Purty Dang Good: From Bartender to Barbecue Tender, A True Story

All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author. Printed in the United States of America.

Copyright 2021 James Stephen Burney

All rights reserved

1st edition

ISBN: 978-1-66780-255-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66780-256-5 (eBook)

Many names of people included in this story have been changed in respect for privacy. The accounts and occurrences described are from author memory and, as such, are the sole viewpoint and opinion of the author alone.

For Leni

&

Hannah

&

Kyle

&

Echo

Thank you for putting up with my crazy idea.

It meant the world to me to have each of you along for the ride.

Table of Contents

Prelude

Part One: The History

Chapter One: 1985–1987

Chapter Two: 1988–1991

Chapter Three: 1992–1997

Chapter Four: 1998–2001

Chapter Five: 2001

Chapter Six: 2001–2003

Part Two: The Journey

Chapter Seven: February 2004

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten: March 2004

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve :April 2004

Chapter Thirteen: May 2004

Chapter Fourteen: June 2004

Chapter Fifteen: July 2004

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen: August 2004

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Part Three: The Outcome

Chapter Twenty-Four: September 2004

Chapter Twenty-Five: October 2004

Chapter Twenty-Six: October/November 2004

Chapter Twenty-Seven: November 2004

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine: December 2004

Chapter Thirty: 2005–2019

Chapter Thirty-One: September 2019

The Recipes

With Thanks

Prelude

The seed was planted when I attended a funeral in San Antonio, but I wasn’t aware of it then. I had no clue what was coming when I flew in from Seattle to be there for Tom.

Growing up in Texas, we had never been very close. My only brother was seven years older than me. He was of medium height and build with brown eyes and dark wavy hair. Wearing black-framed glasses from an early age, he seemed to develop a personality that was both serious and introverted. On the other hand, I grew to be tall and skinny with blue eyes and light brown straight hair. I developed a personality that was both extroverted and attention-seeking. It’s safe to say nobody immediately took us to be brothers. Tom claimed it was because I had been adopted and Mom and Dad were just keeping it from me. He pretty much saw me as an annoying little brat.

As adults we went in completely different directions. He became a certified public accountant. He crunched numbers and got off on reading up on tax codes. Whatever I was, it wasn’t about any of that kind of stuff. He married young, just past his twenty-first birthday, with a year to go before he finished college, and even though he worked hard to be a dutiful husband, by the time he was approaching thirty he couldn’t escape the realization he was miserable in his marriage. He wanted out. Was it her fault? His fault? No telling; probably a little of both. I wasn’t there. I had visions of grandeur. I left Texas at the age of nineteen to go to New York City to chase dreams of being a professional actor. As their marriage played out its real-life drama, I was consumed with myself and my world of make-believe dramas.

When they divorced in the early ’80s, it took me by surprise. They had two children and a home, and her side of the family seemed to dote on him. What went wrong? After all the years they’d invested in each other, how could they just pitch it aside like that?

Our own parents had divorced. I was hoping for better for my brother, sister, and myself. It was why I had no interest in being married. All I cared about was finding acting jobs. I had no room for a committed relationship with entanglements that would limit my independence. I liked the idea of being married someday, a day far off in the future. And I didn’t want to make the same mistakes my parents had, particularly my father.

He was a train wreck, married at least five times. It might have been six; the final woman he lived with said they were married, but he would neither confirm nor deny it. Neither of them wore a wedding ring. I knew I didn’t want to be like him.

After the divorce, my brother left the small town we grew up in and relocated to the closest city, San Antonio. He went through a long period of bachelorhood, his first experience of that as an adult. Sometime later, he met and married a woman named Maggie.

This initially sent shock waves through my sister and me. Maggie brought a nine-year-old girl and her little brother into the marriage. We weren’t sure this was a good idea, to marry into an instant family while also having his own young children from the previous marriage to coordinate into the mix. Despite our concerns, Maggie was unfailingly sweet and gracious, and her kids were beyond adorable. We got over ourselves and our reservations.

