Dear Me Letter: Shack Come Back!

Dear Me,

 I recall there were over 800 of us at Little Rock Central High School who flipped our tassles on graduation day in May of 1957. I wonder how they felt when they heard the news. Some, like me, who live out of state, will hear later. Some may not care. Some may care a lot. Then there are the others like my mother’s friends, who live in other places, will come back to visit and find just a memory.

My sister Carol broke it to me as gently as she could over the phone, but in that next second after she told me, a lifetime of memories swiftly sifted through a kaleidoscope of emotions from grief to outrage. (human bodies should have shock absorbers built in for news like this.) I told her if I’d known ahead of time, I would’ve flown to Little Rock and done SOMETHING - even started a picket line or, if it got down to it, pled with whoever to keep it alive.

After we hung up, I recalled my first taste. I was six and it was only about 35-cents. Except for the hickory smell billowing for blocks around, the little wooden shingled building and it’s small dirt parking lot nestling in its own universe behind tall bushes on what was later a part of the State Capital grounds on 7th Street could have been missed if you sneezed while driving by. We’d be a couple of blocks away when that one-of-a-kind smell watered our mouths to make ready to send our tastebuds to heaven. It wasn’t the kind of taste as with some food that you’d eat while thinking of other things or just gaze into nowhere, not thinking of anything in particular while dutifully feeding the body. It was the kind of taste that as you took each bite, no other thought dared intrude into the experience of that moment when you were surrounded by its savory flavor and wallowing in how good that bite was. And to me, Dr. Pepper or buttermilk just seemed to have been made to go with it.

The crispy-cotton-clean waitresses who had to go at warp speed to handle all the customers, would come out to the car, write your order down on a little pad, “3 regular, 1 hot, 3 Dr. Peppers, one Coke,” and in only minutes be back to hook the tray on the window of the driver’s side. I thought the waitresses were practically goddesses as they brought us The Shack’s magic. They were always friendly no matter how busy they were buzzing.

 It was about the same when they moved to 3rd and Victory in the fifties. The only difference was the sandwiches were 50-cents and the drinks a dime. On the way home from Central High, I’d catch the bus right there at the corner on Victory and, if I didn’t stop for a barbeque, I’d be fed by the smell from the pit. That was ‘54 through ‘57, the year I graduated. It was in those years after ‘57 when I’d get in a mood to be alone. I’d pick up a “regular to go” with a Dr. Pepper or pint bottle of buttermilk and park down on the side street a few blocks away by the tracks of Union Station, watch the sunset through the black wrought iron fence, and see the trains roll across the bridge over the Arkansas River, wonder what life was about and where one of those trains could take me.


One of those trains ended up taking me to Washington, D.C. in January 1963 after I got my B.A. from Kansas City Art Institute. My family came to expect what would happen when I’d fly in for a visit. First stop - always - was The Shack. I’d pick up a pint-sized Kerr jar full of regular sauce to take back with me after filling up with a couple of regular beefs. But I’m not the only one who made the Shack the first stop. Several of my mother’s friends who were there in 1934 when the Shack was born and who now live out of state are as firm believers as I am.

Now, while living in Los Angeles, I sometimes dream of a Shack opening up here. You’d think a city that size would have a barbeque that good somewhere. After so many years of living here, I haven’t found so much as a smidgen of that barbeque genius.

And over the last many years more people on my flights to and from Little Rock have heard about the best barbeque on this side of the world. Now what do I tell them?

My sister Jeannie sent me a card for my birthday which came after Carol broke the news over the phone. It says “Here’s one of the best kept secrets in Little Rock, Arkansas. ‘How to Live Forever’ ... inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale (Don’t ever stop). (Too bad The Shack hadn’t heard this.) And in the card was Mr. Leroy Donald’s article from the March 19th edition of the Arkansas Gazette: “The Shack, a landmark, now gone for good.” I appreciate that article, but more, I appreciate Mr. Donald for knowing where it’s really at with Shack barbeque.

But I may have some good news for all the Shack mourners. I won’t say how I found out about this from long distance. Just mark it up to my having a nose for some of the good things in life. (One of my mottos is, “If you find a good thing, help it survive.”) Anyway, maybe there is a happy ending after all. But you can find out for yourself, if you haven’t already, at H.B. BBQ on 6010 Lancaster in Little Rock. And after you’ve tasted it, you might agree with me that it’s that same magic taste. Authentic taste, not a copy. And if you do agree with me, let’s help them keep on keeping’ on by their exhaling those barbeques so we can keep on inhaling them. Anyway, maybe there is a happy ending after all. But you can find out for yourself, if you haven’t already, at H.B. BBQ on 6010 Lancaster in Little Rock. And after you’ve tasted it, you might agree with me that it’s that same magic taste. Authentic taste, not a copy. And if you do agree with me, let’s help them keep on keeping’ on by their exhaling those barbeques so we can keep on inhaling them.