Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: WEDNESDAY, November 15, 1995 TAG: 9511150063
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: C-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DAN CASEY STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
The frostbitten feet Gordon Barbour brought home from Korea in the early 1950s shuffle more slowly now.
It's no wonder.
Steadfastly over the past 41 years, they've held him up for countless hours in the kitchen and behind the counter of the Texas Tavern.
The downtown hamburger and chili joint has stools for its thousands of loyal customers ("served 10 at a time") but no chairs for the help.
Thursday, Barbour's feet will get a rest.
Today is his last day as full-time manager and chief chili-maker at Roanoke's landmark greasy spoon. Barbour turns 65 on Dec. 5. He's retiring.
"I'm getting too old for this stuff," Barbour said Tuesday, in between stirring batches of the chili and releasing the steam from a giant pressure cooker simmering beef.
"Sixty-five is getting too old to run up and down that counter," he added.
"Did you say Gordon's retiring?" customer Pat Cambre inquires, her tone betraying a touch of alarm. "Gosh, I've known Gordon for 26 years. I think there are a lot of people who come in here because of him - he's so friendly and he's got such a great personality."
Mark Tenney, a 34-year-old counterman with 13 Texas Tavern years under his belt, will take over the manager's job. But don't call him Barbour's replacement.
"I don't expect to replace him," Tenney says. "Succeed or follow, but not replace. He's been here a long time. He's into it. He's part of it. It's part of him."
"I have mixed feelings with Gordon's retirement," says Texas Tavern owner James N. Bullington. "We've been such good and long-standing friends over the years. I'm going to miss the daily contact with him."
|n n| The red, white and stainless steel tavern, "Roanoke's Millionaires' Club," itself turned 65 this year.
Barbour never aspired to the manager's job. Rather, the Southwest Roanoke resident landed there more by accident.
As a boy, he was a Texas Tavern customer. After he returned from Marine duty in Korea, he took a job as a city firefighter.
On his way to work one day in 1954, Barbour made his usual stop at the tavern for coffee. Then-owner James G. Bullington offered him a part-time job behind the counter. Bullington was a second generation owner. He'd inherited the business from his father, Issac Newton Bullington.
"I said, 'yeah, I'll work,'" Barbour recalled.
Fourteen years later, in 1968, he quit firefighting and took over the place when the younger Bullington retired. The tavern now is owned by his son, James N. Bullington - who one day expects to turn it over to his son, James M. Bullington, a Roanoke College senior.
Not much has changed in the restaurant since Barbour first donned an apron.
The 15-cent hamburgers and hot dogs now cost 95 cents. And the beans come in 25-pound sacks, not 100-pounders as they used to.
But the famous chili, which goes out the door in batches sometimes as large as 40 or 50 gallons, is still made according to a secret recipe handed down by the Bullingtons.
And Barbour isn't about to reveal what that is. With a gentle smile and a gleam in his eye, he says there are "seven or eight, maybe 10 ingredients. You won't see me mix those spices."
|n n| A short talk with Barbour culls a mountain of memories that evoke laughter, head-shaking and wide eyes.
nCraziest thing that ever happened: Back in the early 1960s, employees melted ice on the sidewalk with a kerosene-fueled flame thrower.
In the tavern's cramped back kitchen, one worker decided to teach another how to use the device. Accidentally aiming it toward a wooden coat locker, he fired it up - setting the entire locker ablaze.
Still a full-time city firefighter, Barbour found himself answering a call at his part-time job.
"The fire trucks arrived," he recalls. "All the help was standing outside. All the customers stayed inside. They were still eating. The firefighters had to run them out of here."
nBest joke on a regular customer: As the man sat down at the counter, Barbour served him with an unwashed bowl and buttermilk glass. And a paper napkin, which the tavern serves its hamburgers on.
After the pair chatted a while, the man looked at the empty dishes, assumed he'd finished eating, and asked Barbour what he owed him. He paid, left, then showed up an hour or two later.
"He said, 'gosh I'm still hungry. Feel like I haven't eaten anything,'" Barbour says. He served the man a real lunch and charged him again.
Some weeks passed, and the customer returned and ordered his usual. Barbour told him it was on the house, "for your birthday."
"'Why? It's not my birthday,'" Barbour recalls the man saying. "That's okay," Barbour replied.
nThe most unfulfilled order: "Lettuce and tomato." It's a line that still evokes yuks behind the counter.
As does a request for ketchup. There is none at the Texas Tavern. Mustard is the only condiment.
Retirement may afford Barbour more time with his wife of 45 years, his children and grandchild. But he'll still make part-time appearances at the Tavern, and he's already lined up some work with a title company that will keep him off his feet.
|By DAN CASEY| |STAFF WRITER|
The frostbitten feet Gordon Barbour brought home from Korea in the early 1950s shuffle more slowly now.
