With a few minutes to kill before heading to my next sales appointment, I pulled off Hoover into a familiar parking lot, expecting to grab a quick sliced beef sandwich.
But a lot had changed since my last visit to this part of town. Like a growing number of small businesses in South Central L.A., “Mr. B’s Best Bar-B-Que,” a fixture in the community for decades, had disappeared.
Mr. B’s hand painted sign over the door of the small stucco building was covered by a red and yellow plastic banner that said: “Julio’s Flame Grilled Chicken.”
I started to leave but the spicy aroma of freshly grilled chicken, wafting into the car, provided a powerful incentive for me to give Julio’s a try. They didn’t seem too busy so I parked and went inside.
My timing was perfect. The place was empty except for two people waiting to place orders.
“May I help you?” The young Hispanic girl behind the counter eyed her next customer warily.
The huge black man in tattered clothes, scratching his scraggly beard, looked at the change in his hand and then at the menu board. “Uh… yeah,” he said. “Let me have a two piece and a biscuit.”
“What did you say?” the girl asked, clearly suspicious of the stranger.
“Two pieces of chicken and a hot biscuit,” the man replied.
The girl surveyed the man from top to bottom. “We don’t have biscuits,” she said.
The big man placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “So you sayin’ a brother cain’t get a biscuit up in here?”
The girl instinctively stepped back. “Julio!” she yelled.
A jovial, middle aged man, wearing an apron and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel emerged from the back.
The girl nodded in the direction of the big, intimidating man, now standing up to his full height with his arms folded across his chest.
Julio draped the towel over his shoulder and took the girl’s place at the cash register. “How can we help you, my friend?”
“Like I said to her, I want two pieces of chicken and a nice, hot, fluffy biscuit. Cain’t y’all understand English?”
“This is a Mexican restaurant,” Julio replied. “We don’t serve biscuits. But I tell you what. How about I give you extra tortillas and salsa to go with your chicken?”
Big Man fingered the change in his palm. “Well… okay,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.”
Julio muttered something to the girl in Spanish and returned to the kitchen area.
The girl stepped back up to the register. “What pieces would you like?”
“A back and a neck,” said the man.
The girl stared at him. “A what?” Her fear of the hulking figure was starting to dissolved into frustration.
Big Man turned around, put one arm behind him and patted the middle of his back. “A back,” he said. He faced the girl again and pointed to his throat. “And a neck.”
The girl closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “We don’t have that,” she said.
“You don’t have that? How come? What kind of chickens are y’all cookin’ around here? Are they deformed or somethin’? I ain’t never heard of no chickens that don’t have backs and necks.”
Big man glanced over his shoulder like he was checking to see if he could get any support.
The frail black woman in front of me, wearing a greasy trench coat and a brown wig held in place by a bright orange headband, nodded. “I heard that,” she said.
I looked at my watch.
Big Man leaned toward the girl again. “Did you hear what I said?”
This time she didn’t budge. “Julio,” she sang out.
Julio bounded back into the front. “What’s the matter now?”
Big Man was on a roll. “She asked me what pieces of chicken I want, and I told her I want a back and a neck. What’s so hard about that?”
“Okay, look, we don’t want no trouble.” Julio’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. Instead of a leg and a thigh, I’m gonna give you a breast and a thigh for the same price. But that’s it, okay? We’ve got to move the line.”
Big Man stood straight up again, scratching his frazzled ‘fro. “Do I still get my extra tortillas?”
“Yes… yes, you get the tortillas.”
“And the salsa, with maybe a few chips?”
“Yes, extra salsa with some chips.”
“Alright, you got a deal.” Big Man fished a few crumpled bills from his pocket to go with his coins, paid the girl for his order, and took a number.
Julio waited until the transaction was completed, then disappeared again into the kitchen area.
“Next in line.” The girl forced a smile as the lady in front of me stepped up to the counter.
Miss Trench Coat braced herself against the counter with one hand and placed the other hand on her hip. “I want a bucket of chicken knees, crispy, a large side of collard greens and some yams.”
The girl stared at the woman. “You want what?”
The woman stepped back from the counter and pointed to her knees. “Knees,” she said. "A bucket of ‘em with some yams and greens.”
“We don’t have that!” sighed the girl. “Chickens don’t even have knees!”
“How come they don’t?” The woman leaned toward the girl. “They got legs, don’t they? And if they got legs, they gotta have knees."
“I know that’s right,” said Big Man, waiting for his order in one of the booths.
“What kind of chickens are y’all serving here anyway?” continued the woman. “Chickens that ain’t got no knees?”
“Julio!” the girl screamed.
Miss Trench Coat glanced back at me and winked.
I checked my watch again and headed out the door. It was time to get back on the road.
I sure do miss Mr. B. He would have handled Big Man and Miss Trench Coat in an entirely different manner. And I would have had myself a great big, deliciously tender, sliced beef sandwich.
