Running the Blacktop with Barbequed Brisket--Number Seven

At the “Smoking Gun Bar-B-Q” in Santa Anna, an ole boy that was doing his best to look like Willie Nelson had a pit that appeared to be a Civil War cannon out in front of the old Santa Anna Opera House. It was making smoke, but it was padlocked shut. I went in, ordered a cold drink, and asked about the pit.

He said it was none of my damn business. Now I have done, and said, a lot of obnoxious things in my life, and many times I have deserved this kind of response. This was not one of those times. Even when I deserve a response of this type, I am not in the habit of accepting it gracefully.

I quietly commented that the pit was interesting in that the fire box was remote, and the meat compartment was very small, what with being in the barrel of the cannon and all, and I didn’t see how he could do much more in there than make jerky. He told me in no uncertain terms how he had worked for years to perfect his cooking methods and equipment, and how slick talkers were always trying to steal his ideas.  He said he wasn’t going to abide that anymore, and told me how and where I could go, and what I should do with the horse I rode up on. Another guy was in there, drinking coffee in the corner. He edged toward the door.

Being called a “slick talker” may not bother most folks, but it disturbed me.  I was beginning to suspect that this fellow wasn’t playing with a full deck.  Even so, I was about to lose the soft-spoken, clean-living demeanor that you all know and love so well. I told the Willie clone that I knew full well how to construct a barbeque pit, and had made several with my own hands. I pointed out that if I were going to steal a secret, I would not steal it from the village idiot. I think I may have mentioned, in a moment of weakness, that I certainly would not expect to learn anything from an ignoramus who looked like Gabby Hayes. About the time I mentioned ole Gabby, the coffee drinker remembered a very important appointment and hurried outside. It was real quiet.

            I got tickled. I had a mental picture of the two of us, fat old farts, rolling around on the floor, kicking, scratching, and pulling hair. He had a full beard, but neither of us could afford the loss of much hair. I started giggling. He softened and began to chuckle and in a few minutes we were old friends. He had lived in California and Vegas, and had been an extra in the Willie Nelson movie, “Honeysuckle Rose.” He said he stood in for Willie in two movies, and I guess he did.

We laughed and talked awhile and he sold me another cold drink. I asked for a sliced beef sandwich, but he only had chopped beef.  I said that would be fine. I believe it was Ireland’s Pit Cooked Barbeque, straight from the can. I don’t blame him for locking up that pit. I wouldn’t want to get caught heating up a can of what amounts to Sloppy Joe, either.

I went back through Santa Anna a couple of weeks later. You would have thought I was a long-lost favorite uncle or something. I drank a Coke, but I didn’t eat.

The city of Santa Anna, by the way, was not named for the Mexican General. According to the girl at the Chamber of Commerce, it was named after the Comanche Chief, Santana, and folks back then didn’t know how to spell it. I have several ideas about this and I’ll explore them someday when I get into Texas history, but not now. We need get on with barbeque.

On the south side of Brownwood, there’s a ramshackle new building with really good barbeque. There’s a picture of this fancy Harley-Davidson motorcycle on the wall. I asked the serving lady about it, and she told me her husband sold it to keep the barbeque place open four years ago. She said he worked so hard being an electrician in the daytime and cooking at night and on weekends, and he loved that Harley, but he had to sell it. I asked how the business was going, and she said very well. In fact, she had saved enough money to buy another Harley, and surprise him with it. She fairly glowed as she talked about her husband, how hard he worked, and how he deserved that Harley. I didn’t meet him, but I think I would like him. He knows a lot about barbeque, but he knows even more about picking out a wife.

Also in Brownwood, there’s a little red & white shack called Smitty’s Bar-B-Que, down in the heart of a black neighborhood. Smitty’s is owned and operated by a black gentleman named McArthur Smith, and he’s been barbequing for twenty-seven years. He has his brisket pre-trimmed before he cooks it. I’ve always believed that pre-trimmed briskets will cook up dry, but not McArthur Smith’s. He served as good a brisket as I’ve ever tasted, and he always has them trimmed. He told me Monfort supplied the briskets, and the same butcher always did the trimming, especially for him. McArthur also makes his own sausage, and serves cabrito.  Everything he serves is excellent.

Brownwood has a barbeque cafeteria called Underwood’s.  I understand it’s one of the two remaining, left over from what probably was the first chain of barbeque restaurants in the country. When I was in high school, every major city in West Texas had an Underwood’s, and I helped build a plant in Lubbock that put up frozen dinners under the name “Underwood’s of Texas.” I bought them in a supermarket when I lived in Las Vegas, Nevada.  I have no idea what became of the business, but I understand that the family still operates two locations, one in Waco and one in Brownwood. If any of you can enlighten me on this situation, please do.  

One more note about Underwood’s Barbeque cafeterias in West Texas.  Back in the fifties, they put up billboards all over the Panhandle showing a guy rotating a chunk of meat on a spit over an open fire.  The sign said. “Hey Buddie!  Got a $1.00 to eat on?” and listed the nearest Underwood’s location.  As time went by and inflation took hold, the price was painted over to read $1.10, then $1.15, $1.25, $1.50 and so on.  I wanted them to simply X-out the old price and add the new, but they carefully re-painted each new price.  Everything else on the billboard was faded and old, but the numbers were fresh and new, and increased every couple of months.  I didn’t understand it at the time, but that was sign of things to come.

I am burning up reams of paper here and not getting very far ahead in my quest for the best barbeque in Texas (and thus the world).  However, I am having a good time re-living the trip and remembering all the places I saw and the people I met.  I hope you all will bear with me and keep coming back to read my future episodes.  Next time I will get into some of the oldest barbeque places in Texas, and some towns that are blessed with more than one or two of the very best barbeque establishments in the country.  I’ll visit a group of “L” towns with an abundance of excellent places to eat barbeque.  How about Llano and Lockhart and, of course, Lubbock.  You all stay tuned, now!

More News From Big L on the High Plains

     I went and peeped into that Smithy in Lubbock, because I could not believe the smith was making an iron chicken.  Sure enough, he has already made 962 iron feathers, and is welding them all over that six foot tall chicken.   At least, it looks like a chicken.  If that’s what it is, it’s the biggest, meanest-looking chicken I ever saw.

