an odd but good kind of odd, interspecies burger, with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and onions.
All of which are interesting, but this being our first visit, well, we haven’t come to Shinnecock to lay up. We’re here for the signature turkey ribs. Waiting for the order, we notice—how to put this delicately? This place and its menu don’t seem to match. Smokehouses are supposed to be in sketchy neighborhoods, with a layer of mesquite flavored grime, and tabletops that look like they might be—well, not someplace you’d want to have your next surgery performed on.
Gobble Stop’s shoehorned into a strip mall in Creve Coeur. It’s perfectly clean and exceptionally tidy. Dinner arrives and it’s three “ribs,” huge, lacquered magnificently by the smoking process, piled on a couple of slices of white bread. And a side of slaw. Steak fries. The guilt-procured collards.
The collards taste as if they were cooked over a campfire, layered with earthy flavors, with meaty chunks scattered through the dark green leaves. The slaw is bright, mayo-based, crunchy. The steak fries are excellent, though when a basket of onion rings go by, we know what we’ll be ordering next time. The ribs? The meat is moist, smoky, the skin providing just a crust of sweet, crisp texture. It comes off the bone easily.
There are a couple of sauces. One’s sweet, the rich russet syrup St. Louisans tend to adore. The other was a North Carolina-type sauce, spiky with vinegar and mustard. We sampled both. But ended up devouring those ribs without either. They were that good. We did dip slices of cold smoked turkey into the mustardy sauce. And determined the sauce, smoked turkey, and bread would make one terrific sandwich. We were also contemplating other menu items, turkey meatballs and a smoked chicken salad, that definitely are in our future.
There are some obstacles at Gobble Stop. It’s challenging to get over all that neatness and cleanness; you have to adjust your usual BBQ-smokehouse joint expectations of grunge and scruffy. And your presumption that pork and beef must somehow be on the menu. And there’s that display of cookies, handmade cookies, that distract. You have to leave room for them or face some serious regret. These must be overcome. Give it a try.
Don’t forget the collards.
Gobble Stop Smokehouse
1227 Castillon Arcade Plaza
314-878-5586
