So long, Bill's

I had my last barbecue sandwich at Bill's Virginia Barbecue the week before it closed. It was as good as the first one I ever tasted.

The Bill's restaurants closed their doors for good two weeks ago today -- another victim of the times and the economy. I'll miss Bill's, both for the food and for the memories.

I wasn't even born when the first Bill's opened in Richmond in 1931.

I had my first Bill's barbecue as a kid at the store near Boulevard and Broad. With it I had a fresh-water grape-limeade (no fizzy water for me), and a slice of chocolate pie. I was in the car with my family. The curb-service waitress ("Leave Lights On For Service") brought our orders on a tray that clipped onto the car window. It was so good that I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

To this day, I think Bill's made the best barbecue sandwich I have ever had, anywhere. The bun was slightly soppy with the juice from the minced pork. The cole slaw added the matchless sweet and tangy taste. The sauce from the little plastic cup, which I used liberally, made my mouth sting ever so slightly. Salty potato chips perfected the experience.

Bill's barbecue was unlike any other commercial barbecue I've ever had. It was not North Carolina style. And it definitely bore no resemblance to Texas barbecue. It was simple. With not much vinegar and no tomato in it, Bill's barbecue was primarily tender, juicy pork. The sauce, which always came in a small plastic cup on the side, did have a tomato base -- and a kick. I used to buy it by the bottle to use at home. (I once witnessed the explosion of a bottle of Bill's sauce, but that was because I left it sitting in the sun. When I opened it, whoosh! The gathering stopped while I cleaned up barbecue sauce.)

If I do go to heaven when I die, and if dead people still get hungry, I hope there's a Bill's up there. Surely, if there is a god, he will provide what we need.

I had an experience at the Bill's near Broad and Libbie that might have scarred me for life. I was 16, an age when life scars seem like they will take forever to heal but usually don't take that long at all.

I had just gotten my license to drive. My father agreed to let me take the family car -- which, let history record, was a blue 1956 Chevrolet station wagon about the size of the USS Enterprise -- to go on a Friday-night double date with my best friend. I forget who the girls were, but we went to a movie at the Byrd Theater and then decided to go to Bill's. When we got there, it seemed to us as though every other kid from Hermitage High School had the same idea. The lot was crowded with cars full of people we knew, calling out and visiting back and forth. I circled the lot several times before finding a spot at the back.

My new-driver mistake came when I tried to back into the space. I didn't have much choice. If the curb-service waitress were to see our "Lights On for Service," I had to be facing forward. I didn't do a very good job of it. In fact, I crunched the fender of the car next to me.

I had to get out of the car in front of our dates and everybody else in the lot and exchange information with the other driver, who turned out to be an older man who had been blamelessly eating barbecue with his wife.

The worst part was when I had to show him my license: I was such a new driver that it was the temporary version.

The story was all over school by Monday morning: Donnie Dale took his dad's car out on his first driving date and backed into another car at Bill's. It took about a semester to live that down.

One of the bonuses of moving into my present house 32 years ago was having a Bill's within about eight blocks. It was so easy to pop over there on a Sunday evening, pick up a barbecue sandwich (always minced, never sliced, with cole slaw and extra hot sauce) for a quick and easy dinner.

So many years. So many barbecues. Like the poet said, the song is ended, but the melody lingers on.