Munch has dubiously lower standards than Dear One Of Munch (DOOM).

If Munch says, "Hey, that's a nice-looking chicken caesar salad," DOOM might say, "But the chicken is too fatty." Munch: "That burger was delicious." DOOM: "Overcooked shoe leather." Munch: "Great atmosphere!" DOOM: "Someone from the kitchen staff just tried to sell me cocaine."

This is a reflection of DOOM's finickiness, yes, but also an acknowledgement that Munch will dine just about anywhere, and eat just about anything -- including, as has been documented previously in this column, a rice pilaf garnished with a complimentary stowaway cockroach.

Steel City Smokehouse & Saloon is in Century III Mall, West Mifflin; 412-653-1300.

Big news: Hey, Friends of Munch (FOMs). Munch finally has an e-mail address: munch@post-gazette.com

So when we both give thumbs-up to a restaurant -- a restaurant of Munch's choosing, no less -- it is cause for celebration. "Stop the presses!" Munch would be inclined to shout. I'd stop the presses myself, but that goes against union policy. Plus I don't know where the button is. Under David Shribman's desk?

OK, so here's the story -- this guy had been living in Wyoming (Colorado?) for 20 years, then moved back to Pittsburgh to be closer to his family, and then he and his brother (cousin? uncle? Dagnabbit Munch, pay attention next time!) open Steel City Smokehouse & Saloon, in Century III Mall. Normally, Munch and DOOM would pass on any restaurant attached to a mall, but the hour was late, the stomachs were growling and Munch has a soft spot for BBQ.

We'll call the restaurant's visual theme "Pittsburgh potpourri," and I'm sure you're familiar with the haphazard mix of images -- paintings of famous military battles, black-and-white skyline shots and photos of Pittsburgh athletes hanging from the walls. Maybe Pittsburgh is the only place on Earth where you'd see a portrait of George Washington next to a glossy of Kendrell Bell.

After lingering over the scenery, Munch lingered over the menu for a bit -- Texas-style? Carolina-style? Memphis? Kansas City? The Texas-style smoked brisket sandwich ($8.95) eventually won the argument. DOOM favored the Pittsburgh Cobb ($8.95) from among a list of five dinner salads.

Before either of those arrived, we ordered a pulled-pork quesadilla ($6.95), stuffed thinly with cheese, tomatoes and onions and served with sides of salsa and sour cream. Munch naturally loved it. The pork was fragrant and sweet, not lost in the cheese.

And these quesadilla slices didn't bend in the middle, like most do -- they were lightly crisp and edible both by fork and by hand.

But hey, what do I know? Munch's tongue is not so discriminating as DOOM's. Would this dish pass the DOOM test?

A small bite ...

A slow chew ...

The tension is killing me!

"I like it," DOOM announced. "I really like it."

Munch exhaled. No sleeping on the couch for Munch on this night.

Munch chose the brisket because it's a true test for any self-proclaimed Baron of the Barbecue (Sensei of the Smoker? King of the Kenmore?).

Brisket is a cut of meat from the cow's chest, and it can be tough if not cooked properly. Steel City Smokehouse did it right (even DOOM agreed), seasoned and tangy, and the thick Texas toast kept the sandwich sturdy instead of sloppy. The accompanying fries, normally an afterthought, were abnormally good and crunchy.

Somebody in the kitchen knows his way around the fryer.

DOOM approved of the salad, which is a marvel, considering how darling dearest has been known to sift through salads looking for specific lettuce fragments that meet DOOM's rigorous inspection criteria -- hue, texture, consistency, and so on.

The chicken on top of the salad was suitably lean, and DOOM had plenty of leftover greens (and lots of leftover blue cheese gobs).

Desserts are made in-house, which is always nice to see.

"Let's order a slice of pecan pie, and we can take it home with us," DOOM said. "Ha ha! Good one!" Munch said, and the dessert ($3.95), sweetened first with molasses and sweetened some more with bourbon-soaked pecans, was gone in seconds, dabs of whipped cream the only evidence that this poor, brave piece of pie had ever existed.