     He must be going to use it to peck those dairy cattle on the Chick Fil A commercials, so I guess it needs to be big and mean.  I never could understand why that advertising agency expects us to believe those cows are smart enough to make signs and hold them up, but they are still too dumb to spell “Eat more chicken”!  We’re supposed to believe that a cow can get some poster board and paint and brushes together and make signs but can’t spell “more”.  Or they’re smart enough to turn on just the lights in a building that spell “Eat mor chik’n.”  No wonder the blacksmith wants to peck them.

     I still wonder if that muscular smith may be building a Chicken Little.  Somebody really needs to warn Ole Tom-Tom to watch his Clyde.  That big sky out in Lubbock has a habit of falling on football coaches.  Course, I think Ole Tom-Tom is safe---you have to win games to get suddenly fired at Texas Tech.  Tom-Tom is taking the team right back into the safe, comfortable level of mediocrity the administration desires.  Tech Exes are putting away their Tech golf shirts and caps.  Things are getting back like they were, when they’d rather folks not know where they went to school.  It’s embarrassing.

    

Road Trip Number Nine--Pit Stop in the Desert

Wayne and General Patton--Kindred Spirits

     Somewhere north of Mendocino, we eased back to the coast and travelled between the Redwood Forest and the Pacific Ocean.  It was an absolutely beautiful drive and eventually led us into the Redwood National Park, which was the first of seven national parks and several national monuments we would see on this trip.  Thank you, Theodore Roosevelt!

     Actually, we skirted the Joshua Tree National Monument when we first entered California, while I was still smarting over that little apple-stealing Hitler-acting guy.  Wayne and I pulled off for a pit stop at a place called Chiriaco Summit and discovered a museum dedicated to and named after General George S. Patton.  Because this was in the middle of the California desert, we were curious about what Patton could have done there and decided to take a look. 

     Both of us remember World War Two—we were five when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor—and we are both a bit too blindly patriotic for most of today’s younger generation.  Patton was one of our heroes, even if he did slap that kid.  We consider that a temporary lapse, blown all out of proportion by an over-zealous media.   (Look here, Mr. Senior Editor, there is not a thing happening—nothing to report.  The Germans are quiet and our soldiers are just lying around, waiting……  Well, Mr. War Correspondent that just won’t cut it.  If you don’t find something to make some news about, I’ll put someone out there who will.)

     At the start of the war, Patton was put in charge of armored vehicles—tanks, etc.—and was told to prepare to go to North Africa and fight Rommel and the Germans in the Sahara Desert.  To prepare for that, the general insisted on some sort of desert training ground.  He thought, and rightly so, that pulling teenage troops out of their comfortable homes and sending them, untrained, to fight in tanks in the desert would end in disaster.  Patton considered the desert part of the enemy.   The government eventually agreed and essentially gave him the Mojave Desert and told him to build a base and train his troops.  Someone named it Camp Young and it became the largest military base in history, about three hundred fifty miles long and two hundred fifty miles wide.

     When the general came to the base for the first time, in the early spring of 1942, construction was in progress and a source of water was desperately needed.  There was a City of Los Angeles Reservoir nearby and Patton called the powers that be in LA to arrange permission to tap into the system for the base.   The bureaucrat in Los Angeles said, “Oh my, that’s just not possible!  It will take at least two years to get all the paperwork done before permission can be granted!  It takes time to do things properly.”  Patton replied, “Well, you get started on that paperwork and get it done as soon as you can.  We tapped into the system yesterday.”



With legs like that, I don't have much to live for.



     Camp Young was later called the “California-Arizona Maneuver Area of the Desert Training Center” and more than a million troops were trained there.  It was decommissioned in 1944 and most of it was returned to the Department of Interior.  The museum was an indoor/outdoor affair, with every kind of WWII tank and armored vehicle imaginable on display.  I have trouble understanding how anyone could get into those primitive, clumsy vehicles and ride around the desert with temperatures well into three digits while Germans shot at them. 

      I guess Steinbeck explained that in “Grapes of Wrath”.  He said, “It don’t take no special courage when you ain’t got no other choice.”  I have always been awed by the courage and fortitude the American People demonstrated during World War Two.  This museum reinforced that feeling.

     Now,  to get back to the Redwood Forest National Park.  We followed the coast thru the park and to the Oregon line and turned inland for the last hundred or so miles to Medford, our Road Trip mid-point destination.  We pulled up in front of Wayne’s brother’s house at about five pm, right on schedule.  Ron had been cooking all afternoon and served us barbequed pork ribs, pinto beans and something he called “hot corn”—a delicious mixture of grits, corn, cheese and green chilies. 

      Wayne and Ron had a lot of catching up to do—they have seen each other rarely since adulthood because Ron moved off to Oregon and Wayne wisely stayed in Texas.     In spite of their long separation, it was obvious to me that there was a lot of affection there.  They told stories of their childhood, their parents and sisters, and their home life.  We laughed about stuff that happened fifty years ago—I grew up across town, so we told a lot of “Lubbock” stories.  It is amazing how that country marks its people—within an hour, Ron and I were old friends.

     We wound down and went to bed relatively early.  Ron had a big weekend planned.  Tomorrow, we would go to Crater Lake and Sunday we planned to ride the rapids on the Rouge River.  We needed our sleep. 

      Boy, that “hot corn”  and those ribs were good!

Championship Barbeque Number Six---Backroads

If you didn’t read my September letter, you’ll be a bit lost at first, but hang in there, you’ll catch up. I’m going to leave the jovial and lovable Billy Clyde and Rollie Joe, the luscious Miss Lake Jackson, and all the other characters at the “World’s Championship Barbeque Cookoff”  in Houston for the time being. I hate to do that, but I more or less promised myself to finish this Barbeque stuff in this letter, and I want to announce the results of my two year odyssey to discover the best barbeque in Texas (and thus the world). I promise to get back to the Houston cookoff, but I can do that later, when I have more time and space.

