Barbecue Story

Photo by Alexandru-Bogdan Ghita on Unsplash

When I was younger I spent a lot of time in restaurants. In high school, I washed dishes at the local pizza joint. Bartended my way through college working nights and weekends. I really liked it, liked the essence of the business, which is hospitality. To be hospitable. To welcome friends and guests with open arms and an open table. And to prepare food and drink with love and attention. It even tastes better that way, like it’s more than… just food.

Anyway. After a few years, I had a restaurant of my own. It was a chef oriented casual dining sort of thing, and a lot of hard work but worth it. The short version is it did pretty well. It was a time in American cooking when we began to move away from just copying the European classics and started doing our own thing. With our own ingredients, our own regional stamps and traditions. And people responded.

That’s when I began to think about barbecue.

Turns out we had this storage building, just a plywood outbuilding, up in the parking lot. But inside there was more. The previous tenant had left a huge rotisserie smoker, custom built in Missouri. It was so big that it must have been put in place and the building built around it. No way to move it without tearing down the walls. Not that I had a place to move it to, or wanted to move it at all.

In fact, I thought it might be the perfect place to open a barbecue restaurant. A BBQ shack. In the parking lot. And what southern cook or barbecue aficionado doesn’t appreciate the idea of that?

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

So in my spare time, I began to cook barbecue. I made sauces, worked on rub recipes, sides, learned to properly smoke meat. Pork, brisket, ribs, wings. That first Thanksgiving we smoked and sold two hundred turkeys.

Seemed like time for a road trip. A barbecue road trip.

I had been in California for a few weeks doing some food stuff, exploring Sonoma County, visiting family, and it was time to head back to Tennessee. While there I was turned on to California barbecue (who knew?) – tri-tip, a triangular cut of beef smoked over coastal oak favored in SoCal. It was very tasty.

I drove east and, on the long couple of days across Texas, learned to really appreciate Texas barbecue. Whereas in the South we favor pork, in Texas beef is king. And brisket is the crown jewel. Texas is a big state, and styles vary by region, but wherever I stopped for Q, it was some of the best I’d ever had. I don’t believe restaurants survive long in Texas plating mediocre barbecue.

I detoured up to Kansas City for their own sweet and smokey versions, and after a day there, turned back south for home, with one last stop in mind. Charlie Vergos Rendezvous in Memphis, home of the best dry rub ribs to be found this side of heaven.

It was Monday in Memphis, and between construction and a convention downtown, I had to park a few blocks away. No problem until I got to Rendezvous. And it was closed. Said it right there on the door, “Closed on Monday.” Disappointed, I walked around outside, peering in the windows, just trying to get a glimpse of the mystery, if not the taste, of dry rubbed pork ribs.

So there I was, standing there reading the menu in the window, committing it to memory, and the door opens. A slight man with white hair extended his hand.

“Charlie Vergos, how are you?”

To me, at the time, it was a little like meeting Elvis. I was a bit starstruck. And surprised. The lights were all off in the restaurant and I had thought nobody was home. I told Mr Vergos my story – cross country road trip, my restaurant, how much I admired his food.

And then he invited me inside.

“What can I fix you to eat, son?” he asked.

Told him I’d love a half rack of ribs, with beans and potato salad.

Looking around the restaurant, I realized I wasn’t completely alone. In a side booth, an African American soldier was eating a plate of ribs himself. He nodded at me, said hello, and I asked him how the ribs were?

“They’re even better than you hope they’ll be,” he replied. “I get surprised every time, and I’ve been eating here a while.”

He invited me to sit down. I was curious how he was here on a Monday when the restaurant was closed.

“My family has been knowing Mr Vergos’ family for a long time. I worked here in high school, and so did all my brothers and sisters. My uncle has been the pitmaster here for thirty years.” And he continued. “Just got back from my second tour in Afghanistan. Hard to get good ribs in Afghanistan.”

Mr Vergos brought my rib plate and sat down with us. I thanked him, told him how much I appreciated him feeding me on a closed Monday.

“Well, Anthony here came by looking to get fed. And I don’t need much of an excuse to get out of that office, back into the kitchen. So when I saw you peeking in my windows looking so hungry… well, it’s not my nature to leave a hungry man standing on the street.”

And then he wouldn’t let me pay.

“You can cook me lunch when I’m passing through up there on your mountain.” was all he said.

I ate my ribs, took my leave of Rendezvous. Headed home the last four hours of a week-long road trip, with a full belly and a warm fuzzy, blessed feeling.

Heard Mr Vergos died a few years ago, 84 years old. Beloved in Memphis, the restaurant he founded in 1948 still thrives. As it should. I always think of him and smile, remember the soft-spoken man who invited me off the street and into his home for lunch and conversation one closed Monday.

Made me feel welcome when I was passing through.