The story of RJ's Southwestern Style Chili
The drive along the back roads of the West Texas is a lot more interesting than taking the expressways. Small towns always seem to have at least one small restaurant with someone's name and one specialty dish. It was lunch time as I drove by, and the small bare wood building with an old sign reading "RJ's Roadside" was surrounded by pickups and flatbeds, so I knew it must be a good place to eat.
But if it weren't for the packed parking lot, I probably would have passed the place by. The sign was pretty worn. It was originally built from rough-hewn planks nailed up on a few upright poles attached to the front of the building. But the whitewash background and red lettering had long since faded into each other leaving a kind of pink tinted backdrop to the only slightly redder letters.
I pushed through the screen door that slammed behind me, powered by not just one, but two rusty screen door springs. No time for a gas-piston door closer in those hills where the flies follow you like love-starved puppies toward the taste of food. I found an empty stool at the varnished plywood counter, and was anxious to try the only dish on the menu, Chili.
My first spoonful was amazing to say the least. Not too spicy, but with a hearty taste that said "welcome home." I spotted RJ Jr. behind the counter and called him over. He was easy to pick out; the only person wearing a cook's apron. RJ Jr., who everyone just called him Junior, had that West Texas sun-beaten skin, a full head of white hair, and pearly white teeth. He had wrinkles on his face that showed from years of a constant smile, but his smile was currently turned down into heavy sadness.
As we talked, Junior told me how he had been here all his life, taking over from his father, and how heartbroken he was to have to close the place down in less than a week. A few of the regular patrons sitting at the counter next to me chimed in to say what a loss to the world (and their eating habits) the closing would be.
RJ's had been in the same location since the days of the depression, and his recipe had remained the same since his father created it. It looked to me like some of the customers had also been there that long too. And if their main diet for all those years had been RJ's chili, they were living testimonials to consistent quality and healthy contents.
I really felt for Junior, and at the same time I saw a golden opportunity. It wasn't that the business was in trouble. Far from it; loyal customers were either eating in or buying quart containers to take home as fast as he could make it. But Junior's wife, Monica, had taken ill and they had no children to take over the business. So, to take care of his wife and be with her at the hospital, he needed to close up shop.
Of course medical expenses were mounting up and he had no real assets other than his restaurant. The building wasn't worth much and wasn't even worth renovating. I asked Junior if he had shared his recipe with anyone, to which he replied "Never!"
So there I was, with a golden recipe and the opportunity to help a family in need. I wrote a number on a napkin and slid it across the counter to Junior, looked him square in the eye and said, "I'll write you a check for that amount right this minute for the exclusive rights to your recipe." You would have thought I had offered a million dollars to him. Junior broke down sobbing and grabbed both my hands. "Son, you're an answer to a prayer."
A week later Junior signed over the title to RJ's Roadside, climbed into his pickup with Monica and drove her off. I had the demolition crew take down the building, though I kept the old sign to remind me of Junior and his place. All that's left is RJ's Southwestern Style Chili. I'm sure you'll enjoy it every bit as much as I do.