Dixon’s Rib Pit

we love dixon’s. we shared rib tips at the alberta st fair. i don’t eat meat except once or twice a yr, so this was special. very tender tips and the sauce was wonderful. mr. dixon was very friendly and efficient. yummy.

had the rib plate with greens and yams. the ribs were like jerky, so tough. the sides were okay but nothing special. the gentleman that served us was friendly.

Made a mistake of stopping there today to try out their pulled pork sandwich. Very very mediocre and didn’t taste that smoked at all. Also, it was chopped pork, not pulled pork. I had multiple bone pieces in the meat. Barbecue sauce was nothing special and tasted like store bought sauce. Will definitely not eat there again.

I am spoiled and picky when it comes to food, ESPECIALLY bar-​b-​que. This place, oh my I am in trouble. I LOVE it, it is so tasty (I admit I was very surprised by this fact). The meat is exactly what you expect, freaking awesome! And the sides taste so authentic and good. Greens can be particularly tricky… Dixin’ss does them right. In addition to great food, they have great services (the owner is really sweet and nice), and good prices for a good amount of food. Go, eat, enjoy!

Having been so negatively inspired by my 25 minutes at Dixon’s, my first Unilocal review will have to be a frowny one. I’d keep it simple if I could, but the black marks really did cover the whole report card.
Twas I and a friend on a Thursday early evening/​late afternoon. I get ribs, he orders a hot link on a bun, but only after standing at the window for a full 5 or more minutes while Mrs. Dixon (?) reads a gossip magazine over the sound of a gospel TV program pointed directly at the window. Mr. Dixon does something out of view (or nothing at all) while his only two customers — confused and hungry — wait patiently to be acknowledged. The Dixons are out of half of the menu.
While we await what little food the kitchen has left to serve, Mr. shouts out a question to my friend:
«If you could have macaroni salad or potato salad, which would you want?»
«It’s ok I don’t wa-​«
“But, if you could HAVE one, which would you WANT?»
«Really, I don’t-«
And so on until my friend gives an arbitrary answer just to end the berating, sullenly confessing his hatred of mayonnaise to me shortly after. Not content to actually listen to anything his customer is saying, Dixon’s kind gesture to include a free side on a menu item which typically comes with none becomes a gross out moment for my friend as he opens his to-​go container (saying we were eating in apparently accomplished nothing) to find a pile of fresh-​from-​the-​Sysco-​tub, mayonnaise-​soaked macaroni mush poured into one of the side slots.
He politely waits for my food to arrive, which takes a full 10 or more minutes, by which time his is cold. Luckily, so is mine.
I don’t profess to be an acolyte of the church of barbecue. I did not grow up in the south. My white parents and their brushed chrome spaceship grill creations were barbecue in name only, no matter what page the machista man meat making guide was open to at the time. That said, while I may not yet have the pleasure of knowing just what barbecue should be, I’m pretty sure I know what it should not.
Frozen in the middle comes to mind. Meat which must be gnawed from the bone as opposed to falling from it. Sauce from the pre-​packaged bottle, or that which tastes just like it, has got to be a grave faux pas as well.
It was then that we each realized that at no point between ordering and receiving our food did Dixon or gossip mag-​glued, spirit-​receiving misses ever exit the cart to retrieve anything from the smoker. Everything was either pre-​cooked and kept warm inside or the smoker was just for show. I got a sneaking suspicion that the latter was true when I took the ribs back, reported the frozen middle, and was stunned to discover the smoker continuing to go untouched. The guy was nuking my icy, ketchupy, $ 10.50 half-​rack in the microwave to rectify his wrongdoing. It was at this point that I resolved to do what only the worst of dining experiences inspire me to and ask for my money back. Years of restauranting with pathologically whiny, nit-​picky parents has ensured that such an action is always the last of last resorts.
Dixon defended his food like a cornered politician, ensuring that I left knowing that it was the temperature that was the problem, not the food. I didn’t feel like arguing. I even apologized for being «that customer». I got no such courtesy from him.