I have, during the past couple of years, been over most of the state of Texas on a quest for the absolute best barbeque in Texas (and thus the world). Notice that I said the best barbeque in Texas, not the best barbeque joint, or restaurant or place. I’m not interested in a piece of real estate. I’m not concerned with the ambiance, the view, or the location of the establishment that serves the product. I’m strictly in interested in the finished product, as it is served to the general public.

I did not include chain restaurants, such as Bill Miller’s in South Texas, Luther’s in the Houston area, or County Line in lots of places. Do not misunderstand me, these people serve a good product. There is nothing to prevent a corporation from serving good barbeque, since barbeque is one of the simplest and most forgiving of your basic food groups.

I prefer, for myself and for the purposes of this survey, to stick with small restaurants, more or less operated by one man or one family and branded with the personality of the owner. I like places that have evolved through the years, and assumed the character of their owner. Admittedly, many of the restaurants I visited were not old enough to have much character, and some of them may have told far too much about the personality of the owner, but I tried to ignore these signs, and consider only the quality of the product served.

I said “most” of the state. I did not venture north of Lubbock, west of Fort Stockton, or east of Dallas. I suspect there is something north of Lubbock, west of Fort Stockton and east of Dallas, but I’ll have to see it another time. I had planned to visit and critique each place, but that won’t work in this format. Too many places, too little space. I visited each place, sampled their product, and talked with the owner, cook, cashier, or all of the above. I will tell you about some of the places I saw. If you wonder about a favorite place of yours, or want to send me a suggestion, feel free. I enjoy hearing from you, even when you disagree.

There are several variables involved in the production of barbeque, especially when it is done on a large scale. I confined myself to the tasting of brisket, on the theory that if someone can cook a proper brisket, he or she will also be able to do ribs, sausage, chicken, and pork. For the purpose of this experiment, I compared the quality of the meat, the appearance of the finished product when sliced, the manner and orientation of the slicing, the color of the interior slices, the size and color of the smoke ring, the taste, the texture of the meat at first taste, the texture as it is chewed, and the aftertaste.  I ordered sauce on the side, and tasted the meat straight up, without sauce.  There are hundreds of recipies for barbeque sauce and all of them have merit.  I didn't want an inferior brisket slipping by, hiding under a good sauce.

I also observed the freshness of the “sides,” especially the bread. I didn’t get involved with the potato salad or beans, because both of those are art forms, and I won’t live long enough to cover all that art. As a general rule, those places that cared enough about their brisket to cook and slice it properly also made their own beans and potato salad and it was usually good. Most of the other places have five gallon plastic buckets of potato salad from Sysco under the counter, and gallon cans of Ranch Style Beans on the shelves in back.

I did not  count off for surly service, but I did for overall cleanliness of the establishment. (I could not help but notice when the service was poor or discourteous. I love barbeque, but there’s a lot of it out there, and I don’t have to put up with a ration of stuff from the server to get it.) Discourteous service is one of my pet peeves, but not the only one.

I believe, for instance, that mankind has evolved to a point which allows him to enjoy his food on a plate, with a real knife and fork. I don’t care how cutesy and nostalgic it may be to throw a chunk of meat on a piece of butcher paper, douse it with sauce, pitch in a couple slices of Mrs. Baird’s thick sliced light bread, and roll the whole thing up in a copy of the “Llano Limping Liberal,” I prefer a plate, a fork, and a napkin. I also like to sit down and eat at a table, or at least stand next to a shelf. My car hood was designed to hide my motor from smart alecs who poke fun, not to provide table space for some over-rated restaurant. I do not like to stand in one line for the meat, and then another for the “sides.”

I have a problem with places that purposely misspell sauce (sause or sawse) or turn the S’s and E’s backwards on their signs. That indicates to me that they believe only idiots or retards enjoy barbeque. Ebonics and Spanglish are fast approaching as alternate methods of communication for people too mentally lazy to learn to speak English. We don’t need to add Barbequeish to the mix. Regardless of my personal preferences, I did not deduct for any of these minor irritations. I tried to be objective and only consider the product they sold.

I had a great time with the quest, which continues even as you read this. I’m still stopping at little places and sampling brisket.  I also try sausage and ribs, but I only record my impression of the brisket. I just try the other for fun and to keep from getting skinny. Almost all of the barbeque I sampled was good, and some was excellent. Anyone in the barbeque business will occasionally get everything right, and serve a great piece of meat. I’m looking for the places that, through discipline and hard work, get it right all the time. I can count the bad experiences on one hand, and most of them were due to a server’s overzealous attempt to sell everything in the pit, even though some of it was overcooked and dried out.

Speaking of overcooked, dried out, surly service, stale bread, and bad experiences, let me nominate for the worst barbeque in Texas, Ken Hall’s place in Fredericksburg.  It is just south of town on Highway Eighty-Seven towards Comfort. I have eaten there several times during the last seven or eight years. Their sliced barbeque sandwich is served on a rectangular loaf of “French” bread, covered with sesame seeds. In a word, it is pitiful. The meat was overcooked. I guess the service was alright, considering the server was a teenager whose best friend is named Beavis.  The bread may have been fresh sometime last week. The little sesame seeds filled the spaces between my teeth so quickly that it was hard to force the stringy barbeque in there. I only mention this because I had the same impression on three or more visits to the place. I’d get to thinking, “It can’t be that bad,” but it was.

As a footnote, I was eating at a little barbeque place in Kerrville, The Depot, and mentioned to a lady that the brisket was pretty good. She said she liked to eat there when she didn’t have time to get to the best place in this part of the country.

“Oh,” I said, “Where’s that?”

“Why, Ken Hall’s over in Fredericksburg,” She answered. Maybe it was the time of day, or day of the week, or something.

If you go about twenty-two miles south of Ken Hall’s on Highway Eighty-Seven, you’ll be at Buzzie’s Bar-B-Q in Comfort. Buzzie jumped off the corporate ladder in Austin a few years ago, and he and his wife Brenda started over in Comfort, converting an old store into one of the most consistently good barbeque operations in the Hill Country. Buzz knows how to cook barbeque, and how to carve and serve it. I’d rather he use a real knife to slice the product, instead of that electric job, but that’s lame criticism.

