Serious about smoke

I don't normally include reference to small children in my reviews - our readership demographics tell us what a young, urban, care-and-that-means-child-free lot you all are - but any restaurant that allows me to have an uninterrupted lunch while in the company of three boisterous under sevens earns my undying gratitude.

That this restaurant is in Soho, spiritual home to all you young, urban gunslingers makes it even more welcome. Hurrah and yippee - we're not even being ghetto-ised into the capital's smug, mums-in-leather-trousers nappy valleys! Add into the equation that it's a homage to the great American barbecue tradition - meat: smoky, big meat - and I start to feel like something of a gibbering fan.

This is Bodean's, a new venture from one of the chaps who was behind the original Belgo. And it's as interesting, different and accessible as that first Chalk Farm Belgo was in its day.

American barbecuing is not like our amateurish, desultory attempts: it's a serious business, with different states (mostly Southern) battling over whose is the original/best/most authentic. It's done in vast, metal vat-type arrangements where the meat is enclosed in its own smoke and juices - often for several hours. The Bodean behemoth has a built-in rotisserie with 15 barbecue racks where ribs - both beef and pork - steak, fish, chicken and sausages can gently inhale oak, apple or cherrywood smoke until they're moistly, tenderly, smokily delicious.

Bodean's looks great, too: a loving recreation of retro Americana. Upstairs - a fast-food/take-out operation - is diner-style, all half-net curtains, tall stools and no-nonsense above-the-counter menu board. Downstairs is old-school Manhattan rib room: tartan carpet; antler lamps; intimate booths; butch carvings of the animals you're about to eat.

On arrival, our children were spirited away by Melissa, our charming and knowledgeable waitress, to an indestructible, triangular pouffe furnished den at the rear of the restaurant, where a big plasma screen was chain-playing Monsters Inc and The Rugrats. We then didn't see them until the end of our grown-up, cocktailimbibing, full-sentence-constructing meal: they ate (free at weekends!) and played happily without giving us so much as a backward glance.

Bliss. As was, mostly, what we ordered. Crab cakes were suitably crabby; an assortment of starters gave a taste of what the barbecue could achieve: smoked, fire-seared chicken wings were stickily moreish; ' firekissed' jumbo shrimp were solid chaps with a kick of smoke; dips were a cracking, chillied-up Thousand Island and a fabulous blue cheese.

Now I'm going to have to stop boring you and myself by describing stuff as 'smoky': just take it as read.

My 'combo' featured a quarter chicken - sadly, I think it was the quarter located closest to the chicken's bottom - half a portion of baby back ribs and 'pulled pork' (no fnarring, please). The flavours were magnificent, especially the pork: barbecued and shredded into a savoury, messy heap. Honourable mention goes to beans: glistening in a deeply tangy sauce studded with big, meaty chunks of bacon. (Yes, they were smoky, too.)

Ordering a charcoal-grilled steak in this environment seemed a bit contrary: it was fine (quality meat, competently cooked) but it wasn't barbecued. Shame. A dod of smoky - yes! - chipotle butter stopped it from being the David Sneddon in a table full of Red Hot Chili Peppers.