Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  After the worship service, a sit down banquet was held in the fellowship hall, with the young people of the church serving as waiters.

  After the banquet, the New Jerusalem Baptist Church children’s choir performed a program of African hymns and Sunday School songs. This was followed by a slide show, narrated by Angela Williams, telling the story of the Ladies’ Missionary Society and the overseas missions it had supported since its founding. In spite of Angela’s attempts to convince the program committee to condense the script and reduce the number of slides, her efforts were ultimately futile. There were too many constituencies needing placation. Nearly every family in the congregation claimed a selfless and tireless female ancestor whose labors on behalf of the Society were decisive in the organization’s success, thus meriting inclusion of a comprehensive biography. To the by-then-weary church membership, the resulting presentation felt much like a day-by-day accounting of the Society’s 100-year history. Angela tried various vocal inflections to maintain audience interest, but in the darkened and sound-deadened fellowship hall, most of the elderly and several of the children fell asleep. Gentle snoring could be heard whenever Angela paused for a breath.

  The final event of the day was the raffle drawing. In addition to serving as waiters for the banquet, the youth of the congregation had been assigned responsibility for selling tickets for a chance to win a pair of season tickets to the Kansas City Chiefs’ 1985 season. The proceeds of this sale were to be donated to the Rev. Dr. Yancey’s mission in Gambia.

  Though, in the preceding season, the Chiefs finished last in their division with a record of 6-10, raffle ticket sales were brisk. However, because ticket holders were required to be present to win, and because many congregants had snuck away during the slide show, and had gone home exhausted by the day’s proceedings, six drawings were needed before a winner could be awarded the tickets. The winner was 93-year old Mavis Thigpen, which greatly peeved LaVerne, who had purchased 25 tickets at five dollars apiece to increase his odds. He sulked all the way home.

  “What a waste,” he grumbled to Angela. “What’s a 93-year old woman who’s mostly blind and deaf going to do with Chiefs season tickets? It’s ridiculous. It’s just a waste.”

  “Maybe she has a grandson or nephew who’d like the tickets,” said Angela.

  LaVerne snorted. “I’ll be her nephew if she needs one.”

  *

  One of the lesser celebrations of the 100th anniversary of the Ladies’ Missionary Society was the mother-daughter banquet, which was held on the third Wednesday in September of that year. LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery catered the event.

  Smoke Meat had only catered one previous event—a party in Johnson County, hosted by a mutual fund manager, at which he and 50 of his closest friends watched the second and final game of the 1982-83 Big Eight basketball season between the University of Missouri and the University of Kansas. LaVerne’s barbecue and side dishes had been well-received, but the party turned ugly when several inebriated KU fans became overly agitated at the game’s outcome and began throwing beer cans, not all of them empty.

  The mother-daughter banquet promised to be more tranquil. The Ladies asked LaVerne to serve brisket, greens, red potatoes, onions and cabbage, peach cobbler, and sweet potato and vinegar pies. LaVerne, Raymond, and A.B. began preparation about 48 hours before the dinner. LaVerne smoked the briskets in two batches, and the boys made the desserts. Raymond and A.B. then started in on the greens, while LaVerne cooked the onions and cabbage. LaVerne wasn’t yet comfortable letting his assistants prepare onions and cabbage. He had specific preferences regarding the ratio of cabbage to onions (five to three), the precise amount of lard to be used to cook the onions and cabbage (a lot), and the correct degree of caramelization to be achieved in the cooking process (a lot, but not too much).

  Because Raymond and A.B. had school the Wednesday of the banquet, and LaVerne needed to work at the restaurant during the day, most of the final prep had to be done on Tuesday night. When Raymond and A.B. came in after school on Tuesday afternoon, LaVerne was loading chaffing dishes and utensils into the truck.

  “I’m going over to the church to drop these off and set up the serving line,” he said. “Then some guys from the men’s fellowship are coming over to set up tables and chairs, so I’m going get them started. You two take care of business while I’m gone, and when I get back we’ll have to cook up some sauce. We don’t have enough for tonight, tomorrow, and the banquet, too.”

