Make no mistake. The Linkery isn’t all about sausage as its name implies. Yet, since opening a few years ago and then moving last month to larger digs several blocks north on 30th Street, it ranks among only a few places in San Diego where we can consume meat that’s piped into intestinal pork casings onsite.

In this land of well-being that we live, places like Rosamunde Sausage Grill in San Francisco or Otto’s in Portland, and certainly the sausage-crazed beer halls of Europe could be viewed as houses of poison by those who start their days with a good stretch and a jog. Linkery owner Jay Porter apparently knows this. From the get go, he’s augmented the restaurant’s rotating repertoire of homemade links with perceivably cleaner and lighter fare, in much the same way some of our esteemed local chefs relegate their seductive charcuterie boards to appetizer lists.

Sausage shows up on The Linkery’s “picnic plates” in single, double or triple quantities. The links are accompanied by lightly dressed coleslaw and herby potato salad, plus a couple of wedges of artisan cheese (semi-aged Winchester Gouda when we visited). The restaurant’s sausage maker, Michael McGuan, keeps nearly 100 different sausage recipes up his sleeve, made mainly from pork. About five of them are available on any given day.

Based on past visits, I prefer The Linkery’s picnic plates to the main entrees, which are born out of staff collaboration and change often. In other words, they’re hit or miss despite the fact most are devised with ingredients hailing from regional and organic farms. And seldom do they incorporate the restaurant’s best of show – that of course being some of the sausages.

Seizing a table alongside one of the open garage doors that characterize the new location, a fellow sausage lover and I chose three links for our picnic plate. The “porkstachio” sported finely ground meat with bits of pistachio nuts speckled throughout. It was worthy of an encore. Another pork link, chile Colorado, was much coarser and retained excessive moisture to the point of being mushy inside, perhaps from a liquidy flavor additive that we couldn’t precisely assess. Our third link, named Munson, was made of free-range chicken and seasoned judiciously with rosemary and white wine. It oozed with just enough natural juice and flavor to make it pleasing.

We would later spring for the house-made hotdog blending bison and pork before declaring, “never again.” The giant, smoky tasting dog, which sells for $12.50, featured a mighty thick casing that we found off-putting, except to say that it’s a consummate reminder to practice safe sex.

At the former location, I’ve delved into Wisconsin bratwurst (still in rotation), recalling its lovely notes of allspice and ginger. And if you see something called Kaser Krainor appear again, it’s stippled magnificently with cayenne pepper and sage.

Rarely do I reach for salt in restaurants, as I’m a firm believer that less is better. Though had it been available on these tables, I would have broken down once we ventured into other territory.

Summer squash soup, for example, was wholesomely constructed, but desperately needed a pinch of sodium and perhaps a dash of nutmeg to amplify the main ingredient. My main course, shredded Berkshire pork wrapped in banana leaves, tasted like carnitas sans the garlic, cumin, cilantro – and salt. Even plainer was the bed of Spanish barley, which boasted good texture, but the depravation of flavor was like that of French fries without the you know what.

My companion’s entrée was leg of lamb slathered thinly with a satisfying sweet-and-tangy barbecue sauce. A friend of mine who I ran into a few tables away happened to order the same. She felt the lamb tasted like chicken. My companion and I agreed that it tasted like nothing in particular, except for the subtle BBQ sauce. Because the lamb is “pastured” from the Central Coast and isn’t deemed “commodity meat” – that doesn’t mean it escapes toughness and fattiness, as we found while trying to chew it. The leg deserved an overnight stay with an acidic marinade, we felt.

Appearing more tender and luscious were quarter-pound burgers made of grass-fed beef that flew by us at one point. They sell for $15.50 apiece and come topped with egg, pineapple, house-cured bacon and Gouda cheese. Equally evil and tailored for gluttons is the Zaki-style burger topped with a sausage link of your choice.

Where there is sausage, there is beer – and there’s a lot to choose from here. The list travels from San Diego and up the coast, to Belgium, Germany and Mexico, giving way to a global selection of wines that include labels from remote wine-producing regions in Lebanon, South Africa and New Zealand.

The Linkery’s new home is casual and historic; the structure dates back to 1929, when it served as a mini market for produce, meat and flowers. Before the sausage machines rolled in, however, it operated as a storefront church, which Porter gutted and painted barnyard red. He also installed retractable garage doors over wide portals on two sides of the building, which bring in the outdoors when the panels are rolled up.

Service is as breezy as the atmosphere, staffed mostly by 20-somethings. Some knew the food menu and drink list well. Others had to fetch a staffer in the know when we tossed out a few basic questions. But enthusiasm over the new location runs high, and rightfully so since this is a bustling and welcoming operation that fits like a glove to North Park’s current renaissance.