Jones’ address is east of St. Philip’s College in a kind of no-man’s land. The building is a somewhat disquieting shade of dried-blood red, and, in a departure from the norm, there’s no outside dining. No order window, either; you must penetrate the interior, and at first it’s almost akin to stepping across the threshold of a dive geared more to beer and broads than barbecue and sweet tea. The inside, too, is dark red.

But shades of CSI quickly fade in the face of signs promoting peach cobbler. We start cautiously with a sliced sandwich, priced at a miserly $4.49, and moments later the maestro himself serves it: pearly brisket bounded by white bread. Of course. At first bite, the dive becomes a shrine. The “center-cut” meat is ethereally smoky, tender and moist, the smoky-sharp sauce is spot-on, and even the easy-to-disdain white bread seems perfect in its place.

Since sausage comes first in the name, it’s another imperative, and it appears there’s something to the hierarchy after all: the sausage is a revelation—coarse, moist and deftly seasoned, it’s full-bodied without resorting to heat. But the pork ribs aren’t far behind; they’re just fatty, just smoky enough, and where sauce is often superfluous, here it just builds on the foundation.

Right under the sign that says “Cash Only” at Jones, there’s another: “No Bad Language Please.” We will thus refrain from expressing our true feelings at the unavailability of 7-up pound cake. @#**!!