  It was a slow night. Eight nametag-wearing insurance underwriters, attending a convention, strayed in and stayed for two hours. There were only four other customers other than that, all of them carry-out. As Raymond and A.B. were cleaning up, LaVerne called from the church, mightily pissed.

  “Well, none of the forgetful, inconsiderate, irresponsible, lazy-asses who were going to come to set up tables and chairs showed up,” he barked into the phone. Raymond held the phone away from his ear.

  “I’m going to have to stay and put the tables up myself,” LaVerne said. “That means you and A.B. are going to have to make the sauce. You’ve never done the sauce before, but it’s straightforward. Use the five-gallon recipe and put it in the walk-in when you’re done”

  From across the kitchen, A.B. could hear LaVerne’s instructions. He immediately went over to the bulletin board mounted on the wall between the stove and the Hobart and retrieved the five gallon version of the recipe for LaVerne Williams’s Genuine BBQ Sauce KANSAS CITY STYLE. All the basic recipes for the Smoke Meat menu were tacked on the board for the benefit of new employees, even though LaVerne didn’t let any new employees use them.

  A.B. pulled a big stockpot out from under the stainless steel prep table and went into the office to gather up cans of tomato puree and pickled jalapenos, and bottles of vinegar and corn syrup for the sauce.

  “This’ll be fun,” said Raymond, grinning wide and rubbing his palms together. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

  A.B. wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know. Your dad has ways he likes to do things. We could screw it up.”

  “We’re not going to screw it up,” said Raymond. “We might make a few improvements. But we’re not going to screw it up.”

  “Improvements?” A.B. squeaked. “Jeez, Ray. Let’s not fuss with anything. Let’s just do it the way it’s written down.”

  Raymond put his arm across A.B. shoulders. “Al Buddy Clayton, my man, you got to take risks in this world if you ever want to get ahead.”

  A.B. shrugged. “I don’t really want to get ahead, Ray. I just don’t want the boss to get mad ‘cause we messed up his sauce.”

  “We need some tunes for this kind of work,” said Raymond. He went over and turned on the boombox on top of the refrigerator. The artist known as Prince was exhorting and sermonizing his way through the intro to “Let’s Go Crazy.” When the guitars and drums kicked in, Raymond strode and slid in rhythm back over to the work table. A.B. grinned and shook his head, and tried to put LaVerne’s inevitable reaction to their sauce experimentation out of his mind. He poured the cans of tomato puree into the stock pot.

  Raymond rolled up his sleeves. “The first thing we need to do is put a little more jump in this sauce. How much cayenne pepper does it say to put in?”

  “Oh, boy,” A.B. said, anxiously. He looked at the recipe. “One half cup.”

  “Okay. How about we put in one whole cup? That oughta liven’ things up.”

  “Ray. Seriously. That’s too much,” A.B. said.

  Raymond had already scooped up a cupful of cayenne and dumped it in the pot. “How much garlic does it say?”

  “Twelve cloves, crushed,” A.B. said. “That’s quite a lot. We probably don’t need to add any more.”

  “I think eighteen cloves will do quite nicely,” said Raymond. He proceeded to smash garlic cloves with the flat of his father’s chef’s knife, as h
e’d seen his father do. Eighteen in all.

  “You know, A.B., in my African Heritage class we learned about African cooking,” Raymond said. “Mrs. Nelson said they use peanuts a lot. What if we paid a little tribute to our African roots by putting some peanuts in here?”

  Raymond peered into the pot as if looking for the just right spot to add peanuts.

  A.B. was near panic. “Listen, Ray. We don’t have any peanuts. Besides, your dad maybe won’t notice a little more hot pepper and garlic. But peanuts? That’s just strange. It won’t even taste like barbecue sauce.”