Their marriage lasted seventeen years, the same length of time our own parents were married, but theirs did not end in divorce. Maggie was having trouble with chronic stomach pain, discomfort, and indigestion. She saw doctors. There were tests to see if she had food allergies, if there was an ulcer, something in her digestive system that wasn’t working right. Cancer was not immediately considered. Maggie wasn’t a smoker. She had no apparent family history of cancer. She was in her mid-forties and seemed reasonably fit and healthy. The doctor said cancer was a remote possibility.

It was cancer. By the time the diagnosis was certain, the tumor in her stomach had spread to vital organs throughout her body. She fought bravely, but her end was inevitable. Tom stayed in a state of denial throughout, maintaining steadfastly that he would take her home from the hospital and she would be one of the lucky ones God would choose to save. She was too good a person; she did not deserve to be taken before her time in such an unfair way.

Her last days of life were cruel, the disease unrelenting in systematically destroying her body and any resistance to its advance. Her passing was devastating to her children and my brother. Their grief was inconsolable.

When the service concluded and Maggie was lowered into the ground on a cold February day, we closed ranks around Tom and her shattered children, gently urging them, as much as they allowed us, to waiting cars and the long ride home. At the house, we did what families do when they awkwardly try to provide some sense of comfort and normalcy to what is most definitely not comfortable or normal. We ate and drank and made small talk. We tried to be strong.

It was there, watching him keeping his feelings in check and being the polite host, that I felt empathy for my brother.

I wanted, more than I ever had up to that point in my life, to have something in common with Tom, to find a way to build a deeper bond between us, to be a better brother to him than I had been, and to share more of our lives. I just had to figure out how to make that happen. And at that moment, surrounded by sorrow, on a gray, chilly, dreary afternoon in 2004, I was coming up empty.

I was at the beginning of a journey I previously never would have thought possible. I just didn’t know it yet.

Part One

The History

Before the Idea

1985–2004

Chapter One

1985–1987

In 1985, my actress girlfriend, Kimberly, who was living with me in New York, decided to return home to Seattle. At the time, we thought we were breaking up, but a year later I gave up trying to make it as an actor and ended up following her to the Northwest. We became engaged, and I thought Seattle might be the right place for us to start our life together. I had always heard nice things about the city, including that there was a vibrant theater scene that I could possibly become involved with.

Then she got pregnant. As her belly grew over the weeks that turned into months, she kept holding me back from making any plans for a wedding. There were more pressing issues we had to deal with first. Primarily, I needed to come up with a decent job. I needed to find a way to make money. There was only one way I thought I might be able to.

You guys looking for any bartenders?

The mangy-looking guy behind the bar sized me up for a minute and with a devious smile said, Yeah, as a matter of fact we are. Hold on a second, let me get the boss. He’s in the back.

This was the fifth bar I had walked into along Broadway on Capitol Hill, and it was definitely the seediest-looking of them all. There were no windows letting in light or fresh air, so the room was dark and smelly. Over at a far wall was a big-screen TV playing music videos. That seemed to be the place’s biggest draw. Young hipsters had wandered in off the avenue to stand and gawk at MTV for as long as they could without even trying to order a drink. No one working there seemed to notice or care.

I had worked as a bartender in a bowling alley in Brooklyn when I was a struggling actor, one of many, many survival jobs while pursuing an artistic career. A career that peaked with being cast in a Broadway show that bombed, and then declined into performing children’s theater on the road in elementary schools and doing musical theater on the Jersey shore next to a boardwalk carnival arcade.

It was probably fortunate that I started in a bowling alley because I didn’t really know what I was doing. I found that even despite that, slinging drinks could include some tips. And if you could get into the right place, the tips could be pretty good. After gaining some experience at the bowling alley, I had enough confidence to talk my way into getting hired in an Upper Eastside nightclub. Besides driving a cab, that was some of the best cash I made in those days.

