Romeo's BBQ Cafe is a hidden barbecue gem in a St. Ann antique mall

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Photo by Dave Lowry

The “Boss Hog,” a fairly impressive sculpture of pulled pork atop a smoked, split Polish sausage, tumbled with coleslaw in between two buns

When approaching any barbecue pit boss, this critic’s Restaurant Rule No. 116 is invoked: Ask where said pit boss’ grandma is from, knowing nearly every chef brings something of their grandmother’s cooking into their craft.

“Mississippi,” says Jerome Banks, a.k.a. Romeo. “Then Detroit. Then St. Louis.”

We thought about that history, the story behind our pulled pork sandwich, as sweet thick threads of meat cascaded off the overstuffed sandwich at Romeo’s BBQ Café. (Of the name, Banks explains, “I was in a band, and we all shortened our names, and I ended up with Romeo.”)

After years of kicking around the festival and fair circuit with his own portable barbecue booth, Banks opened the barbecue joint this spring in an unlikely setting: Manhattan Antique Marketplace, a sprawling flea market on St. Charles Rock Road in St. Ann. It’s subdivided into dozens of booth packed with the sort of detritus that clogs basements and attics from across the land. There’s a window for walk-ups, along with some sidewalk seating a few small tables inside, near a fresh produce market. There are plastic utensils, Styrofoam shell dinnerware, and soda in cans. Don’t ask for the wine list; you can purchase a cold beer at the adjoining produce stand.

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Photo by Dave Lowry

Barbecue in St. Louis has a curious history. Our iconic pork steaks are grilled, not barbecued, and slathered with a heavy, sweet, tomatoey sauce. While other regions developed specific, identifiable styles and preferences in barbecue, the art in St. Louis remained almost entirely confined to backyard and alley smokers for years. Only recently did our city become a destination for outstanding ’cue, though the styles vary—it’s the Wild West in terms of barbecue around here.

Romeo’s takes a similarly eclectic approach. The sauce will be familiar to locals. It has that rich, syrupy smack, with just a little spice. (Banks uses fresh lemons squeezed into the sauce, a St. Louis “secret” in many recipes around here.) The meat: Romeo’s is doing a grand job of covering a wide range: ribs, pulled pork, smoked chicken, tips, sandwiches… The smoker that Banks has fired up in the parking lot sends out a steady plume of advertising; it’s big enough to handle a lot of meat, lovingly, slowly infused with the goodness of hickory.

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Photo by Dave Lowry

Owner Jerome Banks, tending the smoker

We’ve said it before: If you put brisket on the menu, you’d better be prepared to offer it up as the standard by which your joint is going to be judged. Romeo’s sliced slabs are exquisite. Rich veins of fat glisten—brisket without fat might as well be humid jerky. Rather than drowning the meat, the sauce merely dresses it, with a spicy, peppery glow. There’s a mere frosting of bark on the edges to lend flavor and crunch. The brisket itself is a luscious, fragrant delight.

The pulled pork is tender and moist, infused with smoke that complements the porky flavor of the meat. We tried it on a Boss Hog, a fairly impressive sculpture of the pork atop a smoked, split Polish sausage, tumbled with coleslaw between two buns. Romeo’s gets creative with some specials: A Fat Ass Turkey Leg sometimes appears. There are Cajun smoked wings and something called Jungle Love Nachos, which involve tortilla chips, pulled pork, sour cream, the house barbecue sauce, jalapeños, lettuce, nacho cheese sauce, and a half pound of sliced white truffles. Ok, while we may have fudged on that last ingredient, practically everything you crave is packed onto this magnificent mound of cheesy, barbecue sauce–splashed tribute to chip-dipping excess.

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Photo by Dave Lowry

Rib tips, smoked green beans, and a superior baked bean side, defined by fresh onion nibbles and bits of bell pepper.

“Tips,” Banks says, “are our most popular item.” But there doesn’t seem to be any lack of attention to the ribs, thick slabs of pork studded with bones that hold generous gobs of meat together. With the long, slow smoking they get from that contraption in the parking lot, the ribs are reduced to a consistency much beloved around here. Even though they use the phrase a lot, St. Louisans don’t really seem to care for the “falling off the bone” tenderness oft cited by critics of the barbecue scene. “Give the bone a hard shake, and the meat should come off,” says one Romeo’s enthusiast, “and that’s a big difference from falling off.”

It’s a worthwhile distinction. The ribs at Romeo’s cling to the bone, coming off in big hunks with a slight pull, the flesh a condensed, meaty expression of the flavor of the smoke. These are ribs that bring joy to the hearts of many with memories of summertime holiday feasts, with plenty of meat and lots of juicy, rendered fat that make a rack of ribs less a meal than a complete sensory experience.

Courtesy Romeo's BBQ Cafe

The place has already defined itself with a one side and one dessert. Smoked mac and cheese has of late become the heartthrob of the barbecue world; the version here sells out quickly, with a growing coterie of fans. There’s another cult developing over the caramel cake. If you don’t see it on the counter, then ask. There might be a fresh one in the back that just hasn’t been cut yet.

There are few foods more American than ’cue. Few that can, on a plate, tell a story with more nuance, layers, and eloquence. Barbecue stories tend toward the modest. Most come from the likes of Alabama sharecroppers, Texas cowhands, North Carolina pig farmers. At Romeo’s, it’s damn fine barbecue that tells its own story. It’s a taste of a sticky summer Saturday night in the Mississippi Delta, of a warm kitchen on a frigid evening in Detroit, of a St. Louis when Ike and Tina were knocking it out at the old Club Imperial. You can taste it all while sitting at Romeo’s.

There’s some very good barbecue in St. Louis today. Then there are places like Romeo’s, which not only produce a superior ’cue but also have a marvelous story.