There’s a big, friendly, red-bearded guy that barbeques in Robert Lee. He has a trailer mounted pit alongside the C-Store on the west end of town. (When I say big, I mean it. He’s about six five and on the wrong side of three hundred.) By way of passing the time of day, I mentioned that I noticed he used two kinds of wood in his pit. He looked puzzled, then lit up the area with a big grin.

 “Yea,” he said, “Green mesquite and dry mesquite.” He wouldn’t let me pay for my sandwich. 

I must stop now.  I'll continue this odyssey in a week or so.  We'll discover what I believe to be the best Barbeque in Texas and laugh about things along the way.  Incidentally, Ken Hall retired and sold his place to a guy named Cranky Frank.  Ken was a great running back but Cranky Frank is a much better cook.  Buzzie was so sucessful that he closed up in Comfort and opened a much larger place in Kerrville.   He still uses electric knives.

Is the Sky Really Falling in Lubbock?

Inquiring minds want to know.  Is a giant chicken rising out of the dust in Lubbock?

     That smithy dude is sure enough out there hammering feathers---not real feathers, but iron ones---real feathers would melt in all that heat.  The rumor going ‘round is that he is making a great big chicken for Chick Fil A to peck those Holstein dairy cows that can’t spell.  Then again, it may be for KFC, which used to be Kentucky Fried Chicken before "Fried" got to be un-politically correct---or is it politically un-correct.  Or in-correct?  In any case, I doubt if it’s for them.   They’d probably want just a big, sanitary “C”.

     One guy said that he’s making a giant Chicken Little and wiring him for sound, so he can hop around and tell everyone the sky is falling.  They’re gonna put it in front of the Tech Stadium, so next time, the football coach will have some warning.  I don’t reckon he’ll do much hopping---those feathers got to weigh a ton.

Continuing Saga of the World Championship Barbeque Cookoff-Houston #5

One day in the early eighties someone in the hierarchy of the Livestock Show and Rodeo looked out and said, “Them boys over in the barbeque contest is having too much fun. We got to put a stop to that.”

 His cohort asked, “Why, Billy Clyde, what is they hurting??”

“Well, Rollie Joe, the first thang is they’re staying over there and not coming to the Fat Stock Show and Rodeo, and that’s costing us money.”

“We don’t call it the “Fat” Stock Show no more, Billy Clyde.  Don’t sound good. You’ll get the yuppies to eating fish.”  

“Well, anyway, We got to look at this thang like the lawyers do with their Xerox machines. We got to make it a profit center.”

Gradually some new rules were made. First, the committee advertised the event and invited the general public.  Then they put a fence around the whole area, installed gates, and charged admission. They moved the contest back to the weekend before the rodeo and made a rule against giving away beer, then set up stands and sold beer. They banned all vehicles from the team area after set-up time, which made it impossible for the teams to deliver ice or other supplies. The  committee then started selling and delivering ice and beer by the case. Someone pointed out that people could get hurt out there, what with drinking going on, and fires being all around, and knives and all that, so liability insurance for all teams was required, and the committee sells it. I’m sure someone’s brother-in-law is owner of the company that provides the coverage.

 Someone noted that if the committee got a bandstand, and put a band on it, they could charge admission and sell more beer. They could add a fireworks display to keep people from leaving early and thereby sell more beer. With more and more uninvited guests showing up, the teams discovered that their parties were getting out of hand. To combat this, they had to build more secure enclosures and get someone to watch the doors to prevent trespassers. The committee decided that all security guards must be uniformed, so they could recognize each other and know who not to push around. The teams could no longer use the two big guys who worked in the shipping department,  they had to hire “real” security guards from a list provided by the committee.

The admission fee for all guests went up to five dollars, and most teams felt obliged to provide their invited guests with admission to the grounds. A bright individual on the committee decided that since this was a barbeque cook off, the great unwashed multitudes (Uninvited guests who simply bought a ticket) should be allowed to buy a plate of barbeque. Each team was notified of its time to deliver a couple of briskets, or ten gallons of beans or potato salad, or maybe twenty loaves of bread to the public feeding tent. If you were late, they dispatched Billy Clyde on his golf cart to find out, “What’s going on here, Boy? Why ain’t you got them briskets over yonder?”

Someone noted that this was all taking place within the city limits of Houston, and we were serving food to the public. So the teams were, all of a sudden, classified as restaurants, and subject to inspection by the city Health Department. I wanted to put up a sign, “Eat here at your own risk,” but I was told that would not cut it. We must comply with the Health Department rules and we must be inspected by a City of Houston inspector, even if the city had to pay overtime. We must have three kinds of dishwater at all times, provide proper refrigeration, no food left out, no wood chopping blocks, etc., etc., etc. The inspector drops by several times during the weekend, and he can close you down, unless you’re real nice to him.

In the early days, if a guy had gotten a little enthusiastic while making chopped beef sandwiches and chopped off the end of his index finger, we would have rushed him to the hospital, and they would have patched him up. Next day, we’d all be back out there, calling him Stubby, and he’d have to learn to pick his nose with another finger. Now days, he’ll get a lawyer and own the Astrodome. Back then, we were very careful about our food preparation.  We did not invite people out to give them food poisoning, but that excuse didn’t satisfy the bureaucrats.

 For several years, our team was graced with the presence of a spectacular floater, one we called Miss Lake Jackson.  I say “spectacular” because she was---in her early twenties and, as Tom T. Hall said,  "developed to a fault.”  She attached herself to our team for no apparent reason.  It may have been our liberal and sharing attitude about whiskey or it could have been our keenly developed senses of humor.  We didn’t care.  She was very decorative.

After the new rules, we stationed Miss Lake Jackson, in something tight and low cut, near the door to distract the city inspectors. Miss Lake Jackson’s charms were ample and obvious, but intelligence was not among them. She could, however, distract just about any male city inspector who still had a pulse. Some of the other teams just paid the inspectors, but our solution was more creative and less costly. Miss Lake Jackson would do just about anything for a vodka and tonic.  Her opening line was always something clever like, “Oh My!  What a cutesy-wootsey little badgey-wadgey you have there.”  I never saw her fail.