That cesspool on the corner of Broadway and Denny was my first bartender gig in Seattle. It was a magnet for every oddball, sleazeball, and degenerate in the Capital Hill neighborhood. I worked the day shift Monday through Friday, opening the bar at six o’clock in the morning and withstanding it until two in the afternoon. The regulars arrived from different graveyard shifts. Some were practitioners of overnight street commerce in what could loosely be called the service industry. Others were leftover revelers from the previous night who just didn’t know when to stop. The revelers I usually turned around out the door pretty quickly, but the others I just had to tolerate.

The haggard-looking imbibers who lined up before me on the bar stools every morning relentlessly scrutinized my pours with slack-jawed concentration. Make it a good one, sonny, make it a good one.

Mercifully, I was only there a short time.

One of the regulars was a black guy named Maurice, who worked as a cook at a place called Oscar’s. He said they were relocating to a bigger space. The police station was down at the corner, and the owner, Oscar himself, thought moving a little farther away into the Central District might be better for business. They could use another bartender. A white boy like you could do mighty good there. Whooeee, they’d really take to you.

Maurice set me up to come by to meet Barbara, Oscar’s wife. She ran the place. She was a German immigrant Oscar had met and married when he was stationed there about thirty years earlier. She still had an accent. They were the first interracial couple I ever met. Barbara took one look at me and hired me on the spot to be their prime bartender when the new place opened at Twenty-Second Street and Madison Avenue.You’ll do well with us, she said. Just take care of the house. The regular customers won’t give you any trouble, but if they do, I know how to handle them. Take care of the house. If you do that, we’ll take good care of you. I was behind the bar six days a week, Tuesday through Saturday, from 6:00 p.m. until closing at 2:00 a.m., and I was working there when my daughter, Hannah, was born.

I rarely saw a white face in the place except Barbara’s, and I was sure the novelty of having me there drew in a number of curious neighborhood residents to see me in action, but no one ever was rude or unkind toward me. In fact, after Barbara had spent my first week introducing and presenting me to all her patrons, I was held in high regard. It was like I was appreciated for just being there with them, just treating them politely. The money was decent, though not great. The neighborhood was a little rough, but I always felt safe when I was at work. Nobody wanted any trouble with the police over messing up a white guy.

Then something happened. And Barbara wasn’t around to handle it.

It was early in the evening; the crowd wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Barbara and Oscar were away at Longacres, playing the ponies, something Barbara was very shrewd at, probably due more to relationships she had made in the paddocks rather than from any innate knowledge of horses. There were maybe a half dozen or so in the place and a couple more at the bar. The waitress was getting drinks from me and bringing them over to tables from time to time.

A man and a woman, both middle-aged, were sitting together at a small table. They had been there most of the afternoon, and I had a suspicion this wasn’t the first bar they had stopped at during the day. I was considering cutting them off, never a pleasant prospect, but they weren’t bothering anybody, so I served them one more round, which the waitress brought over to them. She put the drinks on the table and waited to be paid. The man said he hadn’t ordered the drinks, the woman had. Then she said, You damn right I ordered ’em. And you gonna pay for ’em. I done bought you three drinks and now you gonna buy. Pay this girl.

He sat rigidly. I ain’t ax’t you to buy me drinks. You bought ’em. I drank ’em.

Her eyes narrowed as she started to smolder. You better pay that girl.

He sniffed. I think you done drank enough anyway.

The woman leaned in and almost hissed at him. Are you gonna pay for these drinks?

The waitress just stood by, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

He shrugged. I ain’t got no money.

Now her eyes opened wide. You ain’t got no money? Bullshit! I know when you ain’t got money and I know when you do, and I know for goddamn sure you got plenty. Yo’ fuckin’ pocket is bulgin’ with it!

He just smiled, revealing yellow teeth. That ain’t money.

She stood up. You muthafucka! Are you gonna buy these goddamn drinks or not?

I started to come around the bar. I had to do something. Though I wasn’t sure exactly what. But before I could get out from behind it, she reached into a shoulder-strapped handbag on the table and took out a large handgun. I stopped in my tracks.

The waitress dropped her tray and ran screaming into the kitchen. Everyone in the place flew out, streaming through the exit door into the street. I was frozen in terror.

Maurice stuck his head out from the kitchen.

