Finding family at Gene’s

The text message from Connie DePriest came out of the blue. And it got right to the point. “Dad closed the restaurant.” I wasn’t surprised by the news, but I was sad nonetheless. “Dad” is Gene DePriest, 83, of Brinkley. “The restaurant” is Gene’s Barbecue, where I’ve spent more good times during the past 25 years than I can count.

“He’s tired,” Connie texted. “Business just isn’t the same as it once was. He didn’t tell anyone but his suppliers.”

I enjoyed asking friends to join me on road trips to Brinkley so they could hang out with Gene, duck-hunting legend Wiley Meacham and the other east Arkansas characters who made this a special place. For years, Gene hosted a wild-game dinner every Sunday night in the back room.

Here’s how I described one of those dinners in a story for Arkansas Life magazine: “It’s shortly past 5 p.m. on an early spring Sunday, and the side parking lot of Gene’s Barbecue in Brinkley is crowded with pickups. We park behind a truck with a bumper sticker that proclaims ‘Proud To Be An American.’ The folks getting out of the trucks are all men. And they’re all headed for the side door of the restaurant rather than the front door. In the front room of Gene’s, which draws travelers from nearby Interstate 40 and locals alike, few of the tables are taken at this early dinner hour. But in the back room—the room where the Brinkley Rotary Club meets, the room where former Congressman Tommy Robinson and his sons accosted a banker (receiving statewide media coverage in the process), the room that has been the scene of everything from political fundraising events to occasional card games—things are hopping.

“With the exception of a waitress who walks in and out from time to time, it’s all men. Some are watching the large flat-screen television in the corner as the NCAA men’s basketball tournament is played. Baylor is trying to upset Duke, and those in the room seem to favor Arkansas’ former Southwest Conference rival. Others are visiting with each other.

A few seem to be meditating, perhaps dreaming of the feast that awaits them.”

When the restaurant was operated by Gene’s brother, it was known as Sweet Pea’s. In 1994, it became Gene’s and never closed a day. Gene came to work on Christmas Day, New Year’s Day and Thanksgiving. The restaurant even remained open when a fire destroyed part of the building and forced the closure of the main dining room. The kitchen and back room weren’t badly damaged, so Gene used the back room as his dining room until the rebuilding process was finished.

The wild-game dinners were invitation-only affairs for Gene’s friends (you can’t legally sell wild game). A regular attendee once told me that the menu consisted of “whatever Gene shot, caught or ran over the previous week.” When I asked Meacham about that, he smiled and said: “You know, Gene does put an awful lot of miles on that Lincoln.”

There might be venison one week, squirrel the next, rabbit the next, catfish and buffalo fish the next. The rule seemed to be that if it could be cut up and fried, Gene would give it a try. One Sunday night, I remember Gene talking about bringing home a limit of sandhill cranes from a hunting trip to the Dakotas. He said: “They call it the rib-eye in the sky.”

On another Sunday night, we were watching a 60 Minutes story on the commercial harvest of shark fins for Asian consumption. “Hey, Gene,” one of the diners yelled out. “Would you cook shark fins if we were to bring them in here?” Before he could answer, another man said: “If you bring it in, Gene will cook it.”

On the day I took documentary filmmaker Joe York to Gene’s to make a short film about the wild-game dinner for the Southern Foodways Alliance, the menu consisted of fried rabbit, gravy, wild duck, wild goose, fried potatoes, baked sweet potatoes, cornbread dressing, turnip greens and sliced onions. Asked how the weekly dinners started, Gene said: “I was killing a lot of squirrels. My wife wouldn’t cook them at home. I started to cook them at the restaurant and invite friends over to help me eat them. It just kind of mushroomed.”

Gene, who earlier in his career had run a honky-tonk at Clarendon, was already lamenting the fact years ago that so many former regulars had died or become too old to attend. I’ll miss these gatherings. They were a throwback to another time; a time when small towns across Arkansas were filled with businesses that existed to serve area farmers; a time when winter meant daily hunting trips until it was time to plant the cotton again; a time when Sundays offered a rare chance to relax, eat a big meal and visit with friends.

One of the best moves I made during the 1990s was to accept an invitation from Meacham to speak at a Rotary Club meeting at Gene’s. That led to invitations to hunt at Meacham’s famous Piney Creek Duck Club. I later became friends with many of Meacham’s friends, including Gene.

Gene was his usual upbeat self when I called him after receiving the news from his daughter. He told me: “After 25 years, seven months and 10 days, I quit.”

“It ran much deeper than a restaurant,” Connie said. “It was a family. Everyone in there was family. I’ve cried all week.”

I’m not ashamed to admit that my eyes became misty as I read her texts. Places like Gene’s are increasingly rare in our state. If there’s one near where you live, support it with your business. Once it’s gone, you’re left only with the memories.

I’m not sure where I’ll go when the craving for fried squirrel and gravy hits this fall.