Facts Behind the Fiction: Recipe for Mr. Harris' Barbecue Sauce

In the 1970s and early '80s, I ate at Harris' Bar-B-Cue often enough to believe that Mr. Harris varied the ingredients in his barbecue sauce each time he made a new batch. Here is the recipe he used the day I was there to learn how to make sauce.


Chop and sauté together two onions, 2 carrots, about 1/2 of a bunch of celery, and a handful of garlic cloves.
Dissolve 1 cup of brown sugar in 6 cups of ketchup, 1 12-ounce can of tomato juice, 1 12-ounce can of tomato paste, and 2 quarts of canned whole tomatoes.
Season with 1 teaspoon of cumin and 1 tablespoon each of dry mustard, black pepper, pickling spice, horseradish, paprika, Liquid Smoke, and vinegar. Add one bay leaf.
Bring everything to a boil and then simmer on low heat for one hour.
Remove the bay leaf before bottling the sauce.


Makes about one gallon of sauce.

Harris Bar-B-Cue, Part III "All You Got Left Is Nothin'"

Martin took the second bottle of champagne and began edging the plastic stopper out. This one stuck and then suddenly shot across the table, hitting the wall just behind Tom's shoulder. Tom let out a “Hip!” of surprise, and we laughed and jostled each other, catching the foaming champagne in our glasses.

      “Another toast,” said Martin. “To Tom, the future doctor!” We lifted our glasses.           

      “What kinda doctor are you, Honey?” By now the woman's greasy smile had slipped to the side of her face. She hung nearly half out of the booth, one arm dangling at her side.

      “He’s gonna be an ENT.”

      “A nee-tee what?” The woman turned an ear toward Martin and struggled to right herself on the slick leather of the booth.

      “An oto-rhino-laryng-ologist” answered Martin carefully in a slightly slurred version of the voice I’ve heard him use when dictating his patient notes. “Ear, nose, and throat, and auxiliary structures.”

      “Like the tongue,” Tom added, giggling a little. “Don’t forget the tongue.”

      “Ah, yes.” Martin drew himself up a little straighter. “The ever-important tongue. I’d say the tongue was important, wouldn’t you, Kay? Wouldn’t you say the tongue was ever-important?”

      I laughed. “I’d say you two have probably had enough champagne.”

      “The ever-important tongue,” Martin persisted. “Look.” He picked up the first champagne bottle’s plastic stopper and stuck it on the end of his tongue. He waggled it at me. He waggled it at Tom. The stopper bobbed crazily on the end of his tongue like a bizarre mushroom-shaped wart. Tom picked up the other stopper from the floor behind his chair. He brushed it on his shirt and stuck it on the end of his tongue. He waggled it at Martin, then at me, then at the woman in the booth. 

      “Don’t be waggin’ that thing at me, boy,” she scolded. The two men laughed. Martin’s stopper dropped off his tongue and rolled across the table.

      The woman was roused now. “What’s so funny? You makin' fun of an ol’ lady? Don't you go makin' fun.” A wet thread of sauce hung at the corner of her lips. “Harris!” she shouted toward the kitchen. “Your customers ain't got no class! Comin’ in here, makin’ fun of an ol’ lady. Slummin'. Think it's funny.” Her complaints ran down, and with a little moan, she slumped back in the booth. 

      Tom waggled his tongue at me one more time, then took the stopper off and studied it. Martin poured more champagne in our glasses. He half turned to offer some to the woman in the booth, then seemed to think the better of it. She was leaning against the wall of her booth, her eyes closed, her beer can tilted precariously in one hand. 

      Mr. Harris came back in with another pan of cornbread.  “You all want more barbecue?  Got some left.”

      “Thanks, Mr. Harris,” I said, “but I think we've had enough. We'd better get going.” The three of us stood and brushed cornbread crumbs from our laps. “It was good, though. A great birthday dinner.”

      Martin picked up the champagne bottle. “Wait.” He drained the bottle into an extra glass and handed it to Mr. Harris, who took it with a slight bow. 

      “One last toast,” said Martin. “Happy Birthday to Kay.” We all clinked glasses, leaning far over the table from behind our chairs. Mr. Harris drained his glass with one gulp and smacked his lips. 

      Martin took some bills from his wallet and pressed them into Mr. Harris’s hand. The three men began moving slowly into the front room of the restaurant. “Thank you mightily for comin’,” said Mr. Harris.  

      I turned and groped among the debris on the table. “Give me those stoppers,” I muttered. “Want ‘em for a souvenir. My thirty-fourth birthday at Harris Bar-B-Cue.” 

