I've been told by a few people that I haven't been blogging correctly. I'm OK with that. The Wreckoning is shaping up more as a column--a column without a periodical, mind you--than a place for unchecked punditry or self-indulgent diary entries about my cat's eating habits (Kitty is in week two of the great Deli-Cat boycott of '07). My purpose--to call upon the carpet the perpetrators of ignorance, disrespect and corruption, however egregious--was a righteous, yet limiting, one. Coming up with subjects for a hailstorm of derision proved to harder than I thought. The truth is, I'm just not that pissed off.

Until last week's meeting of the Wednesday Night Supper Club, that is. The convening of this venerable institution (founded, oh, about a month ago by three of my buddies in order to get out of the house, eat plates of meat and sample the corkage fees of the best restaurants Ventura Boulevard has to offer) is one of the few engagements that will get me to drop the drawbridge, leave the castle and traverse down the mountain to the dirty silverware and surly waiters of civilization.

Our destination, The Boneyard Bistro, was a place I'd been wanting to try, not because I'd heard good things, but because I'd heard raves and condemnations in equal numbers. For a joint so close to the castle, I had to investigate. I attempted to eat there a few times in the past months as a walk-in, and was always told with an arrogant chuckle that my guest and I could not be seated that night; all booked up, I'm afraid. Fair enough, the place was full and it was probably 8 o'clock on a Thursday or some such. As for the snooty attitude, I decided then that Boneyard better have the food, service and atmosphere to warrant Beverly Boulevard assholery.

Two of us arrived together and on-time on Wednesday, having walked from the castle on a chilly, windy night. A full rack of hot babyback ribs in a comfy booth was sounding pretty good about then, when the host said, "Right, we have your table outside." I asked to be seated inside, where there wasn't a biting wind and rainstorm, and the host informed me that one of our party had specifically requested a patio table in an unnecessary attempt to accommodate our one smoker. In fact, the reservation maker in our party confirmed that not only did he request an outside table, but the restaurant called him that day to make sure he really wanted to sit outside. Ok, so this one was the supper club's fault. The host led us out to our table in the corner of the covered patio, where I noticed the second annoyance of the evening: a party at an adjacent table had stacked up all of their to go containers on our table. What the fuck is wrong with people? Am I the only one who finds this entirely rude? Only slightly worse is passing one's used plates onto a nearby table when said plates' presence in front of one becomes too disgusting. I wouldn't do this at the Chili's in Pacoima, much less in a respectable restaurant. So I have now been annoyed twice and it still hasn't been the restaurant's fault. Until the other two club members arrive ten minutes late. Turns out they showed up early, but were waiting in the valet line all that time. Having a single valet attendant on the busiest restaurant stretch of the valley is inexcusable. And cheap.

The name Boneyard Bistro is meant to be ironic--half the menu is dedicated to a promising cavalcade of BBQ items: babyback or St. Louis pork ribs, pulled pork, beef ribs and tri-tip, plus an array of traditional sides: slaw, baked beans, fries and a few tinkered-with favorites, such as fried mac-and-cheese. The other half of the menu is comically ambitious: buffalo tartar, mussels with chorizo (chorizo?), pork dumplings, duck spring rolls, porcini-crusted salmon, the list goes on and on. Talk about trying to be all things to all people; it's as if Wolfgang Puck tried to fuck Mr. Chow over a meat smoker. I was wary of the bistro side of the menu, opting for a sampler of tri-tip, pulled pork and pork ribs with beans and fries as the sides. My only daring move: the spinach salad with blue cheese and crispy onions as a starter. The moment our first course arrived, chef and co-owner Aaron Robins, meaninglessly mentored, I've read, by Chicago legend Charlie Trotter, made the first of several appearances at our table to ask us, smugly, "How is everything?" Without a bite of food to yet cross our lips, we meekly nodded and said, "Great." My salad turned out to be surprisingly awful, considering the simplicity of the ingredients: the blue cheese was gummy and lifeless and the overabundance of dressing rendered the once-crispy fried onions pointlessly soaked. My friend Michael went for the buffalo tartar starter, which arrived like some sort of viscous, bloated hubcap, suffering beneath a weakly fried quail egg. I suppressed my gag reflex and bravely tried a bite. Lewis and Clark didn't eat food this gamey. Entirely inedible. The duck spring rolls and pulled pork dumplings arrived cold, soggy and unloved. The four of us were thoroughly ready for our entrees.

If you're going to do BBQ, do it right. The Boneyard fails miserably. The ribs were dry. The sauce was uninspired. Only the tri-tip proved worthy, albeit cold. But really nothing overcomes the assault--the unforgivability--of the beans. They were positively rancid. I made friend Ryan try them for a second opinion. He spit the mouthful into his napkin. I tried his beans and they were fine. But mine, it seems, were from such depths of the barrel that I think they must've been days, not hours, old. Which brings me to the greatest offensive of the restaurant: it is as though Mr. Robins and his chefs have long since tired, or no longer realize the importance, of actually tasting the food--often, several times a night. Mr. Robins is far too busy preening for his customers to get a hold of his kitchen. He needs to take the advice of grumpy, but always-right uberchef Gordon Ramsay: simplify the menu, lose the ridiculous bistro items and concentrate on making a few things well. All the glad-handing in the world can't overcome a kitchen that doesn't care. And if the chef doesn't care, why should anyone else?

Boneyard Bistro: Somewhere in Sherman Oaks, CA. Look for the valet line snaking around the corner. Eat first. $$$