My point in all this is the same thing that happened to the barbeque cook-off is happening to our society. Special interest groups can make the silliest restrictions seem perfectly logical. Governments continually make rules, which the populace continually circumvents, and a small group finds a way to profit mightily from the circumvention.

Folks who don’t have to pay the tax don’t mind how high it is. (“Where’s them briskets, Boy? We’re trying to feed a bunch of folks, here! Since you’re late, bring three ‘stead of two, now, you hear?!”) Too many rules originate deep down in the bowels of government, and ease out like a silent little fart in a darkened theater. Everyone knows it stinks to high heaven, but no one can find who is responsible.

Next time I plan to finish this barbeque stuff. I will relate some of the unusual incidents that may have occurred at barbeque cook-offs, and I will take you on a little tour of barbeque places in our state. (O.K., my state)  I will tell you where, in my opinion, to get the best barbeque in Texas, and thus the world, and who does it.  On second thought, I may not finish next time---there’s a lot of ground to cover here.

Lubbock Boys Meet in Boston

     Dr. Davis L. Ford, P.H.D., who was a classmate of mine in the Lubbock High School Class of 1955 was called to Boston to deliver a paper to the graduating Civil Engineering students of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.  While there, he realized his wife, Gwen,  had failed to pack his necktie for the trip.  Being resourceful, he located a local WalMart and went inside to purchase a replacement clip-on tie.  He preferred these because of their cutting edge fabrics and colors.  The fact that he had been unable to master the art of tying a necktie also played into the decision.
     He was greeted at the door by a strangely familiar individual.  Soon, they realized they should know each other and began to play "who do you know".  Eventually they narrowed the field enough to realize they had been classmates in Lubbock since the first grade---it was his boyhood friend James O. Collins.  Mr. Collins had a successful business career, culminating with his selection as "Greeter of the Month" at this WalMart in June of 2007.  Dr. Ford was here to deliver a paper--"Why Poop Floats and How to Sink It" to the graduating Civil Engineering class at MIT. 

     You will find Old Lubbock Boys in every field of endeavor known to mankind and you will usually find them at the top of that field.  There are 525 stories in that class---this is just two of them.

A Lubbock Boy In New York City

I want to keep you folks entertained and enlightened on subjects that you enjoy.  Since I'm getting very little feedback, I just have to guess at what to put out here.  I'm sorta blogging in the wilderness, so give me a hand and let me know what you like.  I'll get back to Running the Blacktop and Barbeque next week.  For now, enjoy my take on New York City.

In New York City, they have these things they call “scones”.  The first time I ran across them was in a coffee shop adjacent to the Whitney Museum. I had asked for a cup of coffee, and a bagel with cream cheese. (I was thinking “When in Rome, etc.”   I figured they ate bagels and cream cheese for breakfast up there.)

The fellow who waited on me said, “We don’t have bagels, but I can get you a scone.” I asked, “What’s a scone?”

He looked at me as if he smelled manure, assumed a superior attitude, and proceeded to describe a scone without mentioning the words “bread” or “biscuit”. My curiosity took over, and I ordered coffee and a couple of scones. The scones turned out to be great big triangle-shaped dry biscuits. They were soft and crumbly, without any crust. Just a bit more dried out around the edges. They tasted OK, if you could keep the butter and jelly on them. The butter rolled up when you tried to spread it, and the scone crumbled off behind the butter knife, and broke up when you tried to eat it.

I finished my scones and coffee, and the waiter brought my check. Because he’d been so nice and superior, I told him to tell the cook to cut about two cups of Crisco and a little baking powder into the next batch of scones he made, and he’d really be on to something. The guy looked at me with an absolutely blank stare. No expression at all.  He didn’t say a word.  I assumed he was speechless with gratitude, and went on my way.

I bring up New York City because it’s one of my favorite places and I don’t want you all to get bored hearing about Lubbock and the High Plains all the time. I like to walk around Manhattan and look at stuff. Buildings, townhouses, museums, statues, shops, and people are everywhere there, and they are all great subjects to look at and wonder about, and appreciate, and paint with shake up spray cans, like the natives do.

I have two favorite hotels in New York. The St. Regis if I’m by myself and the Plaza if I have my family with me. Both hotels are old---the St. Regis was built by John Jacob Astor sometime just before 1900, and the Plaza was opened in 1907, replacing the original Plaza which was torn down because it was deemed too small for the location. Both have been meticulously maintained, restored, and updated regularly, to keep up with contemporary tastes. Even with all this regular “modernization”, the original detailing that so defined the buildings has not been completely destroyed. In the Plaza especially, the carved wood paneling, the parquet floors, the elaborate plaster work, the murals, the ornate ceilings, and the chandeliers have mostly been protected and preserved, so that we have a chance to feel the quality of times past. The hotel has become a sort of museum with rooms to let.

All the detail work was done by workmen who spent their lifetimes learning and perfecting their craft. They had silly notions, like pride in their work, an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, and the vague feeling that a job well done was its own reward. They didn’t realize that the robber barons where grinding them under their heels.

The unions, with their great leveling influence, had not come of age yet, so these men did not realize that it was wrong to excel in their craft. They didn’t believe that everyone should strive for mediocrity, so pay scales could be established based upon an average day’s production. These poor ignorants actually believed that a brick mason who put up eight hundred bricks each day, in a perfectly plumb and level wall, with absolutely identical mortar joints, was worth more money than a man who only did four hundred or so bricks in a haphazard manner. They thought job security and higher pay would come with excellence and hard work.

Even with such archaic notions, the Plaza was completed and opened for business in just twenty-seven months. Every hand-forged door knob, every hand-woven carpet, every stick of handmade furniture, every monogrammed linen napkin, every specially crafted spoon and fork was in its place just twenty-seven months after demolition was begun on the original hotel. The hotel cost twelve and one-half million dollars to build and furnish and the rates ranged from fifty cents a day for a single room, to twenty five dollars a day for the fanciest parlor with two adjacent bedrooms and two baths.

