A divine Fourth, from church pulpit to BBQ pit
And we wouldn't have Jones Barbecue in Sodo, where the pork is tender and the sauce dribbled atop cornbread is just the thing. Or Jones at Bellevue's Crossroads Mall food court, or the original Jones, a humble joint in Rainier Valley, sandwiched by a mattress store and a Vietnamese pool hall.
William Jones already had his hands full long before buying his first Southern Pride pit. A genial, self-assured man, Jones was a husband and father of four, a local minister and a lieutenant with the Seattle Fire Department (note the "Backdraft" movie poster at the Rainier Valley store).
But Jones had inherited a culinary talent from grandmother Elmira "Big" Watkins, a formidable baker back home in their native Arkansas. When Big made poundcakes and sweet-potato pies, Jones remembers fondly, it meant begging for the spatula and bowl.
Eventually, mom taught Jones how to bake desserts while dad — a cook in Little Rock, in the U.S. Army and then in Seattle private clubs — taught his son how to barbecue.
"The secret is to slow cook. Slow smoke. Once it's nice and tender, sauce it," explains Jones, who would probably be mortified if anyone ever complained that his meat was tough.
No one complained back in the day when William and Joyce Jones opened their tiny Mount Baker home and hosted a bevy of events. Church functions. Seafair. The Fourth of July. Summertime meant platters of ribs cooked in a refrigerator-turned-smoker, eating off your lap to the sound of gospel music, then working it off with a game of flag football.
"We fed everybody," says Joyce Jones. "We'd go to the stores and they'd say, 'You want all these ribs?' "
And that's how it started, this tale of a man, his pit and a sauce not too tangy nor too sweet.
Here's Jones now: stocky, 6 feet tall, ball cap covering his head, basketball shorts and shoes, size 12.
He's in the main kitchen at the Sodo location, fixing enough peach cobbler to feed 60 people.
"God has blessed us," says Jones, as he prepares a dozen pecan pies.
Some 14 years ago, a connection made through a firefighter led Jones to the former Wild Boar BBQ in Seattle. Jones gleaned some more barbecuing tips and then eventually took over the lease.
"Me and my wife, we used to ride around and we'd wonder why we didn't see black businesses," he says. "Then we came to the conclusion that a lot of times, people talk and never try to do anything. So we decided, we were going to stop talking."
The first Jones Barbecue opened at the corner of Martin Luther King Jr. Way and Hudson Street, easy to miss unless you had your car windows rolled down and the scent of smoked meat set you straight. Except for a splash of barbecue sauce-red paint, it still looks mostly the same: small, comfy, doors that need an extra tug to close.
Father and son smoked ribs and chicken over cherry and alder wood. A good week, at the time, meant selling six cases of ribs. Mom made bread pudding; wife Joyce, the cheesecakes. The four Jones children cut up the meat, stirred the baked beans, worked the register.
Jones already had his followers from the many cookouts that took over the front lawn at his home. Then word of mouth drew the Metro bus driver, the dental hygienist, the pro athlete. They arrived to taste whether Jones barbecue really stacked up.
Rib tip basket. Hot. Coleslaw.
Half-chicken. Mild.
A pound of small ends.
First-time customers were hooked by the time they licked their last finger clean. Brother Jones, folks sighed, smacking their bellies, you know barbecue!
The restaurant was also a haven for his children: guaranteed employment for them and for anyone else who might need a job.
"I don't like to just hand people money. I like to see people work and be independent," says Jones, whose employees have included young parents and folks who have run afoul of the law.
"We're just trying to help where we can help. Sometimes young people don't have direction."
He operates a catering business. Some 10 different venues now stock the Jones sauce on their shelves, a tribute to his father, who has since died. And Jones will soon open a fourth restaurant in Columbia City.
Judges at the Bite of Seattle and at the Taste of Tacoma last month awarded first prize to Jones Barbecue.
"There are two kinds of vendors," said Miriam Lisco, a longtime Bite connoisseur and judge. "Vendors who are in it for the business, and those in it for the love of the food. The people who win are absolutely in love with the quality and the cooking of the food."
The description suits Jones, who, according to his wife, is obsessed with barbecue.
"There are two days when we don't grill: Mother's Day, I get to choose the place; and Father's Day, when the kids get to choose," Joyce says.
New Year's Day means a barbecue at the Jones' house, which is now in Bellevue. But the couple typically goes out on New Year's Eve to 13 Coins, because of its open kitchen.
"He likes to walk in and sit on that (counter) bench and look at the flames," Joyce says. "I said, 'Oh no. We're sitting in a booth.' It (his food) has to be cooked over a fire. That's probably why he's a firefighter."
This afternoon, rain or shine, Jones, a senior pastor, will preside over services at his Blessed Assurance Pentecostal Church in the south end, where the sermon will be about freedom in Christ. Then he'll head home, swap his minister's collar for an apron and ball cap, and hold court at the pit.
An entire roasted pig. Meat that falls off the rib bones. The sauce! Peach cobbler (mom's recipe, now unabashedly claimed by Jones).
Pray that your barbecue is just as good.
Florangela Davila: 206-464-2916 or fdavila@seattletimes.com