In less-traveled Bethel Park there is a steakhouse, one that has stood for years uncounted. It is known only by local residents who pack the joint as casually as they would a relative's kitchen.
The dining room is wide. A flatscreen television is mounted on the wall, and an aquarium(!) full of exotic fish acts as a centerpiece.
There are no men in tuxedos to wait on you. Instead, women in black t-shirts and leggings befriend you and serve you traditional fare actualized nimbly.
Take for instance the colossal rack of ribs (cut 4 ways and stacked atop each other) I ordered. As with all quality barbecued pork, the meat practically undressed itself from the bones cleanly, turned into fatty liquid in my mouth, and was topped by a sauce as deep and dark as the eyes of a necromancer. Stickier than a hair-metal chorus, and consecrated (damned?) by ingredients unknowable, the sauce was at once delectable and alcoholic, not unlike a jar of hot fudge imbibed with rum.
The cole slaw was admirably creamy, crisp, and cool. The french fries reawakened 20 year-old memories of The Original Hot Dog Shop with their twice-fried texture and terrestrial, nutlike flavor.
Kay's New York Strip Steak was masterfully done medium-rare, yielding to fork, knife, and teeth with the bleeding tenderness of a lovelorn songwriter.
Tori, our server, became fast friends with us, eagerly telling us about the restaurant's specials, including prime rib, urging us to return.
God bless you, Ann, whoever you are, and thank you for revealing to us yet another treasure of Pittsburgh's southern suburbs.