The St. Regis is a smaller and somewhat less elaborate hotel, on Fifty-Fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue. If you saw the original “Godfather” movie, and remember the hit man who trapped his quarry in the revolving door, you’ve seen the lobby of the St. Regis. It is timeless, as with all things of good quality. The hotel was appropriate for the 1930’s, it was appropriate when I visited there in the 80’s and I’m sure it’s appropriate today. The lobby is very small, and most of the rest of the first floor is occupied by retail shops. I built a “Fred Jollier” shop on the Fifth Avenue side (For you folks from Lubbock, that is French for “Fred’s Jewelry Store”)

Leasing out most of the first floor undoubtedly caused the loss of some original, irreplaceable decorative art in the old building, but it may have allowed the property to survive some of the difficult economic cycles it’s been through. In any case, the hotel has survived, and it offers a superb location, and very comfortable, if somewhat smallish, rooms. The King Cole Lounge downstairs is one of the great places in New York for happy-hour people watching.

 My first morning at the St. Regis, I had a big breakfast--- ham, two eggs over easy, hash browns, orange juice, toast and coffee in the hotel Coffee Shop. The bill was on the wrong side of fourteen dollars (not including tip). After that, I simply walked directly across Fifty-Fifth Street to a little Greek café, (The Athens Restaurant or Acropolis Grill or something of that ilk) and had the same breakfast for just under four dollars, except I got much faster service and real biscuits instead of toast.

One of the exciting things about New York City is the contrast in lifestyles, ethnic backgrounds, and economic levels all jammed in together. Go around a corner and you’re in a different world. Cross the street and you’re in a new country. You can see the best and the worst of the human race in single glance in almost any direction.

There is a little park, more of a courtyard, on East 55^th Street near the St.Regis.  It may be Fifty-Forth or even Fifty-Sixth, but it is about two blocks east of Fifth Avenue, crammed in among the sky scrapers. The whole thing is maybe twenty-five feet wide and seventy feet deep. It has several small River Birch trees, some contempory tables and chairs, and gray “flamed” granite pavers. One side wall is covered with granite pavers, each with a distinctly cut pattern. Water cascades constantly down the whole wall, lending a pleasant and constant background murmur to the area.

An inconspicuous plaque tells that the property and upkeep were donated to the city of New York by a man named, if memory serves, Lowenstein.  I used to go there and drink coffee and read the paper and watch people early in the morning. It was a nice place to be. The morning sun filtered through the lacey trees. The waterfall lent an almost musical background and took the edge off the morning noises of the city. The designer did a good job, and the donor did a service to the people of his city.

One morning, as I sat there, two guys showed up with a cart and opened a little closet I had not noticed before. They unloaded a large stainless steel coffee urn, and several boxes of bakery goods, and set up shop in the closet. It is so typically New York for a business to spring up in the most unlikely place. I had been buying my coffee from the Greek café and carrying it there, so I was glad to see the closet coffee shop open. I went over to the Dutch door and ordered a cup of coffee and a bagel.

The guy said, “We don’t have any bagels. Would you like a scone?”

“Sure!” I said.  “I’m an old scone eater from ‘way back.”

As I said, I'll get back to Road Trip and Barbeque Articles later.  I just thought you all might like a little break.  I'll also do more on New York later.  You all hang in there.

Road Trip Number Eight--Through San Francisco

Inspecting Megan's roses at Moraga





     Moraga, California, is a beautiful little city, nestled in the mountains a few miles west of Oakland.  My friends, Jon and Megan, moved there as he planned for retirement.  Their chosen part of the world is more like I imagine Camelot than any other place I’ve ever been.  The weather must always be perfect there—Jon has a vineyard and Megan has every flowering plant that can be imagined.  Dozens of roses surround their back yard oasis, along with lemon trees, bougainvillea, hibiscus, oleander and several others I cannot identify.  All of them seem to be constantly in bloom. 

     Jon established a vineyard on the adjacent lot in their Cul-De-Sac and planted twenty-eight rows (six different varieties) of grape vines.  After his retirement from the business world, Jon attended UC Davis and took several viniculture classes to prepare himself for his retirement pastime—making wine.  His private label is “Birchwood Place” and all the varieties I’ve sampled are excellent.



Jon and Wayne with Jon's vineyard in the background



     Saint Mary’s College of California is also located in Moraga, in the valley below Jon’s home.  Saint Mary’s was the first team (of many) to beat Texas Technological College in the Cotton Bowl.  That was in 1939.  Although the school is relatively small and has dropped its football program, it is still prominent in NCAA basketball, baseball, swimming and girl’s volleyball.  The rugby team is always formidable.  If you stand on a little rise in Jon and Megan’s back yard, out past the swimming pool, hot tub, and the two eighty foot palm trees, and look over all the flowers, you can see the white bell tower of the St. Mary’s Chapel down in the valley.  It is an absolutely lovely view.

     In the morning, after a very pleasant evening and a great meal, Wayne and I continued our journey with two cases of assorted Birchwood Place wines tucked in the back of Wayne’s big pickup.  We left by seven am and attacked the San Francisco traffic at morning rush hour.  In thirty minutes we were through Oakland and on the Bay Bridge, going into San Francisco proper.

     San Francisco has a well-deserved reputation for being a bit weird.  Sort of like Austin in California.  They, like Austin, want to be green and smart and permissive and maybe a bit superior all at the same time.  That way, they can be aloof and cool as they drink chardonnay and eat ceviche.  Please don’t try to confuse them with reason—they know how they feel. 

     The Austinites who settled in San Francisco outlawed freeways in their city.  We came off the Bay Bridge and were dumped into the city streets, along with hundreds of other motorists all headed in different directions.  I was as surprised as anyone when I discovered we were still moving—in fact, we were moving pretty fast--too fast to properly check out all the spectacular young ladies on their way to work—or perhaps on their way home.  We crossed through the city and picked up the access road to the Golden Gate Bridge in relatively short order—crossing the Golden Gate was one of our must-dos on the trip---by eight-thirty we were in Sausalito and the fog-shrouded Golden Gate was in our rearview mirror.   Maybe those weird dudes know something—if you don’t build all those freeways, people will figure out some other way to get around and it might actually be just as good---or better.

