It was the sign of the pig.  No zodiac stuff — a real sign, a silhouette, a sheet metal sign hung from chains, “Hawkins Bar-B-Q.” 

We shot looks of excitement at one another, although laden with five prior Q’s in a row — each.  But how could we resist.  The doors and windows were strapped with heavy wire, coated in layers of paint never to be removed.  Cinder block walls were iced with the same drab paint and layers of neglect. But the indications were all there — the aroma, the sign “open” on a plastic flip-side dangling behind the mesh, and a few cars parked like customers park when headed for a REAL chopped shoulder sandwich.

It was McLemore at Elvis Presley circa 1979.  Brother Jim and I had taken the day to gnaw our way through as many Q’s as desired, following our noses and instincts on the Q-uest.  We had just downed a jumbo at Leonard’s right across the street after a preliminary visit to the pit house with its vast chamber of smoke, glowing coals, and dozens of pork shoulders dripping with goodness.  The attendant in white apron barely moved from his ladder-back chair during our visit.

We had, in fact, just left the Leonard’s parking lot when the sign caught our eye, and we knew we were headed-in for No. 6.  Parked and determined, we pulled back the burglar door and pushed open the deep brown interior one in reverse swing.  Uneasy, but one step in, and we were committed.

“Is it OK if we come in?” the two college boys asked of the sparse line of customers seated at the bar — tall boys in hand, glancing our way as if to say, “what the hell!?”  “Sho’ man, it’s cool. Come on in.”

Our eyes adjusted slowly to the near dungeon light levels and took our seats in the line.  Coltrane, Monk and unknown greats of jazz were sewing their way off the juke box through the still film of Q smoke just above seated head height.  Whatever conversation there might have been was paused.  It was clearly now our turn to speak to break the ice.

“I guess you got some shoulder cooking?”  I said, of the obvious.
“Umm…hmm.”
“Well, I guess we’d each like a Bar-B-Q.  Two please.”

The brief audible exchange was enough to bring back the chatting that we had interrupted.  It allowed us to begin our own in low respectful observances of others’ space.  It was sacred ground.  Our bartender Barbecuer was the adopted son of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins who had both now passed.  He was the inheritor and guardian of the pit.

With our order, he took accurate hold of a flashlight and the steel door handle to the pit simultaneously — left hand on the pit, right on the light.  The pit door was about 3 feet square and squarely located at the center of the back bar, framed by the brick of the oven itself.  Our eyes gazed into the pitch black chamber unable to follow the beam of his light — only smoke and blackness.  With his left hand free he grabbed a half-size pitch fork and began snaring meat from within the cavernous wonder-world of slow- cooked shoulder on its rack.  Chunks of succulent divinity came flopping out of the abyss onto the heavy wooden chopping board, immediately and strategically located just in front of the open pit door.  Without any loss of fluidity in his motions the door was sealed back, and the meat lay mounded, steaming, pink and browned before our eyes.

Our conversation had halted as we watched him flow.  Two sets of buns were split and tossed to the top of the adjoining griddle as he seemingly grew multiple hands and arms taking on a symphonic mastery of all the components.  A chopping knife began to rhythmically pulverize the meat into small chunks, as he shuffled two heaping spatulas of diced pork right onto the super-heated hot iron top where the buns lay.  A sharp hissing sound, like a crash cymbal, followed as the meat received its signature Hawkins searing — first one side, then the other.  Slaw met the bottom bun as it came off — toasted hot and ready.  The meat went on and the decanter of squeeze Q sauce was administered over the branded bronze Bar-B-Q pork just before the bun cap went down.

Our maestro placed our sandwiches individually on small paper plates barely larger than the diameter of the bun and set them neatly in front of each of us.  From his vantage point, we probably looked like we’d never seen a barbecue sandwich before, mouths agape and speechless.

“You boys wannna beer?”
“Uh, uh, sure.  We’ll take a couple of Buds.  Tall boys, please.”

Grabbing the bun of the sandwich, I was immediately aware of the light oil film over its smoothness. The sandwich was firm and neatly bound together – meat, slaw, sauce, and bread.  It was so easy to manage – right into the Q-trap.

 
We moaned and groaned with each bite as the crisp layer of singed meat was broken and its juices and those of the slaw and sauce ran down our wrists.  Nearly taking the Lord’s name in vain but not wanting to offend, we struggled for the means of expression at our delight.  Moaning won out barely audible under the saxophone, bass, and high hat of the juke box.

Finishing the last sip of our beers and thanking Mr. Hawkins, we lifted ourselves into the cloud of hovering Q-smoke to make our exit.

 
“What do we owe you, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Awe, this one’s on me.  You fellas come back again though.  OK?”

Now, some 31 years later, as I occasionally pass by the sign, that now reads “Soul Food,” I think, “Man, Mr. Hawkins, if only I could!”