FRANKFURT, Germany — I was starving. I’d been in this business-centric city about eight hours, and I hadn’t eaten since dinner on the jetliner six hours earlier. I’d opted to skip the breakfast I had available to me.

So, by 7:15 p.m., I’d already scouted various places that seemed tempting to a foodie — or, as nobody else calls me, “Mr. Eats.” On the street I stayed, I had a smorgasbord of selections. I saw a Thai spot, various Indian restaurants, an Ethiopian place, and a variety of German restaurants and take-out places.

The options made me dizzy. Listening to my stomach growling, I sought convenience above anything, which led me straight to “Chicago Williams BBQ,” the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel room I’d booked.

Now, that’s a peculiar name to slap on a restaurant here. In my many thousands of miles of travel, I hadn’t seen a “traditional” American barbecue place — until I ran into Chicago Williams.

Of course, a man like me knows barbecue. My father owned a ribs joint, and I’d eaten ribs in St. Louis, Memphis, Nashville (ugh), New York City, North Carolina and South Carolina.

But you can’t fix your mouth to mention ribs without first saying Kansas City. The city has more five-star rib spots than the Kansas City Chiefs have Super Bowl wins. At every corner, you’ll find one. Again, Mr. Eats knows ribs.

Now here I was in Chicago Williams (unrelated to Hot Sauce Williams), an icy, craft-brewed beer almost finished, trying to figure out what to order from its menu. I decided to put their ribs to the test. If the place was going to slap an American city on its signage, its food better live up to it.

And Chicago Williams BBQ did.

I ordered the small rack of pork ribs. When the ribs came to the bar — the restaurant was busy, so I couldn’t get a table — I could smell the goodness. They looked as if they’d come straight off a spit at Gates, Arthur Bryant or one of those other noteworthy Kansas City ribs spots.

The ribs had a dark, flavorlicious bark, and the well-seasoned meat didn’t need a tug to pull away from the bone. While the pork didn’t quite fall off the bone, I don’t like ribs that do. I think the best ribs need a bit of help in that regard.

Yet what has long been a separator for me is the sauce. No city does sauce better than Kansas City does. I like mine sweet — really sweet, like Baby Ray’s sweet. I also like my BBQ sauce to have a hint of vinegar.

Chicago Williams BBQ did. The ribs there could hold their own against any ribs spot I could think of. No ribs place in Cleveland can come close.

Weighing all of this, I let the curiosity in me take over. I asked the barkeep what got Chicago Williams to produce ribs like this.

The barkeep smiled.

“Chicago Williams isn’t a real person,” he told me.

What? I was deflated.

Someone not named Chicago Williams went around the United States and sampled various ribs, and he took the best elements of the ones he savored and, well, he created the barbecue ribs the grill chef put on my plate: a three-quarters rack of pork deliciousness.