      The woman in the red leather booth roused herself again. She blinked and swallowed a dainty hiccup. “Yeah, you'd better hang on to them things, Honey,” she said, “'Cause it don't last long.” She peered at me over the top of her beer can. “Men come sniffin' ‘round for a while, but then they sniff on. Then all you got left is your goddamn souvenirs.” Her voice trailed off liquidly. “All you got left is nothin'.” 

      Martin and Mr. Harris were standing at the cash register near the front of the restaurant. I put the stoppers in my pocket and turned to find Tom leaning against the dining room door jamb, watching me. As I sidled past him, he grinned and waggled his tongue. “Best in the West,” he whispered.  Maybe, I thought, but don’t be too sure.

*  *  *  *  * * * * * * *

In a way, the fire was beautiful: sparks from the roof hung in the trees like twinkle lights, and each wooden slat on the house was outlined in gold. The front door was gone now; the interior showed solid flame. I remembered Mr. Harris’ one room: the sagging couch, the crackling tv set, the bed pushed behind a screen in the far corner. The huge photoboard covered most of the back wall; a hundred smiling faces shone in the dim light of the shadeless floor lamp.

      I imagined the photoboard frame glowing now with a red it never knew in paint. The edges of the photos begin to curl, the emulsion behind the images bubbles, and foreheads sprout boils that consume whole faces. Martin and I huddle together, clutching the heart-shaped chocolate box. My face, pressed close against his, strains hotly to hold its smile. Black edges in and swallows us.  

      The roof on the restaurant went first, groaning and bringing down its supporting rafters. The roof of Mr. Harris’ house outlasted its walls; the whole structure listed to one side and slid gently to the ground like a fainting Southern belle. The flames went out in the rise of dust and smoke. I held your hand on the way back home.






[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]

Harris Bar-B-Cue, Part II "Happy Birthday"

Martin poured champagne for all of us, then gestured to Tom and me with his glass. “Here's to Kay. Happy Birthday!”

We clicked our glasses together and drank. The champagne fizzed and perfumed the air under my nose. I took another gulp and, over the rim of my glass, caught the eye of the woman in the booth. The woman lifted her can of beer in a toasting gesture. "How old are you, Honey? If you don't mind me asking.” Her voice was as well-oiled as her face. A curl of cigarette smoke rose from the litter of ravaged dishes on the table in front of her.

      “Thirty-four.”         

      “Oh, thirty-four,” she said, as if clarifying something I’d left unexplained. “I r‘member thirty-four.” She contemplated the pull tab on the top of her beer can, bending it back and forth until it snapped in her fingers. “Yes, I do. Thirty-four. Year I lost m’teeth.” She dropped the tab into the can.

       Martin rolled his eyes at me, his way of discouraging further conversation, but he needn’t have worried. I couldn’t think of a suitable reply to her statement, and anyway, the woman seemed to have lapsed back into her reverie. She crooked the tip of her smallest finger in the opening of her beer can and idly dangled the can above her table. In our silence I could hear the tiny, wet clink of the pull tab as the woman swished it around in the near-empty can.     

      Mr. Harris stuck his head around the corner of the dining room door. “Barbecue comin’ right up,” he said, in the manner of a train conductor announcing the next stop.                    

      I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Thanks, Mr. Harris.” I leaned toward Martin and gave him a hug. “And thanks for treating, Mart. I really do like this place.”

      “I know you do, Hon’.” Martin hugged me in return and left his arm around my shoulders, braced on the back of my chair. “And if you want to spend your birthday with Mr. Harris, so be it.” He refilled our glasses. 

      Tom balanced his elbow on the table. “So, what did you mean when you said Mr. Harris has your picture?”

      “Oh, he takes pictures of all his regular customers. When we first started coming here, he kept inviting us next door to his house, but we thought it was too weird. Then one time we were here on Valentine’s Day--remember, Marty? And Mr. Harris was giving all the women these little heart boxes of chocolates.”

      “He was really flirting with Kay,” said Martin.

      “In a sweet way. Just a little bit lecherous. And he kept insisting that we go have our picture taken. So we did. He has this old Polaroid, and he took our picture and put it up on this big bulletin board with snapshots of all his other customers. I think everyone in Pocatello has their picture up over there.”

       “At least everyone who’s ever eaten here more than once,” Martin interjected.

      Tom looked intrigued. “Seems an odd thing to do.”

      “Well, yeah, but kinda nice, too. Sentimental.” I laughed, remembering. “He also asked me to come over some Saturday and make sauce with him. He makes a huge batch every week and keeps it in big glass jars in the back.”

