Munch is feelin' blue.

Not boo-hoo blue, mind you. Nor blue-in-the-face. And certainly not blue like that insipid ad campaign from a certain local healthcare provider.

		The Pittsburgh Barbecue Company is located at 1000 Banksville Ave., Banksville. Hours 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., Thursdays through Sundays. Take out only. Cash only. Call 412-563-1005.

More like Muddy Waters blue. Or Lightnin' Hopkins blue. Even Jake and Elwood blue. In other words, Blues Festival blue. Munch looks forward to this weekend every year, when stripped-down slide guitars moan and wail like a Baptist funeral and the lyrics ache of suffering, attest to salvation, and lament bad love and folks done wrong.

In anticipation of the Saturday night show, Munch reprogrammed iPod of Munch (mPod?) accordingly -- heavy on the Indigenous, Elvin Bishop and Duwayne Burnside's Mississippi Mafia. To further accentuate a proper blue mood, Munch needed some grub, and figured some good Southern style barbecue was most appropriate. A carnivorous suburbanite pal, Big Shot Lawyer Friend of Munch (BSLFOM), recommended the Pittsburgh Barbecue Company just behind the Days Inn on Banksville Road.

The place is easy to miss, so heeding the advice of Toucan Sam, Munch followed Munch's nose -- it always knows! -- to the smoky, sultry scent of wood burning and meat cooking at an outdoor stand in the summer sun. Cord wood is stacked in front of a tiny brick building and a titanic black smoker, giving the place a feel like a barbecue barracks. That the parking lot is a barren moonscape of potholes only adds to the spartan setting.

[Disclaimer: Making a left across traffic from, or back on to Banksville Road registers somewhere just below base jumping on the adrenaline scale. In other words, hold your breath and pray.]

Half racks ($9) and whole racks ($18) of pork ribs are available, as are half chickens ($6). Side dishes of pasta salad, macaroni salad or cole slaw are a buck. Cans of pop are 50 cents.

Feeling a might peckish, Munch ordered a half rack and half of a chicken. Munch didn't realize they meant half of the San Diego Chicken. This bird was BALCO big. The rib rack put Munch in mind of the one that tipped over the Flintstones' car during the show's end credits.

Pittsburgh Barbecue is takeout only, so Munch had a torturous 10-minute ride home, teased by the aroma filling the car. It only served to prime Munch for the payoff.

There is something primal and pleasing about eating ribs. The pork flesh and sinews so tender they fall from the bone. Sauce and charcoal remnants smeared across the mush. No utensils. Grunting.

Indeed, Munch tore incisors through the ribs and chicken, stopping to breathe only when absolutely necessary.

Pittsburgh Barbecue uses a peppery sauce with a vinegar tang, cut with sweet molasses. It has just enough heat to make you feel it, but not so much you don't taste the meat, which is bathed in flavor from the oak and cherry wood used in the mammoth smoker, a custom-made design built by the owner.

If Munch fell on hard times, Munch would not be above hassling the proprietors of the Pittsburgh Barbecue Company -- a la Chris Rock -- "How much for just one rib?" Such is the quality of the fare. Munch isn't saying that our Pittsburgh boys are ready to compete with the barbecue heavyweights in Memphis and Kansas City just yet, but the meal did move Munch to song.

Introducing,

The Munch Blues:

"Ain't got no mojo,

Cuz I got a bag on my head,

Said I ain't got no mojo,

Cuz I got a bag on my head,

My baby done slipped out the back door,

So I'll dig on these ribs instead."