Photo by Seth M. Gitner

Jim Bullington, grandson of Texas Tavern founder Issac Newton "Nick" Bullington, owns the eatery.

The two men tottered, swaying astride stools, protesting their innocence. (Multimedia: Sights and sounds from the Texas Tavern)

The suffer-no-fools Texas Tavern countermen glared and shook their heads with world weariness. They had nailed the chili-sated, inebriated cheats trying to ease out the tiny eatery's door without paying.

Countermen Ed Gill, Joe Russell and Dewey Stallard had heard the same lame late-night tale hundreds of times: One guy sputtering he was danged sure his buddy had paid and his buddy claiming the same. Gill, Russell and Stallard weren't buying. The two customers soon were.

If all the world's a stage, the Texas Tavern is intimate, concentrated theater. And its 13-by-20-foot eating area has been a venue for human drama for 75 years.

You will find here the mewling infant, the schoolboy, the stripper and the judge. You'll meet the toothless man who breaks from his tow-truck duty one snowy night to gum a steaming bowl of chili. You'll see a sullen youth with a hoop in each earlobe dining one stool away from a smartly dressed, gray-haired lady in her 80s.

Issac Newton "Nick" Bullington, founder of the Texas Tavern, knew theater. He ran hippodromes and vaudeville shows. He owned a circus in Argentina. He traveled in a private rail car for Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus as an advance man.

Bullington thought this Big Lick railroad town showed promise in the midst of the Great Depression. He opened the Texas Tavern on Church Avenue in downtown Roanoke on Friday, Feb. 13, 1930.

Photo by Seth M. Gitner

Skip Santos (left) and Jimmy Love wait for to-go orders.

Little has changed there in 75 years. And that changelessness is one key to the restaurant's appeal. The hollow, steel foot railing, like most of the fixtures, is original. The surface is worn away in several spots from the millions of soles briefly propped up.

On the recent day he turned 85, Emmett Greeley stopped for lunch. He ate a "bowl with" and "two with" and drank a glass of water. He said his belly protests if he drinks a carbonated soda.

Greeley still recalls Nick Bullington behind the counter. "He always wore a white shirt and a tie and usually a big black vest and an apron. He usually had a big gold pocket watch on a chain."

Nick Bullington died in 1942. But the Bullington family still owns and runs the place. Greeley finds comfort in the continuity of ownership, aesthetics and fare. He said he visited the tavern as a boy soon after it opened in 1930.

"It's just about like it was then. It don't change. Everything else in Roanoke, when it gets about 20 years old, they want to tear it down," he said.

If you asked 1,000 regulars, "10 at a time," what makes the Texas Tavern unique, they would cite good, inexpensive food swiftly served. They would celebrate the steadfast sameness. They would describe the eatery as a melting pot, where executives in three-piece suits dine alongside people who live on the streets.

Nearly everyone who has eaten there more than a time or two can tell a Texas Tavern tale.

On a recent Saturday night, Stephanie Langford and a group of boisterous but polite students from Roanoke College arrived to eat.

"My first experience here was memorable," Langford said, laughing. "Everybody in here was saying, 'Take off your shirt!' because I wanted a [Texas Tavern] hat. I was a Texas Tavern virgin until then."

Years ago, the story goes, a counterman coaxed a dance from an out-of-work but shapely stripper in exchange for a cheesy western.

Gill and the students swapped one-liners. He is the philosopher counterman, stirred to action as much by a buttermilk order as by apparent empathy for the human condition.

"I go out there, and if the mood needs lightening, I go in with a joke. I see my main job is to bring a smile to people's faces. It's the deeper needs of the human soul. They come in here for companionship."

David Woods said he is a homeless alcoholic who stays when he can at the Roanoke Rescue Mission. On a cold Saturday night in January, wearing two stocking caps, two scarves and a heavy coat, Woods stopped at the tavern. He said he'd walked a long way that night to visit the grave of his mother, who died in September.

"I helped somebody change a tire and I got enough money to come to the Texas Tavern," Woods said. "I like the chili here. They are good people to talk to."

The Texas Tavern and alcohol have an interesting relationship. Revelers frequently arrive drunk for a late-night, hangover-antidote meal. As long as they don't curse too loudly or rumble or spray the countermen with mustard, they're welcome.

And, especially in decades past, the countermen themselves have been known to take a drink, a binge, a bender.

In those days, Jim Bullington, Nick's grandson, relied some days on a jail work-release program to staff the restaurant. More than once, he persuaded hard-core alcoholic employees to enter detox — scouring downtown to find them after they didn't show up for work for long stretches.

Once or twice he found them near death, curled in a fetal position in a filthy bed at the Hotel Earle or slumped on benches in Elmwood Park.

One man named Henry said he'd let Jim drive him to rehab if he'd buy Henry a quart of rotgut for the trip. Henry killed the wine on the way. The wine eventually killed Henry, who froze to death in an alley after being turned away by a shelter, Jim Bullington said. He remains angry at the shelter. "I haven't given them a damn nickel since.

"When Henry was sober and working, he was probably one of the best who ever worked here. I'd have taken a bullet for Henry, and he'd have taken a bullet for me.

"I never came out on the short end of the stick for helping one of these guys."

Loyal customers have tales about the countermen. Imagine, in turn, what the countermen have witnessed. Legends like the late Paul Starkey, the late Joe Farmer and Dan Siler, who still works part time. Longtime employees like Timmy Goff.

Counterman Russell once broke up a domestic duel at the counter during which chili and mustard were the weapons of choice. Wistfully, Stallard still talks about "the woman who looked just like Ingrid Bergman, and with a perfect set."

Mark Tenney was grill man several years ago on the night the stickup occurred. Matt Bullington, great-grandson of the founder and the tavern's new president, provided details.

An addled-looking woman came in and stood near Tenney. She said, “I want $100.” Tenney ignored her. She added, “I have a weapon.” Tenney calmly flipped burgers and ladled chili. After a pause, the woman pulled out a .38 and pointed it at Tenney.

ON THE WEB
Del. William Fralin of Roanoke sponsored a commending resolution in the General Assembly in honor of the Tavern's 75th. In person: Join the dignitaries for 11 a.m. Saturday ceremonies at the Texas Tavern.

Meanwhile, customers arrived, eased past the stickup artist, took stools, placed orders, ate. Everyone ignored the would-be robber. This was, after all, the Texas Tavern.

Matt Bullington recalled, "This went on for probably three or four minutes. Finally, she says, 'Are you going to give me the money or not? And Tenney says, 'Nah.’ ”

The secret recipe of Texas Tavern 'chile'

Matt Bullington knows the "chile" recipe by heart. The Bullington family keeps the original copy in a safe deposit box. Bullington, the Tavern's new president, said he is the only person now who mixes the special blend of spices and ground beef that yields a batch of Texas Tavern chile.

He mixes a dose of the recipe in a portion designed for a gallon of chile. Each dose is refrigerated in a small, lidded loaf pan that might be a primo casket for a hamster. But the time-consuming part of the process is all about the beans.

Bullington estimates it takes eight hours to prepare the pinto beans for their role in support of the big secret.

The journey begins with 20-pound boxes of dried pinto beans. The beans are cleaned by hand and then poured into a 20-quart stock pot. A Tavern employee washes the beans in hot water and repeats the process until the water runs clear.

Next, the cleaned beans soak in water for about four hours. They swell dramatically. Then, the pintos cook for about three to four hours on low heat. The goal is a cooked but "not mushy bean," Bullington said.

The hot beans get a cold shower and drain. They're stored then until they join the recipe dose and some corn starch (for thickening) to make a batch of chile.