For five years Cliff Allen manned his mesquite wood grill in a cart smaller than a prison cell. Now, his “Make Every Bite Count” philosophy is found in a pair of barbecue shacks in North Portland and on East Burnside. Smoked pork shoulder and lamb summon Austin, Texas—little more than meltingly tender flesh, fatty halos, and sumptuous curls of oak-wood smoke. Juicy baby backs, upholstered in sticky, crackly bark, vie for PDX’s barbecue crown. And the golden jo-jos humiliate every fry in town. But the smoked fried chicken sandwich is the real star: thighs, skins on, smoked to smithereens, baptized in hot oil for crispy ruffles, then glazed in jalapeño jelly and captured in a monumental, char-blistered sourdough bun. I could eat one every day and call it “death with dignity.”