Don’t know about you, but sometimes my teeth get an itch that only barbecue can scratch. Having explored more corners of the South in that mode than I can remember — once driving 80 miles on a recommendation — it was refreshing during a recent out-of-state excursion to be no farther than South Attleboro.

The words "Southern Barbecue" arc above the Memphis Roadhouse logo like a halo. They’d better be good. And they are OK. BBQ isn’t haute porcine, after all, just a pig over hot coals. If you have a meaty rack of ribs, about the only way to ruin it is to overcook it. (One of my last such traumas was not far outside of Memphis, in fact.)

So atmosphere has a lot to contribute to our enjoyment at this sort of place. And Memphis Roadhouse doesn’t stint on colorful details. The restaurant isn’t part of a chain, but hews to theme like one. Photographs and posters abound, from blues stars and music festivals to a Texas Lottery promotion and several meat-cutting charts, with pigs and steers mapped out like newly discovered territories. The tablecloths are red-checked, the satellite music is blues, not country, and the big central hickory wood grill is prominent. A suggestion on a table card invites you, friendly-like, to come over and grill your own steak, which are cut in-house. No one took them up on that while we were there, but it’s the thought that counts.

The menu is not Memphis specific and is Southern-ish more than Southern traditional — the potato salad has sour cream instead of mayo (or, for even better authenticity, Kraft Miracle Whip). No collards were available during our visit, an omission frown-inducing to anyone requesting it with a drawl, and the cornbread is, as I like it, sweet. (Shreveport-trained Johnnie informs me that cornbread with sugar in it is known as "Yankee cornbread.")

Pan-Southern contributions fill the list of appetizers. Coconut Gulf shrimp and "Cajun-fried" calamari (each $6.99), "Yazoo" cheese fries ($5.99). My dinner companion had a hankering for the latter, which is topped with melted cheddar and Jack, plus "Hot-n-Juicy" chopped beef brisket for an extra buck. Although I don’t prefer my fries soggy, that didn’t stop me from revisiting her side of the table again and again. Delish. My appetizer was smoked sausage soup ($1.99/$3.49), which, we were told, alternates nights with a smoked chicken version. Dense with sausage, probably chorizo, I didn’t notice much of the advertised cilantro and corn, but it was hearty, with both rice and pintos in a tomato-based broth. My other starter, a 20-ounce frozen Margarita for $5.50, was light on the tequila, but massive enough to last the meal.

The real test was the BBQ, of course, and that component was fine. I had a three-meat plate ($14.99). The chopped brisket, also offered as slices, was flavorful; the pulled pork was straight off the bone rather than gussied up; and the ribs were meaty and juicy. The barbecue sauce was sweet and tasty, but the "Carolina hot sauce" we were brought — and told, "It has a little kick to it" — had little vinegar tang of the North Carolina version and less heat. It couldn’t have kicked over a lanky Yankee, but fortunately, there was an industrial-size bottle of McIlhenny’s Tabasco on the table, which cures all ills.

Johnnie’s barbecued chicken was flavorful, though she would have liked it juicier. Both our dishes came with coleslaw and a small portion of pea beans that had a nice smoky tang. The dishes were described as coming with cornbread, but we were informed that the cornbread we’d scarfed up on arrival was, in fact, not gratis, but on loan from the entrée we’d likely be ordering. More would be 50 cents apiece, a minor but surprising lack of Southern hospitality.

They take pride in their Angus steaks, which are cut in-house and pricey enough to be of high quality (rib eye $18.99 for 14 ounces and $24.99 for 20 ounces, but only $13.99 for a 12-ounce top sirloin). Speaking of prices, from 4 to 6:30 daily, an early bird special is a typo-looking $6.99 for both pulled pork and a quarter BBQ chicken.

The desserts are all made in house, our friendly and prompt waitress told us. Priced from $2.95 for grape nut custard to $4.75 for a "Cow Flop Sundae," running through both sweet potato and peanut butter pies, and stopping at a hot apple crisp. The Cow Flop Sundae was too big for us to finish more than half, digging into the over-sized chocolate chip cookie that was topped with soft-serve vanilla ice cream and a mound of whipped cream. One thing the Memphis Roadhouse has learned well about Southern tradition is to leave guests smiling.