Review: 17th Street Bar & Grill in O'Fallon, IL

When I read The Man Who Ate Everything by Jeffrey Steingarten some years ago, I came across his essay entitled Going Whole Hog. The first half was about judging the 1993 Memphis in May World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest, but the latter half veered solidly and lustily into food porn as he detailed how Mike Mills (eventual three-time World Grand Champion – in 1990, 1992 and 1994 – and very nearly tops in 1993 as well) barbecued his ribs.

My first real food crush was born, and immediately I began planning daytrips to Murphysboro, Ill., to dine at Mills’ 17th Street Bar & Grill. Had I been 14, there would have been Mills posters peppering my bedroom walls.

Then, about this time last year, word began to circulate that an outpost of 17th Street would be landing in O’Fallon, Ill., in July of 2006. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, Mills was coming to ME! Long story short, after months and months of driving by religiously to see if it had opened, I was finally rewarded in January. Unfortunately, according to my anti-barbecue editors, January is NOT barbecue season. As if!

By now you have likely been able to discern my enthusiasm for barbecue. I will do the herbivores a favor at this point, something along the lines of pirates signaling their intentions with a shot across the bow. For the rest of this review, I am in full carnivore mode. To vegetarians, it’s going to read something like this: meat, meat, meat, fried pickle, meat, nachos, meat, meat, side dish, meat, meat, Magic Dust.

Given this buildup, it was an inauspicious beginning when the very first items to hit our table were dry, crumbly, gritty corn muffins – though, on subsequent visits, I don’t recall being offered these again. Starters, on the other hand, were far more pleasing. Tart, lightly battered fried pickles didn’t stand a chance against my 2-year-old. Barbecued nachos would have, simply because they were as big as him, piled high with sweet and tangy chopped pork shoulder, sugary baked beans, jalapeños, lettuce, tomatoes, melted cheese and sour cream. Smoked, not fried, chicken wings offered tender, succulent meat far superior in taste to any fried wing I’ve had but did lack the satisfying crunch of crispy skin. The mild but zingy version of the traditional sauce that graced them allowed the taste of the meat to shine through.

In the end, though, ribs are royalty here and everyone knows it. So when I finally gave in to my crush and ordered the starter portion of ribs followed by the full slab of ribs, my server just smiled knowingly. These babies – rubbed lovingly with Mills’ Magic Dust (my new favorite universal seasoning), which imparted a little salt, a touch of heat, a soft sweetness and what I swear was cinnamon, and then glazed with barbecue sauce that was tangy, with a touch of apple – were tender without being mushy and riddled with sweet smoke. Seized by gluttony, I blew right through satiated and full, stopping only at fat and happy.

Though nothing outpaced the ribs, the other barbecue items left my notes teaming with superlatives. Sure, I could have made my way leisurely through these other barbecue staples over the course of several visits, but who has that kind of patience? Fortunately for my inner Veruca Salt, Mills offers the Grand Champion plate. When I saw the size of this “plate,” Veruca was immediately replaced by The Simpsons’ Dr. Hibbert warning that if I ate it all, I would surely die of meat poisoning. There were four of the aforementioned ribs; a few juicy slices of brisket with crispy, flavorful bark and a fine pink smoke ring; a moist hot link that offered a slow-building heat; a succulent smoked chicken leg with skin coated in caramelized Magic Dust; and rich, sweet and smoky pork shoulder; all topped with a single beef rib as long as my forearm.

I know I have been doing a lot of praising here, but it really is that good. However, this is a restaurant and not a competition, and sides count; they are an integral part of the barbecue experience. This is where 17th Street bobbles the ball. Sugary and rich baked beans, with three types of beans, were the best we sampled, and they landed somewhere between decent and admirable. Slaw was inconsistent: on one visit sweet, smooth, tart and superlative but on another nearly cringingly acidic.

Macaroni and cheese was bland and reminded us of something that might be served in a high-school cafeteria. The creamed corn was just a little too sugary for me but had an interesting ghost of tang. I always thought I tasted it, but then the sugar chased it and I was left empty-handed. Don’t even bother with the green beans. They were mushy, oversalted, tinny, limp, pale and mixed with pink, gummy bacon. If these aren’t from a can, I don’t even want to know how the kitchen managed to kill them so thoroughly.

Desserts were unmemorable, but if you do 17th Street right, there is no way you will have room for them anyway. Put your money to better use and pick up some Magic Dust. I have yet to find anything that does not benefit from a good sprinkle of this.

17th Street’s barbecue not only lived up to the hype but, after an additional eight months to think and hope and wish on my part, also withstood my impossibly high expectations. I live too far away to be a regular, but the staff will see me often. And they’ll continue to smile when I order ribs with an appetizer of ribs.