A recent influx of Mainland-style barbecue (as opposed to local-style, which is more like Mainland-style teriyaki), as well as the concurrent — and immediate — success of these two new barbecue joints indicates there's some serious jonesing for smoked meat going on.

It's as if a latent love of dry rub and hot sauce was suddenly awakened.

SMOKIN' BOB BARR-B-Q

In Kane'ohe, the object of our affection is Smokin' Bob. Located in the unofficial industrial district that includes Kahuhipa Street, owner Bob Barr and company have taken over a former Mexican restaurant that got no love at all, and with very little face work — the space was already charmingly rugged and outdoorsy — transformed the place into what it is now: Smokin' Bob Barr-B-Q.

The counter-service restaurant does its barbecue Texas-style, rubbing down its pork, beef brisket, ribs, chicken and tofu (yes, tofu — more on that later) with a proprietary blend of seasoning, then slow-smoking the meat in the in-house smoker until it's tender and a deep red smoke-ring appears around the internal edge of the meat.

The meats — and yes, the tofu — are served dry, with Bob's barbecue sauce, a sweet and tangy dark mahogany concoction, on the side. Barbecue whose dry rub has real swagger — robust flavor that penetrates the meat beyond its surface — can stand alone, no sauce needed. At Bob's, the meat is helped by the sauce.

Now, let's talk about the mistake that is smoked tofu.

No amount of sauce could temper the bitterness of the dry rub that, on extra-firm tofu, doesn't have the benefit of mixing with and being enhanced by the natural juices of the meat.

The result is dry tofu coated with a layer of spice that suffers serious smoke burn in the cooking process. Sorry, vegetarians, but if you have a hankering for barbecue, don't try and sate it with smoked tofu.

But the tofu can live on, for all I care, as long as the smoked Cajun sausage never goes away. The sausage, which comes in a sandwich or as a plate-lunch entree ($6.50 for the sandwich, $14.99 for the plate), is like extra-thick linguica, with a touch of andouille. It should be Bob's best-seller. And if Smokin' Bob decided to take its Cajun dogs to the streets by way of a lunch wagon, there would be no complaints here.

Bob's serves its plates of meat ($9.99-$21.50) piled high and accompanied by the traditional sides of baked beans (sweet, savory and delicious), cole slaw (rough-chopped and less mayo than we locals are used to), and the not-so-traditional sides of mac salad and rice, as a nod to local fare.

Barbecue is as much about the culture of the food as it is about the food itself, and Bob's gets that. It feels good to take a seat at the picnic-style benches and watch the pitmaster man his smoker while you squeeze warm, freshly made barbecue sauce onto your pile of smoky meat. There's a reason it's called comfort food.

HOG ISLAND

And representing for Memphis, Tenn., is Hog Island.

Opened just two months ago in the 11th Avenue Atrium building (behind Big City Diner and next to the Pill Box Pharmacy), Hog Island is a little closet of a space that's already drawing big crowds.

With a short menu — ribs, pulled pork, beef brisket and a couple of sides — Hog Island's got the right idea: Know what you do well and stick to it.

Here, the meats are cooked Memphis-style, which is similar to Texas-style, though I'm sure a more discerning barbecue palate would wholly disagree with me. Like they are at Smokin' Bob, the cuts of meat are seasoned with a dry rub, then smoked slowly over low heat until the meat is fork-tender and moist.

The difference here is that I didn't need — or want — the sauce. The sauce is on the sweet side for Memphis-style barbecue, which is usually made with vinegar. This sauce cuts out the vinegar and plays up the beer (Primo beer, no less) and molasses, making it a sweet-spicy, rather than a sweet-tangy.

I prefer the vinegar-heavy sauces, but that's not my professional opinion — I think it's just my Portuguese talking. Hog Island's sauce, in my professional opinion, is well balanced with a sweet start that gives way to a hopsy, mildly bitter finish (thanks to the beer) that's a perfect complement to the smoky, naturally sweet meat.

All the meat at the Hog comes out of the pit perfectly cooked, but the ribs ($13.95-$24.75) really shine. Meaty and ribboned with just the right amount of smoky, charred fat, the baby back ribs are a pleasure to gnaw on.

And if it weren't totally inappropriate to ask for a plate with a side of the chef's scalloped potatoes, hold the meat, I would. The cream-soaked spud slices are slow-cooked until they're just soft enough. They're creamy, and salty, and though they're not made with cheese, you don't miss it at all.

Other sides include baked beans, which on one visit were undercooked and on another visit were perfectly cooked but too bland to be a good plate mate for barbecue. There's also a rough-chopped cole slaw tossed with a sweet creamy dressing and dried cranberries.

At Hog Island, order a plate ($4.95-$8.25) or a sandwich ($6.45-$8.75) — and if I had to choose between the two, I couldn't.