It's no wonder.
Steadfastly over the past 41 years, they've held him up for countless hours in the kitchen and behind the counter of the Texas Tavern.
The downtown hamburger and chili joint has stools for its thousands of loyal customers ("served 10 at a time") but no chairs for the help.
Thursday, Barbour's feet will get a rest.
Today is his last day as full-time manager and chief chili-maker at Roanoke's landmark greasy spoon. Barbour turns 65 on Dec. 5. He's retiring.
"I'm getting too old for this stuff," Barbour said Tuesday, in between stirring batches of the chili and letting the steam off a giant pressure cooker simmering beef.
"Sixty-five is getting too old to run up and down that counter," he added. "I've got bad feet," a casualty of the freezing cold he endured as a Marine in the Korean War.
"Did you say Gordon's retiring?" customer Pat Cambre inquires, her tone betraying a touch of alarm. "Gosh, I've known Gordon for 26 years. I think there are a lot of people who come in here because of him - he's so friendly and he's got such a great personality."
Mark Tenney, a 34-year-old counterman with 13 Texas Tavern years under his belt, will take over the manager's job. But don't call him Barbour's replacement.
"I don't expect to replace him," Tenney says. "Succeed or follow, but not replace. He's been here a long time. He's into it. He's part of it. It's part of him."
"I have mixed feelings with Gordon's retirement," says Texas Tavern owner James N. Bullington. "We've been such good and long-standing friends over the years. I'm going to miss the daily contact with him."
n n
The red, white and stainless steel tavern, "Roanoke's Millionaires' Club," itself turned 65 this year.
Barbour never aspired to the manager's job. Rather, the Southwest Roanoke resident landed there more by accident.
As a boy, he was a Texas Tavern customer. After he returned from Korea, he took a job as a city firefighter.
On his way to work one day in 1954, Barbour made a regular stop at the tavern for coffee. Then-owner James G. Bullington offered him a part-time job behind the counter. Bullington was a second generation owner. He'd inherited the business from his father, Issac Newton Bullington.
"I said, 'yeah, I'll work,'" Barbour recalled.
Fourteen years later, in 1968, he quit firefighting and took over the place when the younger Bullington retired. The tavern now is owned by his son, James N. Bullington - who one day expects to turn it over to his son, James M. Bullington, a Roanoke College senior.
Not much has changed in the restaurant since Barbour first donned an apron.
The 15-cent hamburgers and hot dogs now cost 95 cents. And the beans come in 25-pound sacks, not 100-pounders as they used to.
But the famous chili, which goes out the door in batches sometimes as large as 40 or 50 gallons, is still made according to a secret recipe handed down by the Bullingtons.
And Barbour isn't about to reveal what that is. With a gentle smile and a gleam in eye, he says there are "seven or eight, maybe 10 ingredients. You won't see me mix those spices."
n n
A short talk with Barbour culls a mountain of memories, tiny flashbacks that evoke laughter, head-shaking and wide eyes.
Craziest thing that ever happened: Back in the early 1960s, employees melted ice on the sidewalk with a kerosene-fueled flame thrower.
In the tavern's cramped back kitchen, one worker decided to teach another how to use the device. Accidentally aiming it toward a wooden coat locker, he fired it up - setting the entire locker ablaze.
Still a full-time city firefighter, Barbour found himself answering a call at his part time job.
"The fire trucks arrived," he recalls. "All the help was standing outside. All the customers stayed inside. They were still eating. The firefighters had to run them out of here."
Best joke on a regular customer: As the man sat down at the counter, Barbour served him with an unwashed bowl and buttermilk glass. And a paper napkin, which the tavern serves its hamburgers on.
After the pair chatted awhile, the man looked at the empty dishes, assumed he'd finished eating, and asked Barbour what he owed him. He paid, left, then showed up an hour or two later.
"He said, 'gosh I'm still hungry. Feel like I haven't eaten anything,'" Barbour says. He served the man a real lunch and charged him again.
Some weeks passed, and the customer returned and ordered his usual. Barbour told him it was on the house, "for your birthday."
"'Why? It's not my birthday,'" Barbour recalls the man saying. "That's okay," Barbour replied.
The most unfulfilled order: "Lettuce and tomato." It's a line that still evokes yuks behind the counter.
As does a request for ketchup. There is none at the Texas Tavern. Mustard is the one and only condiment.
Retirement may afford Barbour more time with his wife of 45 years, his children and grandchild. But he'll still make part-time appearances at the Tavern, and he's already lined up some work with a title company that will keep him off his feet.
by CNB