  Raymond opened the refrigerator and found the jar of peanut butter that Angela used to make sandwiches when she worked at the restaurant on Saturdays. Poised above the pot, he swiped a big glop of peanut butter out of the jar with a spatula. “This should be about right,” he said, as he let the peanut butter slide into the bubbling sauce.

  A.B. looked on in horror. Since his protestations were having no effect on Raymond, he went out back in the alley and it up a cigarette.

  *

  LaVerne made Raymond and A.B. wear black pants, white shirts, and neckties to the mother-daughter banquet.

  “This isn’t just church,” he told them. “This is a job. We need to look like professional caterers.”

  Raymond looked a lot better in his get-up than A.B. did in his. Raymond’s clothes always fit well. His height and athletic build showed them off to their best advantage. A.B. hadn’t worn his catering outfit since the basketball party in Johnson County and it looked as if the shirt and slacks had lain on his closet floor since that time. Not that it would have made much difference if they’d been freshly washed and pressed. A.B.’s small, bony frame made all his clothes look like a damp towel hanging on a bathroom doorknob.

  The banquet program featured a before-dinner performance by the New Jerusalem Baptist Church choir and an after-dinner presentation by a motivational speaker. Her speech was titled “The Power of One: Be your best self and change your world!”

  The choir started with “I Had a Talk With God,” followed by “God Can Do Anything But Fail.”

  Only two songs into the performance and the assembled mothers and daughters were already standing by their seats at the banquet tables, clapping and dancing in place. The older women held their hands up in praise. This was sufficient encouragement for the choir director, Yvonne Maynard, to commence a series of James Brown-inspired hop-and-glide moves as she led her singers, her satin robe flowing and flapping.

  Raymond and A.B. were standing in position behind the serving tables, on the far end of the fellowship hall, opposite the choir. Raymond, too, was in full gospel groove. He danced and clapped along with the rest, only when he did it, it looked better than when anyone else did it. A.B. also found himself moved by the music and initiated a modest head-bobbing, arm-swinging action. Raymond stopped, stood back, and watched his friend for a moment.

  “Racial stereotyping is an evil thing,” he said, smiling. “But it’s true what they say—white boy can not dance. It’s a good thing we’re standing in the back here, where nobody can see.”

  When the choir got to the chorus of its third number, “He’s Calling Me,” a young man in the choir’s back row began shouting “Yes! Jesus!”, and swaying out of time. He closed his eyes. His head rolled back and he began to convulse.

  “What the hell?” A.B. whispered sharply to Raymond. “That guy’s having a fit or something.”

  Raymond was unconcerned. “Nah, that’s just Lorenzo. He’s being overcome by the Holy Ghost. It happens all the time. The Holy Ghost always seems to pick Lorenzo when it wants to overcome someone.”

  The rest of the choir also seemed unconcerned. They continued singing without interruption. Then Lorenzo appeared to faint. Two other men in the back row helped him down from the risers and sat him down on the floor. Three of the mothers went over and began to fan him with their banquet programs. When he was sufficiently revived, the two other men helped him out of the fellowship hall. As all this happened, the choir kept singing. A.B. was relieved when, two songs later, Lorenzo and his helpers returned and took their places in the back row.

  “Man, I’m glad he’s okay,” he said to Raymond.

  Raymond shook his head. “It ain’t over yet.”

  Indeed, a few minutes later, when the choir had reached the bridge of “Start All Over Again,” its last song of the evening, the Holy Ghost took hold of Lorenzo once more. He began to pitch forward and was helped off the risers by the same two men. However, this time, instead of fainting, he fell to the floor, stiffened up and began vibrating and humming, like a barber’s electric clippers turned on and set on a table.

  “Is church always like this?” A.B. asked Raymond.

  “Lorenzo’s always like this,” said Raymond. “Don’t worry. When the music stops he’ll suddenly recover.”

  Which is what happened. As the mothers and daughters applauded, and director Maynard bowed, Lorenzo got to his feet, straightened his robe and got back up on the risers under his own power.

  *

  Raymond got lots of compliments from the mothers and lots of self-conscious smiles and giggles from the daughters as they made their way through the serving line.

