Review: DivBar fine-tunes roadhouse chow

Review: DivBar fine-tunes roadhouse chow

Spam sliders, sauteed until crispy, from DivBar Smokehouse in Newport Beach.



Rating: 3 stars

Where: 2601 W. Coast Highway, Newport Beach

Hours: 11 a.m. - 2 a.m. Mondays-Fridays, 9 a.m .- 2 a.m. Saturdays-Sundays

Don't miss: Beef ribs; beans and cornbread; classic burger; chicken fried steak with scrambled eggs (brunch); beer by the gallon.

Best place to sit: Booths adjacent to the bar or tables overlooking the marina.

About the noise: Loud, like a good but civilized bar; lunch is much quieter.

Where to park: Not much choice but to valet

Cost: Appetizers and salads $5.95-$14.95, sandwiches $7.95-$13.95, 18-inch pizzas $13.95-$21.95, desserts $7, weekend breakfast/brunch $5.95-$9.95, valet parking $4.

Phone: 949-675-7427

What the stars mean:

0 = poor, unacceptable

1 = fair, with some noteworthy qualities

2 = good, solid, above average

3 = excellent, memorable, well above norm

4 = world-class, extraordinary in every detail


Update: January 31, Chef Bill Bracken has announced his departure from DivBar.

The Spam sandwiches grab my attention. But I mean, seriously, how good can this place be? This is what's going through my head late last year as I'm studying the menu online before actually dining at DivBar in Newport Beach.

The menu doesn't stop at Spam. DivBar (pronounced "dive bar") bills itself as a barbecue joint. Plus it serves pizza, whole or by the slice. And fried chicken. And burgers. And Thai-style chicken salad. All things to all people is rarely a successful menu strategy, but I'm especially intrigued when I later hear the chef is Bill Bracken, a guy whose cooking I previously admired at the Island Hotel and at the Peninsula Beverly Hills before that.

It's a gorgeous day in November the first time I pull into the valet parking lot for lunch. I don't see a trail of smoke rising from the roof, but I do detect a subtle whiff of ash in the air, which instantly puts me at ease.

Something bluesy that sounds like Buddy Guy is playing on the sound system. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Every time I blink, I see something new: bongo drums, a Victorian lamp, a Mexican rodeo saddle, boxing gloves, a crystal chandelier, newspaper clippings, rubber flip-flops, a Renaissance-style oil painting, a tiki hut, the hood of an old race car? I've stepped into a surreal world of hoarding where the most incredibly random crap has been nailed to the walls and ceiling. Although this place opened in the summer, it genuinely feels like it has been around forever. I take a seat near a window overlooking the marina just as one of those gazillion-dollar yachts is cruising past in slow motion.

"I've tasted everything on the menu," says my waitress. "So if you want any advice or recommendations, just ask. I'll be completely honest."

But before I can take her up on that, I sense the arrival of food at the table behind me. It smells unmistakably like Texas-style smoked beef. I turn to look, and that's exactly what it is: a heap of brisket but also something else – two gargantuan beef ribs. I see no need to look at a menu today.

"I'll have what they're having," I say, motioning toward my neighbor's table. "And a bottle of Shiner Bock, the coldest one you've got."

Writing about barbecue is a lot like discussing politics or religion. No matter what I say, somebody is going to take offense and belligerently declare that I'm a moron. Maybe they grew up in Texas. Maybe they're from Santa Maria or Kansas. Perhaps they drove through Memphis once, or the South Side of Chicago, or North Carolina. Doesn't matter, the mere mention of barbecue will be taken as fighting words, so here goes.

The barbecue at DivBar doesn't preach any one particular barbecue gospel other than to declare its faith in the almighty smoker. The brisket is smoked overnight for 12 or 14 hours, and it tastes every bit as good as it smells. There's an almost addictive carcinogen high packed into every dry-rubbed bite. I've been given a knife, but the meat is tender enough that I don't need it. Of the three bottles of barbecue sauce that grace every table, I reach first for the extra-spicy. Sadly, it tastes too much of Tabasco. I can taste it in my sinuses, so I push it aside and try again with the house blend, which turns out to be terrific. It has a little kick, but it's not too sweet. The third option is one of those mustard-based sauces that tastes best on chicken, so I save that one for another day. "You'll definitely have to come back for the chicken," my waitress says.

The beef ribs are as heavy as police-issued Maglites – big, sturdy bones charred to a blackened crisp on the ends but wrapped with a generous layer of meat. On a subsequent visit, a plate of burned ends doesn't deliver nearly as much fat as I had hoped, but the brisket's edges are simultaneously crisp and tender, so it's hard to complain. The pork ribs are good, too, so loose that when I grab one by the bone and lift it too quickly, the meat slides right off before I can get it to my mouth.

I do come back for the chicken, which I order by the bucket. It's fried in a pressure cooker, so it's got a wonderful crust that's just beginning to crackle. But when I squeeze it gently, a glimmer of grease emerges and cloaks my fingers, just the way it should. Similarly cooked boneless breast strips are served with waffles and syrup at brunch, but I prefer the version with bones.

Baked beans are fantastic. They're sweet, Boston style, but they're also spiked with jalapeños, like borracho beans. I'd prefer less sugar, more chili, but that doesn't stop me from devouring every last bite and then wiping the bowl clean with a piece of cornbread.

The pizza? I love it. One night I'm sitting at a high-top table near the kitchen, and I've got a beeline view of the pizza cook, who might be the hardest-working dude in the kitchen. His hands are constantly moving, as if conducting an orchestra that never pauses, stretching one ball of dough after another, nonstop. The New York-style crust is thin but not limp and evenly covered in cheese all the way up to the edge of the crust.

The French fries are fine – decent frozen fries dressed up with fresh rosemary. Far better are the homemade duck fries, which aren't really fries but rather smashed, twice-fried, oddly shaped russets buried beneath a mound of smoked duck confit with a drizzle of shallot aioli. Alternatively, the mac 'n' cheese is as good as it gets.

Those fried Spam sliders taste like some sort of salty Hawaiian hillbilly banh mi, and they're actually pretty darned good, especially with a cold beer. A duo of pulled pork sliders is even better. And the burger trumps either of the sliders. There's nothing fancy about the burger: a mound of great meat, real cheddar, iceberg lettuce, and tomato sandwiched between a bun that's been brushed with butter and toasted on the griddle. Old school perfection.

On my last of several visits, I'm saddened to learn that they've stopped offering the seasonal fruit cobblers for dessert. They've simplified the dessert menu, my waiter tells me, which isn't necessarily tragic news. They now offer two choices for dessert: piping-hot chocolate-peanut-butter bread pudding, and a selection of cast-iron skillet cookies (several flavors) served straight from the oven. Both are excellent (but I'll still miss the cobblers, especially come summertime).

Something for everyone? Well, almost. And it's working.

Contact the writer: 714-796-3560 or

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