There’s a lot to like about Highway 61, a new barbeque hut in the well-heeled environs of Leaside. It’s a straight-up, no-nonsense ode to ol’ style southern BBQ with Texan-sized portions of slow-cooked meat at prices you won’t need a government bailout loan to afford.

From a design point of view, the funky blues shack is a hands-down winner, with an impressive array of concert ephemera scattered throughout its two levels. From a locavore angle, the selection of Ontario craft beers and the commitment to using locally sourced, naturally raised hormone- and antibiotic-free meats from Rowe Farms is equally admirable. Which is why it’s such a shame that Highway 61 is such a shame.

To be fair, Highway 61 does some mean onion rings ($4.49) that could very well be the tastiest in town. And a hungry-man basket of beer-poached jumbo in-shell zipper back shrimp ($11.49) could be one of the best seafood values around. Even a kid’s burger combo ($4.99), a juicy four-ounce patty on a gorgeously eggy bun with a mountain of golden Yukon fries and a drink leaves any fast-food chain in the dust. A beef brisket sandwich ($9.49) slathered with some of the Highway’s terrific BBQ sauce, while fatty, manages to exhibit a fine 15-hour wood-fired effort, delivering a meltingly tender and smoky finish. Add some homemade cornbread and you won’t hanker for anything more.

And then from out of nowhere, things skid off the road: a side of collard greens is a limp, waterlogged mess; baked beans are in serious need of brown sugar and pig fat. DiPamo’s it ain’t.

As mother always said, if you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all; but we’re paid by the word, so we have to. Listed as a succulent 12 ounces of carnivorous delight, the big beef rib ($13.95) is a dried-out, inedible fat-riddled piece of woody meat that has more chew and less taste than a dog toy. We’ve got nothing against a nice rack of St. Louis­–style ribs — which aren’t as closely trimmed as others — but the six side ribs ($14.95) we’re served are, plain and simple, botched butchery. They’re moist and fall-off-the bone tender, but they’re also riddled with unpalatable cellulite and pieces of cartilage. A quarter chicken ($8.49) is so dry and mushy it’s inedible. Yet according to our surly server and the GM, “this is how we like it, here. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.” Clearly, us big city folk have misunderstood these quaint country ways of doing things: apparently “southern hospitality” means the complete opposite.

Following that fiasco, we’re informed that our entire bill has been voided — including the items that we actually enjoyed. A concerned, well-intentioned customer-service gesture? We think not. You could cut the air of contempt with a knife. What it felt like they were saying was: thanks for your input; now please finish your beer, piss off and don’t come back. Your money ain’t good here.

You got no worries there, mate: we certainly won’t be back anytime soon.