I lived in medium-sized cities (St. Petersburg and Jacksonville, Florida) until I was eight; that summer (1964) we moved to a small town, West Point, Georgia. No McDonalds. No Arbys. For that sort of fast food we had to go to Atlanta or Columbus or Montgomery. Like many small towns, West Point and its sister city in Alabama, Lanett, had unique, locally owned institutions. Whitleys Steak House was a favorite for many, especially for a Saturday night out or Sunday dinner after church. Ayres Drive-in also had an inside dining room. Their signature dish was broasted chicken -- broasted being a portmanteau of baked and roasted. But my favorite local eatery was Rogers Barbecue. On US Highway 29, on the outside of deadmans curve leading north out of town, Rogers was in a small cinderblock building under a couple of large oak trees. The building was stark white with no decoration. The sign out front simply read Rogers Barbecue in black block letters on a white plywood sign. The outside of the building was the same blinding white. Out back, a cinderblock pit held cherry-red coals of oak and hickory; the steel grate above the pit held slabs of pork and beef and chicken halves and quarters. The pit was tended by an older black man who lovingly turned the meat and basted with Rogers own secret barbecue sauce. If youve seen the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, think back on the barbecue scene to get an idea of what it was like. Rogers menu was simple -- beef, pork, and chicken barbecue, made into sandwiches or served as loose meat; Brunswick stew, and coleslaw. A refrigerated drink box had Cokes and a few other selections. There was no indoor dining, but there were a couple of picnic tables outside under the oaks for those who chose to indulge on the premises. Inside the little building, a very large black woman tended to customers. She always wore a starched white uniform, usually spotless save for the sweat stains under her arms--upper arms that easily had double the girth of my teenage thighs. I never saw this woman smile. She had a wicked gaze; looking back, I think she probably enjoyed seeing teenage white boys cringe and back off a bit as she lit into some slow-roasted cow carcass with zeal. It was fifty years ago that I was first introduced to Rogers. In the intervening years, Ive eaten in fancy restaurants and burger joints from coast to coast. Very seldom, however, have I found anything that can compare to one of those Rogers barbecue sandwiches. Chains and franchises guarantee that a McDonalds in New York is going to taste like McDonalds in Albuquerque. Carls Jr. in Sacramento will taste like Hardees in Chicago. The drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box guarantees the same level of mediocrity in Seattle and Atlanta. When we lose local businesses to national chains, we lose our unique identity as communities. We lose a little of our collective souls.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 22:48:30 +0000
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