The hottest, most culturally "interesting" barbeque in Washington State. You go into this old garage and inside this woman serves you a fairly tasty brisket sandwhich, and you sit outside with a cold root beer in hand.
Here is where hell comes to visit.
So this guy, known as Gene the Machine comes out with the red death-like sauce and asks you whether you have met "The Man", to which you need a response...
From this point there are three scenarios:
1 -> You have already felt the pain and have met the man / you dont want it any more: "Yes gene i've met the man and have been humbled by the awesome power of your spent cesium like hotness"
2 -> You've never tried it, and are scared: "Yes i've met the man, thats fine, thanks"
3 -> You've tried it, and are not scared: "Bring it on! Gimme a bit!" (Editors note: my response.. bad idea.)
4-> Your wife left you, you want death to come, and in a slow creeping magma like fashion: "You call this hot sauce! This is nothing. Bring it on gene, you pansy fancy man. That isnt nothin'. You probably have that with your corn flakes in the morning boy."
(Editors note: I take no responsibility for going down path number 4.)
At any rate.. you want to eat the cornbread, and the peanuts they have on hand. They are like rafts to a drowning man. The stuff is hot, and the atmosphere is great... although you probably want to be careful.. ;)
Located in a converted garage on Northup Way in Bellevue, WA, against the East retaining wall of Interstate 405. Gotten rave reviews from the local media for the past several years as the "Best Barbeque". Now a Seattle attraction, since the place is standing-room-only during lunchtime, not to mention parking is a bitch.

Home to "The Man" (see Monkeytongue's description of The Man). My rough guesstimate is that 'The Man' contains:
95% mixture of Habañero, Cayenne and other peppers on the high end of the Scoville Scale
5% Molasses (to hold it together)

Worthy of a visit from the out-of-towner since you can proudly buy a bumper sticker that says


I-405 to State Rt. 520 Eastbound
Take the first exit and take a right at the stop light
Last driveway on the right before passing underneath 405

Dixie's is consistently one of the best dining experiences I've ever had, anywhere. Go there on a hot July day at 12:30. You will be in line for 30-45 minutes, but if you're not starving, the lunch theater of customer after customer voluntarily putting themself into a state of mild shock -- to the whoop-and-holler delight of Gene -- is worth an afternoon (heck, many afternoons) in the sun. While Dixie's makes a brisk trade on pasty-faced Microserfs, you'll soon disabuse yourself of the notion that they're only screaming because they've never had hot sauce before.

On a daily basis arrogant Texans can be heard to proudly proclaim their origin: "I eat hot sauce morning noon and night and I ain't never met a sauce that could lick me yet, son. I make a chili that'll have your asshole settin' the toilet on fire. Ain't no Washington-rainy-barbecue sauce gonna hurt me!"

The sweet, generous portions they serve you here under the freeway demand a small amount of Gene's sauce. For me, a volume somewhere between the size of the last joint of my pinky (from the tip to the first knuckle) and half of that is plenty to leave me sweating. For the average heat-tolerant barbecue lover, two to three teaspoons is plenty. When the above Texan gives Gene lip about the sauce, he's gonna get something on the upper end of this range. Then, typically, he'll demand more, and Gene will oh-so-graciously oblige. Ten to twenty minutes later Gene will be heard (evesdropping is encouraged) explaining that if the customer doesn't eat faster, or scrapes the Man off, or generally doesn't seem terribly, terribly appreciative of the gift bestowed upon him, he will lose his future privledges to eat the man.

If, for some reason, you should find yourself in over your head with the Man, don't panic. Calmly stand up, set down your napkin, and run like hell to the front of the line. In as loud a gasp as you can muster, politely request a carton of milk. Don't worry about cutting -- the staff understand, and odds are very good that most of the people in line do too.

Gene's son runs another BBQ restaurant in Tacoma, called Porter's. I've never eaten there, but I expect it's probably up to the high standards that Dixie's keeps...

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