     North of Sausalito we were back in Wine Country—this time it was billed as “Coastal” wine.   The countryside was beautiful, with low mountains covered with trees and forests and striped with vineyards.  It was like Colorado with grape vines.   Along this road, the wineries were gigantic—I saw a group of buildings as big as a Wal-Mart distribution center and idly wondered what it was—it turned out to be a well-known winery.  A few miles later, I saw another huge building and looked carefully to identify which wine it housed.  It was a Wal-Mart distribution center.

     We stayed on Highway 101 as we went north.  Highway One was closed in places and looked to be more trouble than it was worth because of frequent breaks and irregular spans of good road.  We missed Mendocino, a little city I wanted to see.  It’s an old whaling village.  My understanding is that it was settled in the late 1800’s by sea captains from New England who had migrated here to follow the whales.  Consequently, all the housing and other architecture was copied from New England.  You’ve probably seen Mendocino---it’s portrayed as “Cabot Cove” and was featured in the TV show, “Murder, She Wrote.” 

     Mendocino was the home of an acquaintance of mine, Cammy King, who played Bonnie Blue Butler in the movie, “Gone With The Wind.”  Unfortunately, Cammy, a cancer victim, passed away last year.  She was one of the last surviving members of the cast since she was only about five when the movie was made.   She was a nice lady and was anxious to show me her little whaling town.  I will always be sorry I missed it.

     My dad may have said it best—he said, “Getting old is not so bad.  It does get harder when all your friends start to die.”



Approaching the Bridge



Unusual Activity on the High Plains

      At that blacksmith shop next to the spreading mesquite bush, some children coming home from school looked in at the open door.  They said that old coot was in there hammering out iron feathers.  The kids love to see the flaming forge and hear the bellows roar, but they must be mistaken---nobody would make an iron feather.  They’d be too heavy to fly.

     One of the hyper little boys caught some burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing-floor and burned his hand.  His parents are going to sue the blacksmith for leaving the door open.  Now, he’ll really have to earn what e’re he can.

     He’s out there right now, hammering with measured beat and slow.  Surely he’s not trying to make iron feathers.   ‘Course you can’t never tell---after all, it is Lubbock.



The Smith wears a straw hat to conceal his long, crisp, black locks



Road Trip Number 7 Half Moon Bay and Moraga

     After we left Big Horace and Coffee Mia, we turned away from the sea and visited the agricultural area east of the Coast Mountains.  We meandered thru that part of the country exploring, commenting on the beauty, the super-efficient farms, the orchards, the vineyards.  This truly may be the breadbasket of the nation.  We took a spectacular back road across the mountains and came out on the coast at Half Moon Bay, where we found a little beach park and enjoyed the strawberries I mentioned earlier.



Wayne, supporting the artistic symbol of Half Moon Bay.  Evidently, pigeons have no respect for art.



     We left Half Moon Bay, crossed the narrow peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay and drove thru San Mateo.  All of this travel was on freeways, which were mostly elevated above the city.  Eventually, we crossed the Bay on a seven mile bridge which, I guess, should be called a causeway.   This took us to the city of Hayward, where our freeway merged with two other freeways and veered north, toward Oakland.



     When you live seventy five years you learn a lot of things, but bladder control is not one of them.  All that coffee and all those freeways left me in a terrible condition and I pleaded for Wayne to find a place and pull over, which would make it necessary for us to get off the freeway.  Wayne, in his “Let’s run the blacktop” mode, was reluctant to do that.

     I said, with some emotion, “Wayne, in about two minutes, I’m going to have to pee.  I can do that anywhere you choose—either in a public restroom somewhere, behind a convenient bush or on these fancy leather seats.  If the Queen of England joins us and sits in the back seat having tea, I will still have to pee.  She will not be amused.   It is no longer up to me.”  Wayne pulled off at the next exit.

     I climbed back into Wayne’s truck and took my usual position, riding shotgun.  It is amazing how much more detail I saw as we drove along.   I was no longer-----preoccupied.  I looked at the map to best figure our route and discovered a road thru the mountains directly into Moraga.  That road would offer two desirable results--it would cut about forty miles off our trip and get us away from the freeway.

     Sheppard Canyon Road appeared to intersect the access road of our freeway and go directly over the mountains to Moraga.  Wayne and I decided to go that way and took the appropriate exit.  We stayed on the access road and Wayne pulled into a station.  “Do we need gas?” I asked.

     “No. I thought you might want to use the facilities.”  Wayne said.  He was learning.  Since I didn’t, he decided he might as well.  There were several locals standing around—two of them worked at the station which also sold tires and did mechanic work---the others seemed to be spectators.  I decided to visit with them while Wayne took care of his business.   I didn’t really need directions, but it was a convenient way to start a conversation.



     “According to the map I have in there, Sheppard Canyon Road is up here about four blocks on the right.  Is that a good way to get to Moraga?”  I asked the fellow who seemed to be in charge.  His Exxon uniform shirt said “Bill” over the pocket.

     “You are lucky you stopped and asked!” Bill said.  “Sheppard Canyon Road don’t come all the way down here, like the map shows.  It stops about six blocks up the hill—you need to turn right on Wheeler Street and just stay on it.  It will all of a sudden become Sheppard Canyon and go right in the back way to Moraga.  I used to work over in Moraga at a tire store--broke into this business over there.”

     “That’s funny,” I said.  “We met a guy this morning over in Marina who used to run a tire store in Moraga.”

     “You gotta be talking about Big Horace Mercurio!   I worked for him for three years over there.  I hear he has a Deli or Café or something like that in Marina.  He’s a good ole boy---for an Italian!” 

      The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up.  It was eerie--over seven million people in the Bay Area and in one day I randomly met two who had worked together at the same tire store in Moraga---several years ago.

     Bill was right.  We would have never found our road from that map.  We turned on Wheeler and, sure enough, in about a mile, it became Sheppard Canyon Road.  In a few minutes, we were in the forest primeval.  The road curved and switched back and narrowed.   It was very strange—even though we were in the center of the densely populated Bay Area, the road started to feel like a mountain road in the wilds of Colorado.  We were climbing in a forest--there were gigantic Pine and Fir trees, but no houses that I could see---we passed occasional secluded driveways protected by electric gates.  I am sure we were in a very exclusive neighborhood.  We passed a small private school, and then had the road to ourselves for several miles.  We climbed over the ridge and started down the other side. 