Get over here! Get down! At least get yo’ ass down! He jerked himself back into the kitchen.

The woman glared at me for a moment, then dismissed me. There were only the three of us in the place. She turned her attention back to the man sitting at the table. He sat perfectly still.

The woman waved her gun at him—it was really a big gun—and then stomped in a little circle around their table, spewing at him, jerking the gun about to punctuate her rant.

You a cheap, worthless, two-bit, good for nuthin’ niggah! You ain’t worth shit! You sit on yo’ fuckin’ ass suckin’ down drinks on my money and you ain’t even decent enough to treat me like a lady!

She kept swinging the gun wildly. She didn’t have her finger against the trigger; she was holding it by the handle. He didn’t respond to her jabbing it at him to make her points. He was motionless, his face frozen in a fixed stare straight ahead.

You think you can jus’ have me anytime you want and I’m s’posed to jus’ be grateful fo’ yo’ sorry ass? His gaze was straight ahead, not meeting her eyes. That what you think? Huh?

She was in front of him again. She glowered at him, but he was implacable. He wouldn’t give her anything.

The room was deathly quiet. She stood across the small table from him, her eyes burning into him. He never met her stare, only sat looking straight ahead. Then, finally, her shoulders seemed to relax. The arm with the gun dangled by her side.

The approaching sound of sirens could be heard. They were still off at a distance.

Shit! I’m too good for you. She paused, sneering at him. You’re not worth the bullet.

She set the gun down on the table, snatched up her handbag, and strode haughtily out of the bar.

The man, still seated, turned and looked at me. He just shook his head and smiled.

I looked at the large gun still lying on the table and took a deep breath. When Barbara got back from the racetrack, I gave her my two weeks’ notice.

After that, I got busy looking for a new job, and got a tip from one of Kim’s sisters to check out the downtown hotels because the holiday season was coming on. That was an active time for banquets serving office parties and such. Getting hired on by a hotel, even if it was temporary, could lead to getting my foot in the door of a better gig somewhere else.

I didn’t go downtown very much, so I wasn’t familiar with where places were. I started at the Westin, when I saw their large towers standing out. I found the Sheraton. I went into the swanky Four Seasons. Everywhere I was handed an application, told to fill it out and bring it back to the front desk, and it would be passed on to the food and beverage director. It was always the same routine and I was feeling like I was banging my head against a wall.

I wandered over by the Bon Marche department store. I thought I might catch the monorail to the Seattle Center, see if the Space Needle was hiring. I passed a discreet opening to an older building, maybe fifteen to twenty stories high, planted on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Olive Way. It had a sign that said, The Mayflower Park Hotel. It was a little smaller than the other hotels, but I pushed through the double-thick glass doors to take a look inside.

I was in a passageway leading into what looked like a tastefully appointed lobby area, but I didn’t reach it because on my left when I walked in was the opening to the bar. A brass-plated sign simply read Oliver’s.

It was fully carpeted. There were marble-topped tables with plush, fancy, dark wicker chairs. Upholstered benches along a wall with smaller variations of the same tables running the entire length of the room. Antique-looking lamps hanging from the walls.

As I came through and went up a couple of steps into the main lounge, I saw a large, ornate crystal chandelier hanging from the middle of the very high ceiling. The wall behind the bar and along the side of the room was made up of a magnificent set of wood-latticed, clear-pane windows, almost from floor to ceiling. One could sit at the bar or some of the tables and have a full view of the people and traffic bustling along outside.

The appearance was one of an immaculately kept room that could have dated back decades. I thought it was the prettiest bar I had ever seen.

Can I help you?

I turned around to face a pert, peppy waitress with blond hair neatly pulled away from her face in a ponytail. She was wearing a black, knee-length skirt and a white tuxedo shirt with a black bow tie.

Hi! I was hoping you guys might be hiring.

She gave me an appraising look. What kinda job you lookin’ for, hot stuff? Not mine, I hope. She was giving me a teasing leer and looked to be eight to ten years younger than me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be flattered or insulted.

I’m a bartender.

She nodded her head. "OK. Greg’s in the back