Let’s get one thing straight. When you hear about a place called “Hickory’s Smokehouse” opening in a repurposed pub in St Mellons, a quiet, leafy corner of Cardiff that’s more Sunday roast than Southern roast – you brace yourself. You brace for the fake. The theme-park version of America. Cowboy hats nailed to walls, bad pulled-pork drowned in store-bought BBQ sauce, and servers putting on accents thicker than the gravy. But this place? It certainly ain’t that.
We rolled in one evening – me, my partner, and our 26-year-old son Jack. Jack works in the industry. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s picky in the best way: not a snob, just a man who respects proper food and knows when something’s phoned in. Spoiler alert: nothing here was phoned in.
The Scene
The bones of the place still nod to its old pub past, but Hickory’s has done something magical here – the refurb is thoughtful, not overdone. Every detail in the decor, though obviously themed, is executed with purpose. You get the sense they know what they’re paying tribute to – the real Deep South, not some cartoon version of it. You half expect B.B. King to walk in with a guitar and a plate of brisket.
And right from the moment we stepped through the door, the experience kicked into gear. Greeted by a sharp, genuinely warm front-of-house team – the kind who’ve clearly been trained not just to serve but to host – we were led to our table like old friends returning to something familiar.
First arrival? A tray of warm, salty popcorn. A smart touch – simple, unpretentious, the kind of thing that says: relax, we’ve got you.
Drinks came next – a draught glass of red (yes, on tap and better than you’d expect), a vodka tonic, and a ginger beer. No drama, just efficient, well-paced service from people who seemed to actually enjoy their jobs. A rare and beautiful thing in hospitality.
The Meal
Harriet, our lovely Manager, who “managed” to make even the bit where they explain how the menu works seem like part of the show. She’s the kind of front-of-house you want on every shift – knowledgeable, intuitive, never overbearing. I flagged a food intolerance (black pepper – don’t judge), and she navigated the menu for me like a seasoned pro. No eye rolls, no awkwardness. Just solutions.
And speaking of menus – a stroke of genius. Printed like a Southern newspaper, full of personality and texture, it sets the tone for what’s to come: bold, brash, fun – but smart.
Starters landed like small feasts.
Mark went for Southern Fried Chicken in a Basket (£9), the name alone a nod to diners and fairgrounds, but the execution was pure kitchen skill. Crisp, juicy, not a hint of grease but they were stocky. “Serviette!!!”
Jack took on the Smoked Wings (£10) – meaty, rich, smoky in the best way, and seasoned like the pitmasters mean business.
The portions were big. No apologies. Just takeaway boxes passed over with a smile, no judgment.
And then, the mains… oooh, the mains!
Mark’s Carnivore platter (£32.50) – a beast of a plate with Texas-style brisket and gravy, smoked chicken with cowboy butter, and hot honey-glazed pork belly. This wasn’t just excess for excess’s sake. It was a celebration of smoke and patience. That brisket? Like butter. The pork belly? Sweet heat perfection.
Jack dove into Hog Heaven (£30) – a full-on Southern bounty: bourbon-glazed Memphis ribs, jalapeño cheese sausage, hand-pulled pork, pit beans, and all the classic sides. Every bite had purpose. Smoke-ringed, spice-kissed, balanced. Not just heat and sugar – depth.
I stayed loyal to the New York Strip (£35), cooked blue, as it should be when the meat’s good. And it was good – charred exterior, bloody centre, rested properly. The peppercorn sauce stayed at arm’s length (black pepper, remember), but no matter. This steak didn’t need an accessory.
Again, generous portions. Again, takeaway boxes.
And then Mark, because he never knows when to quit, ordered the Cherry Pie Deep Dish Pancake (£7.50) – an American diner dream with black cherry, cookie crumble, frozen custard, and a dusting of cinnamon sugar. It came out looking like something Elvis might have sung about. One spoonful and you knew you’d made the right choice, even if it meant a button undone on the ride home.
The People
Let’s stop and talk about the staff again. These people are sharp. On point. Not fake-friendly, but real. Confident. Engaged. You get the feeling they’re proud to work here – and that’s rare. No one’s going through the motions. This is a team that’s been trained right and led right. From front door to pass.
Only one minor gripe – and I mean minor – was the open kitchen. The chef had a voice on him, and when he called for runners, it carried. Not aggressive (although our initial thought was someone’s fallen out of favour), not rude – just loud. Maybe it’s part of the theatre, maybe it needs tweaking. Didn’t ruin anything, but worth noting if you like your dinner with less decibels or the gentle clink of fine crystal.
The Truth
We came in sceptical. Expecting cheap, fake Americana and overhyped microwaved food. What we got was an absolute masterclass in how to bring Southern hospitality to South Wales.
Hickory’s isn’t a chain pretending to be something it’s not. It’s a smokehouse. A restaurant run by people who, as you’d hear frequently in an old western movie, really give a damn.
Still independently operated by founder Neil McDonnell and his three partners, with investment from Greene King, but with none of the corporate white noise. Each Hickory’s is tailored to its community, and this one’s been stitched lovingly into the fabric of Cardiff.
This isn’t a “site.” It’s not a “venue.” It’s a restaurant. A damn good one.
So go hungry. Bring friends. Expect the real thing – not just in the food, but in the way you’re treated. Because that’s what makes the difference between a meal and an experience.
Hickory’s Smokehouse Cardiff gets it. And Jack? The industry veteran? He’s already planning the return visit.
Hickory’s Smokehouse
Pascal Close, St. Mellons
Cardiff CF3 2UZ
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