When I recently heard that beloved Oklahoma icon BJ Wexler had passed on to that big popcorn machine in the sky, I remembered those times two decades ago when I would usually find him eating alone at a Chinese joint next to Happy Days Record Shop on SW 89th and Penn. I thought it might be fitting to eat there as a tribute to him but, sadly, they were either closed for business or out of business, I was far too dumb to tell.
Still hungry though, my gal-pal Jodie and I stopped at a sandwich shop a few stores away, Pickerman’s Soups and Sandwiches, 8916 S. Penn. While I don’t know if Wexler ever ate there, judging from the old television playing UHF channels in the back, I kind of like to think that he did and that brought something of a comfort to me and my lonely Saturday nights.
Filled with workers and other assorted city employees, we professionally waited in line for our turn to order, studying the wall-mounted board for our well-described choices. Filled with a surprising amount of originality for a sandwich shop, we ordered our eats and sat near that old television as some commercial for economical siding blared at us.
Order ready, I held the bag tightly like an Academy Award as I took out the first sandwich. Absolutely piled with dill slices, the Texas Barbeque ($6.00) on white bread, though admittedly an odd choice for lunchtime, seemed fitting, like a gruff John Wayne flick that should be flickering in the background. With dark red streams of a too-sweet sauce spilling out the sides, the thick chunks of beef were pliable, like a new scoop out of a fresh container of pre-made barbeque that I’ve never heard of.