     Soon the road widened, straightened, and curbs appeared on either side.  We passed an Exxon station.  Wayne was suddenly very serious.  “Do you need to stop?” he asked. 



Wild Turkey and Coke

     I don't generally do this, but I want to always keep you folks under the big top, so to speak.  This happened yesterday morning between Kerrville and Fredericksburg, so I thought I would keep you all up to date on the "breaking" news.  To those of you who like Wild Turkey and Coca Cola, and I know there are not many of you, this gives it a whole new meaning to the phrase.

     I do know a couple of guys who like Crown Royal and Diet Coke, but don't worry Wayne or Rogers--I won't tell anyone. 



Wild Turkey and Coca Cola



Weird Happenings in a Lubbock Cotton Field

     In a cotton field outside Lubbock, adjacent to a spreading mesquite bush, the local smithy stands.  His brow is wet with honest sweat.  You’d be sweating too, if you had to stand next to that flaming forge all day, hammering on a piece of hot iron.  For the last eight months, the roar of the bellows and sound of a small sledge have echoed through the lonely cotton fields around his shop.    

     He runs a large and sinewy hand through his long, crisp, black hair and keeps on hammering.  No wonder that dude has muscles in his brawny arms.  They’re probably strong as iron bands.  What is he hammering on?  Everyone knows nothing ever happens in Lubbock, so what on earth is going on here?  Why is it going on now?  I knew weird stuff was going to start happening---this is leap year.

World Championship Barbeque Cookoff---Houston---Number Four

The first time I ever saw a “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” we had gone to the rodeo with Hugh and Susie.  Hugh had been invited to stop by a “little barbeque booth” somewhere on the north end of the Astrodome parking lot, and we decided to go there before the rodeo. In the far northeastern corner of the lot, about a dozen “teams” had set up camp and were busy smoking meat, drinking beer, playing country music, and having fun.

There was a small group of visitors, including ourselves, who strolled from booth to booth, just soaking up the atmosphere. Everyone invited us into their area, forced a cold beer, a chunk of brisket, or a sausage wrap into our hands and said something like, “How do you like that brisket? Cooked it fourteen hours over Bullnut, the finest cooking wood in East Texas.” Or “Try some of this here sausage. Made it myself, last fall.” The evening was clear and crisp for Houston, even in February. The music, the barbeque, the aromas, and the people all blended together, and mesquite smoke permeated the whole scene. The sun went down, and we never made it to the rodeo. We were hooked.

Rules were few back then. Sort of, “You give us two hundred and fifty dollars, and don’t ruin our parking lot, and we’ll let you have a forty foot square “booth.” Get in here Thursday or Friday, judging will be Sunday, and you clean it up and get out of here by dark Monday. We mean broom clean, too, boys.”

As quickly as Hugh and I could get a team together, which didn't take long, we started in the “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” business. Now understand that this is not a real profitable business. Five or six of us would chip in and pay the entry fee, buy about forty cases of  beer, a few dozen briskets, some chickens, sausage, ice, cokes, whiskey, assorted bar supplies, utensils, plates, napkins, and several bales of hay for seating.  We’d get a trailer mounted barbeque pit, some tables and chairs, a flat bed truck (for the band), a generator, some lights, a motor home, two Porta Cans, and a cord or so of mesquite wood.

 Friday morning, we’d all show up out there with tools and lumber and build our booth. Someone would cook up a bunch of fajitas and smoked sausage for “camp meat,” and we’d eat them with tortillas and picante sauce while we worked. By mid-afternoon we were set up, and had brisket and chickens on the pit, beans on the butane stove, potato salad, jalapenos, pickles, onions, and “light” bread on the side. Friday night was usually spent just working out the kinks in the system and our cooking equipment, visiting with other teams or friends that dropped by, and looking at the people. The “people” we looked at, incidentally, were mostly female, and many of them were spectacular. I’m not sure why a happening like this seems to attract a disproportionate number of very attractive women, but it always seems to be that way. You won’t hear me squawking about it.

Saturday, the pace quickens. Each team is assigned a committeeman to coordinate its efforts, enforce the rules, and monitor the cooking of the contest meat. For several years, our committeeman was a girl, a nice looking blonde C.P.A. She was responsible for about three teams, and worked closely with each of them. We could cook about anything we wanted back then, and the only rule was that it be fresh and raw twenty four hours before the judging. The chief cook would arrange for the monitor to come by and tag the meat anytime after noon Saturday.

Tagging the meat was a simple process. The monitor provided a numbered strap of metal and a special pair of pliers to fasten it. I’ve seen the same kind of straps used to seal box cars or truck boxes on eighteen wheelers. They pull the numbered strap through the meat, slide on a small metal sphere, and crimp it together with the special pliers. The meat can then be put back in a cooler, marinated, or thrown on the grill, the monitor doesn’t care. When the meat is cooked and ready, the strap will still be attached, and the number will be checked before the meat is sliced.

While that little drama is unfolding, the rest of the team is busy, getting ready for serious partying. Friends, relatives, employees, and customers of team members have been dropping by all day, having a beer, Bloody Mary, scotch, or just a coke or iced tea. They nibble on fajitas, shrimp, quail, chicken breasts, catfish fillets, rib eye steaks, or whatever else might be on the grill. The range of food is fantastic, the more unusual or exotic, the better. Rattlesnake, alligator, or armadillo were not uncommon. Some Cajuns had a big fry pot set up, and were constantly deep frying whole turkeys. That was about the only recognizable thing those guys served.

By mid-afternoon Saturday, Western bands are setting up, some are already playing, people are strolling around, all the booths are complete and making smoke, color is everywhere. Almost every booth is adorned with  flags of some sort. American and Texas banners are most popular, but many other states, several foreign countries, colleges, universities, corporations, and cities are all represented. Corporate logos are plastered in every conceivable place, and the team names run from the sublime to the ridiculous.  We were the “Jalapeno Pickers” one year.  I tried to get “Jalapeno Peckers” past the thought police, but it didn’t work.

I better stop now.  I don’t want to bore you and these things get pretty long if I don’t exert some discipline..  I know, I know.  Why start now?