      “D’ya ever go?”

      “No. But I probably should. His sauce is the best.”

      Tom laughed.  “D’you ever think that maybe ‘making sauce’ means something else?”

      “Hmmm...maybe it does. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t go.”

      “Maybe you missed out. It’s not every day a woman gets to ‘make sauce’ with the ‘Best in the West’.”

      “Aren’t you clever.”

      “Aren’t I.”

            Martin shifted in his chair and poured himself another glass of champagne. “So, Tom, you’re Pre-Med? What’re you going to specialize in? Or do you know yet?”

      Tom turned to look at him. “Ear, nose, and throat, I think. That’s something I can do no matter where I wind up--little town, big city.”

      “Well, if you’ll take my advice--” Martin began. 

      “This your old man, Honey?” The woman in the booth suddenly leaned toward our table, her voice sliding in between Martin’s words. “Or that one?” She gestured at Tom with her beer can. 

      “This one,” I said, nodding at Martin. He glanced at the woman, then gave me a smile. Your old man, he mouthed silently, then, “I love you, Kay,” he said in a low voice.    

       I tipped my glass high, swallowing the last bit of liquid. “And why do you think that is?”

      He looked at the ceiling, smiling. We’d had this exchange before. “Because you’re mine,” he replied.

      My usual rejoinder was, “All yours plus shipping and handling,” a phrase I’d started saying near the beginning of our relationship as a result of some long-forgotten joke about mail order brides. But as I opened my mouth, the words, Maybe, but don't be so damned sure crossed my mind, and surprised, I shut it again. I made myself smile back at Martin. He seemed a bit puzzled by my lack of response.

      I turned to find Tom watching us. His eyes moved from me to Martin and then to my chest. When his gaze came back up to my face, he didn't seem to mind being caught looking. He even winked.

      The woman leaned farther out of the booth and laid her hand on Martin's arm. “Hey, Honey, how ‘bout some of that champagny?” Martin obligingly filled an extra glass and handed it to her. The woman drained it quickly. “Yep, I ‘member thirty-four,” she repeated. “Good year. Damn fine year.” She ran the fingers of her left hand across her upper lip. Martin offered her a refill, holding the bottle steady while the remaining few drops of champagne drizzled into her glass. 

      Mr. Harris came in with plates of ribs and potato salad cradled on his forearms. He carried a dented metal pan of cornbread in his left hand, and he dropped it in the middle of the table. “Hot!” he warned. “Little scorched on the edges, but it's fine. Just fine. You all dig in. Here, young lady.” He pulled a checked bandana from his apron pocket and unfolded it on my lap. “Don't want to spoil your pretty dress.”

      “Thanks, Mr. Harris. It smells delicious.”

      The old man bustled out again and returned with a handful of paper napkins and three pint jars, each bristling with a bouquet of knives, forks, and spoons. Martin selected a fork from one jar and polished it with his napkin. I trimmed the blackened border from the cornbread and cut it into triangles. Tom had already started on the ribs. He grinned and licked his sauce-laced fingers. “This is great!” he exclaimed to Mr. Harris, who still hovered around us, setting a gravy boat of extra barbecue sauce near Tom’s plate. “The best I’ve ever had.”

      Mr. Harris beamed.  “Best--”

      “Best in the West!” we all said in unison and laughed. Mr. Harris seemed to find this particularly amusing; he hobbled back into the kitchen, chuckling and shaking his head as if at some greater joke.

Harris Bar-B-Cue, Part I "We Saw the Smoke"

 We saw the smoke from our third-floor window in the Fargo Arms. I thought it must be the tire store, and you said the Kwik Stop. But when we put on our coats and walked over that way, passing those places, they were okay. It was farther up Fourth Avenue, and soon we could see that it was Harris Bar-B-Cue--not only the restaurant, but Mr. Harris’ house next door. The fire trucks had arrived quickly, but those buildings were so old, and it had been so dry that summer that the firemen soon put down their axes and concentrated on spraying the African Bethel Methodist Church on the corner to keep it from burning, too. 

      We got pretty close--across the street--and we watched the fire eat up first the restaurant and then the house. Old Mr. Harris wasn’t in there, of course, and I was glad, now, that he was dead a year and didn’t have to see this. The heat wasn’t as bad as you’d think, even after we crossed the street and stood on the curb, although every once in a while there’d come a big THWACK! from inside the restaurant that made us jump back. We began to hear explosions: large, wet pops--the gallon jars of sauce bursting--and the air was redolent with the smell of barbecue. 

