Smokehouse BBQ

Upon my entrance to this enigmatic establishment, Smokehouse at Chessington Park, I was greeted by a tableau reminiscent of bustling communal dining flagrantly devoid of authenticity and fervor. The aromas wafting through were as haphazard as the operation itself, offering a pungent promise that went largely unfulfilled. My initial delight at ordering with the futuristic allure of a tabletop iPad quickly faded into frustration, much like an eager child who finds their toy’s batteries depleted. The plethora of burger options, including a rather forlorn Southern chicken variant, were adorned with promises that paled sharply against reality.

Soon after, our meal sauntered over, appearing beleaguered by indifference. My ribs arrived stone cold, yet I was charmed by their garland of curly fries—crisply golden and effortlessly delightful, albeit one scant redeeming element. Sunday roasts, influenced perhaps by an interpretation of desiccation, were juxtaposed awkwardly with brisket fellow diners reported as parched and unforgiving. Encountering stiff refreshments and sterile coleslaw, hope dimmed as swiftly as it emerged. Alas, a once illustrious venue now falters under mislaid service and dubious fare; its former splendor whispering faintly in the echoes of satisfied patrons past. — Jasper Griddle