(CNN) – There may have been a time when The Red Barn BBQ parking lot was in good shape, but I don’t remember.
What I do remember is that the tires on our family’s Chevy Suburban always lifted a lot of loose gravel that chipped off the paint when we drove to the restaurant. But what more could you expect from a surface that had suffered years of wear and tear from hungry customers driving trucks the size of Texas?
When I reached the age of wearing heels, the short hike from the bumpy parking lot to the two-story establishment, not a barn, it’s true, it got even more treacherous. But let me be clear: I would traverse 50 miles of dangerous stones in five-inch stilettos if that meant getting closer to the smell that hit my nose the moment we opened the car door.
The Red Barn BBQ may not have the notoriety of some other Texas barbecue institutions, particularly those in metropolitan areas like Austin or Houston, but it certainly deserved it.
He served all the staples: boneless ribs, salty sausages, perfectly charred chicken covered in caramelized crunchy chunks, breast so soft it could feed a very lucky 1-year-old boy with teeth still emerging.
Its location, about 10 minutes from the southern border of the United States with Mexico, greatly influenced the complements of the smoked stars of the show with classic sides such as potato salad along with those with a Tex-Mex touch, such as rice in the Mexican style. , charro beans and warm corn or flour tortillas. (All recipes from the owners’ mother, Felicitas).
Cooking was so synonymous with my upbringing in McAllen, Texas, I can’t remember the first time I ate it.
Unfortunately, due to the coronavirus and the permanent closure of the beloved barbecue area, a sad destination for family businesses across the country, I will never forget the last time.
Precious memories of Red Barn
A combo breast and sausage platter from The Red Barn BBQ in McAllen, Texas.
Michael Martinez
My then fiancé and my future mother-in-law were in town to spend time with my family, and the natural choice for such a special meal was the place my family had visited for hundreds of meals.
Over the years, the dining room, which had posters of people like the late singers Selena and Elvis Presley talking about it, had been home to graduation dinners, anniversary parties, birthdays, and farewell parties.
This is not a unique story.
Hundreds of sad diners voiced in comments on the June 23 Facebook post announcing the restaurant’s closure. They are not being dramatic. At a time when the human cost of coronavirus is an open wound, the loss of places like Red Barn BBQ, which brought communities and families together, is an additional reminder of the loss we have seen at every turn during the four months . -and counting fight.
Let’s hope it doesn’t get lost in the midst of talks about businesses permanently closed due to the pandemic, which they also meant for their owners.
How it all started
The Red Barn started out as a takeaway restaurant in 1982 that ran out of a small red structure about a quarter of a mile north of where they would call home for most of their nearly four decades in business, co-owners Juan and Tomás Villarreal told CNN.
Juan Villarreal, his father and his uncle had built it with their own hands.
A large hospital and several medical buildings are now located where there used to be nothing but horses, cows, pastures, and orange and grapefruit trees, Juan Villarreal told CNN. The first incarnation of The Red Barn didn’t even have electricity.
Still, it was a hit in an area where Mexican restaurants ruled and an excellent barbecue was harder to find.
They moved to a larger location in the mid-1990s to keep up with demand, and the family spirit that fueled their startup also helped them thrive at their peak.
Family members moved from Michigan to help and moved to tight spots to do so. (Juan and Tomás Villarreal grew up in the Rio Grande Valley, but ended up spending the lives of some of their adults in the North, where they used to migrate).
My nephew, Jackson, a third generation patron, eats and plays with Shelly Villarreal, whose family owns The Red Barn BBQ. The family restaurant, closed by coronavirus, had a special connection with its customers.
Lisa Gonzalez
At one point, almost his entire immediate family, nine people in total, lived on the property that housed The Red Barn, divided between the two-story building that housed the dining room and a small white house that was also on the property.
Olivia Villarreal, whose parents owned the restaurant, said her grandparents lived in the small house, her family lived upstairs in the big house, her father’s brother lived in a room downstairs and another of his brothers and his wife were in other. Her other uncle and her wife rented a trailer near the restaurant.
“Like the Ewings,” joked Juan Villarreal, referring to “Dallas.”
Except that JR Ewing never lived in a hallway next to a commercial kitchen, the smells of which eventually aged, according to Shelly Villarreal, Juan’s wife.
“It was nauseating. It gave me a headache,” he said, laughing.
In their busiest times, smokers ran 12 hours a day and were open seven days a week. In tight-knit communities, like the Rio Grande Valley, where word of mouth endorsements are king, The Red Barn intertwined with people’s eating routines in a way that made you feel like it was always there and always would be .
The world – and your world – changes
Enter coronavirus.
When the pandemic hit, the ingredients became difficult to find, especially the meats they were famous for, Juan Villarreal said.
Once they were able to find meats, they moved to a sidewalk pickup model, but businesses hit a snag as people became increasingly concerned about contracting the virus, he said.
They are now 70 years old and “are not in good health either.”
Around Easter, they stopped serving on the sidewalk and ultimately made the difficult decision to close permanently.
“After 38 years, then this happens. We had to decide. And it’s time to go,” said Juan Villarreal, his voice cracking.
It was not an easy decision.
“We talk about it and we talk about it; I don’t think it will work anymore,” said Juan Villarreal. “It is difficult to take, ma’am.”
If the pandemic hadn’t come, he said, they would have tried to stay open for a couple more years. Juan and Tomás Villarreal make vague references to the hopes that there may be a “little Red Barn” in the future. But it is difficult perhaps.
Until then, they take pride in the fact that, as Tomás Villarreal put it, they came out the way the Dallas Cowboys did in their last Super Bowl appearance at the top.
On what turned out to be their last day, they sold out in the early afternoon, to the disappointment of the line that went out the door.
It was Easter, generally a great day for family gatherings in the largely Catholic area. It is unclear how the pandemic affected people’s usual plans, but apparently, the barbecue had still been on the menu.
I asked the Villarreals if they had a message for families like mine, who in many ways considered The Red Barn dining room to be an extension of their own.
“Thank you very much,” Juan Villarreal, pausing, “and we will miss you all.”
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