*  *  *  *  * * * * * * * 

      We could smell the barbecue as soon as we got out of the car. The pink neon light--“Bar-B-Q Best in the West”--was flickering, and the rip in the screen had gotten bigger since last time, but the spring was new, and the door caught Martin on the heel as we went in. Mr. Harris heard it slam and came hobbling out from the kitchen in the back of the restaurant, rubbing sauce off his dark hands with his apron.

      “Howdy, folks. What'll it be? Barbecue?”

      “Yes, Mr. Harris. It's my birthday, today.”

      “So you came down to old Harris' for a party. And who are these fine gent’emen?”

      “You remember my husband, Martin. You’ve got our picture on your board. And this is Tom.  He goes to the University and rents our apartment.”

      Tom transferred the paper bag he carried to his left hand, and the three men shook hands. “A mite sticky,” chuckled Mr. Harris.  Tom laughed, too, and wiped his fingers on his jeans. Martin stared into his palm, then shook his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and picked off the tiny glob of barbecue sauce that clung to the heel of his hand. He carefully refolded the handkerchief, soiled side in, and transferred it to his back pocket.

      “Well, c’mon in and set yourself down.” Mr. Harris led us into the dining room of the house-turned-restaurant. There was only one other customer in the place, an older, shiny-faced woman sulkily drinking beer in one of the booths that lined the front wall. The booths were upholstered in cracked red leather. Grimy tin Coca Cola trays were nailed to the wall over each booth, and above them, faded posters advertising Nabisco crackers and Pear’s soap curled away from their tacks.

      We took mismatched chairs around a painted wooden table in the center of the small room. Mr. Harris elbowed his way past Martin, pushed a chair in behind me with a courtly flourish, then pulled one up for himself. He sat with bowed legs curled around either side of his chair and leaned an elbow on the table. “Got a batch of cornbread just about ready. Barbecue’s comin' right up.”  He turned to Tom. “Best in the West. Used to cook for the Union Pacific Railroad,” he explained. “The Portland Rose. That was a great ol’ train. I cooked my way from Portland to Denver and back again for twenty-three years.”

      Tom nodded attentively. “Twenty-three years, huh? That’s a long time. How’d you wind up in Pocatello?”

      “Well, I met me a girl. On a stopover one night. She was servin’ cornbread and pourin’ coffee down at the old Yellowstone Hotel. You know, down ‘cross from the railroad depot?” Tom nodded, and Mr. Harris went on, folding his arms on his chest with the air of someone settling in for a long spell of yarning. “Sumthin’ ‘bout the way she sliced me a extra big piece of cornbread and asked if I wanted honey on it made me think I oughta hang around a little longer.” He paused and stared out the dingy glass of the dining room window. “She’s been gone, now, fifteen years.” 

      A slightly scorched smell wafted toward us from the kitchen. Mr. Harris pushed his chair back and stood up. “Speakin’ a cornbread, it’s pro’bly done by now.” He hurried back into the kitchen, his bandy legs rocking him from side to side.

      I leaned low over the table toward Tom. “The rest of the story is, he married her, they opened this restaurant, and they had a daughter they named Portland Rose.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Nope. ‘Course she went by Rose, not Portland. Worked for the railroad here in town, ‘til she was killed in a motorcycle accident.”

      “You never told me that,” interjected Martin. He sounded surprised and slightly injured.

      “Guess I thought you knew. I’m pretty sure it was when you were working the Emergency Room.” 

      “Sounds like kind of a tough character,” said Tom.

      “Not really. ‘Course, I didn’t know her well.”  

      Tom nodded toward the kitchen where Mr. Harris’ off-tune humming competed with the crashing of pots and pans. “He’s sure a character.”

      “Something like that,” said Martin. “By the way, are we going to have some of that champagne you brought?”

      I turned over three of the thick, scratched glasses that sat upside-down in the center of the table. “Yeah, let’s get this birthday celebration underway.” 

      Tom drew two sweating green bottles from his paper sack and held them up by their necks like trophy pheasants. Martin reached across the table and took one from him. 

      “I’ll do the honors,” he said, turning the bottle and scrutinizing the label. “Oh, a domestic brand.” He peeled the foil from the top of the bottle. “With a plastic stopper. I see we won’t be needing a corkscrew. Not that there’s likely to be one in this place.” He put his thumbs on either side of the stopper and toggled it up out of the neck of the bottle. “Kay drags me here two or three times a year,” he explained to Tom. “I’ll admit the food is good,” Martin held his glass up to the light, turning it this way and that, “but I make sure my tetanus shot is up-to-date before coming.” He chuckled at his own joke, and Tom smiled politely.