  “My, my, young man. Don’t you look handsome tonight.”

  “Goodness, Raymond. You get taller every time I see you.”

  “LaVerne, you and Angela sure did make yourself a pretty baby.”

  “Hi, Raymond. See you in study hall.”

  Even the president of the Ladies Missionary Society, Mrs. Oleta Wesley stopped to chat. “Raymond Williams, where are your manners? Introduce me to your friend.”

  “This is my best friend, A.B., ma’am,” said Raymond. “We work together at the restaurant. In fact, he made the barbecue sauce for tonight.”

  Raymond smiled and wouldn’t make eye contact with A.B., who looked stricken.

  “I can’t believe you told that lady that,” A.B. hissed through gritted teeth when President Wesley had moved on down to the pie and cobbler.

  “Who knows?” Raymond laughed. “Could turn out good for you. The sauce might be a hit and then they’ll name it after you. Al Buddy’s Genuine BBQ Sauce AFRICAN STYLE.”

  LaVerne came by to inspect the serving line and detected levity, which he felt was unprofessional when serving barbecue in a church basement.

  “Knock it off, you two,” he said, and went into the church kitchen to get more pie for the line.

  About then, down at the other end of the hall, one of the grandmothers present let out with a loud “Wooooo!” Raymond and A.B. saw that she was gulping down ice water. A.B. started to sweat. Raymond laughed, but his laughter lacked confidence. They anxiously monitored the situation, and were relieved when the grandma took another bite of barbecue, which was also followed by a “Wooooo!” and more ice water.

  A few minutes later, another of the Ladies came up to the serving line, leaned across the table and took Raymond’s arm. “Tell your father that I really like what he did with his barbecue sauce,” she said. “It’s different, but I like it. You tell him I said so.” Raymond grinned and elbowed A.B. in the ribs.

  Dinner was pretty much done and the event was winding down. LaVerne came out from the kitchen and told the boys to break down the serving line and start packing up the truck. As he was administering his instructions, Mrs. Wesley came over.

  “Mr. Williams, on behalf of the Missionary Society I want to thank you for catering our banquet this evening,” she said. “Everything was just delicious, as always. And your young men were so polite and hard working. Your family is a blessing to this church.”

  Mrs. Wesley handed LaVerne an envelope. As he took it, she stepped closer to him and whispered in his ear. “LaVerne, dear, you may want to check your barbecue sauce. I think it’s spoiled.”

  LaVerne’s eyes narrowed and his ja
w muscles tightened. He said goodbye to Mrs. Wesley and stalked over to where A.B. and Raymond were taking apart the chaffing dishes. A small pan of barbecue sauce was still on the table. He stuck his finger in the sauce and then in his mouth. A.B. and Raymond braced themselves.

  LaVerne grimaced and struggled to swallow the offending condiment. “What the hell did you two do to the barbecue sauce?”

  Raymond and A.B. stood there mute, each trying to think of a suitable lie. As LaVerne burned, waiting for an explanation, yet another mother approached them.

  “Mercy, LaVerne!” she said. “Those greens and potatoes were just wonderful. The brisket was the best I’ve had in years. And that sauce . . .”

  She paused to deliberate on precisely the right words to use.

  “Well, the sauce was gourmet. It was unusual. But in a good way. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it all.”

  She turned to leave. “Keep up the good work, LaVerne.”

  LaVerne clenched his fists and scowled. Raymond expected to be grounded, and A.B. expected to be fired.

  “I don’t know what you guys did to my barbecue sauce. But you’ll never have the chance to do it again,” LaVerne said. “From now on I make the sauce. And only I make the sauce.”

  *

  When Raymond and A.B. had finished unloading the truck at the restaurant, Raymond offered A.B. a ride home.

  “Well, that could have been a lot worse,” said Raymond, as he drove up 17th Street to Grand.

  “It was bad enough,” said A.B. He rolled down his window and lit a cigarette.

  They were quiet. Raymond rolled down his window. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”