Spears wasn't hiding his grief in a darkened room. As he fielded calls and told his story, he was zipping around the Cultural District in a Dodge pickup, searching for a propane tank for his portable grill, so he could fry catfish cakes for a party at the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. The original plan was to cook in the museum, but open flames aren't allowed. "It's just as well -- I've almost burned down Channel 5 twice," he said. Just as the propane problem was solved, a heavy rain began to fall, nixing outdoor cooking. Plan C -- race to a friend's house just off 7th Street and borrow his kitchen. On the way, Spears marveled at the dark clouds, told rapid-fire stories, dipped Copenhagen, and occasionally glanced at the road. What about the Shreveport story? "Oh yeah," Spears said, and described how he was in a casino at 6 a.m., $10,000 in the black, and ready to quit, but Green insisted they visit a baccarat table. Within 45 minutes they had more than tripled the money. "I didn't even know how to play baccarat," Spears said. "I still don't know how to play baccarat." The story ended with Green and Spears in the New Orleans French Quarter, staying at a house owned by singer-songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker. The next day they discovered Spears had left the front door wide open, allowing anyone who walked by to look inside and see an original Picasso hanging near the doorway. "The certificate of authenticity was on a table right beside it," Spears said, laughing. Luckily, no passing thieves had plied their trade. This is the good ol' boy persona that has captivated local restaurant patrons, book publishers, tv producers, and the news media from the Big Apple to the Big Bend. Here's the free spirit who somehow jumped from being a busboy to a waiter to a general manager to a famous chef in only a few years and without formal training, relying on a creative but reverent approach to cooking traditional cowboy food. His take on an old genre succeeded spectacularly, allowing him to open fine dining venues financed by investors eager to bank on the next Spears project. He is considered one of the state's most recognized chefs and among a handful of cowboy cuisine pioneers. Chicken-fried foie gras and chocolate zucchini muffins have shared space on his menus with cabrito, Bock-battered quail, game meats, and enchilada-topped steaks, spiced by unusual seasonings ranging from mescal to Pepsi. Along the way, he established himself as a character more colorful than a plate of jicama-carrot coleslaw and corn pudding pie. He's a hoot. And a handful. Gifted at creating restaurants that jazz the public, guilty of sometimes juggling so many deals and appointments he loses track, giving in to fits of temper when expectations aren't met, making so many promises he can neither remember nor keep them all, and signing contracts that come back to bite him. He sends a mixed message -- big on vision, scattered on details, demanding about results. He's not malicious, just passionate, eccentric, and sometimes unreliable. Some people feel burned in his wake. Others are forgiving, figuring flaws are part of any exasperating but engaging yahoo's makeup. "He's a lovable goof who needs somebody running him," one acquaintance said. "He embodies the cowboy, with all that that implies," another said. "He's a charmer and I love him, but he's no manager. He always seems to land on his feet, though." His gambling story finished, Spears, 35, pulled into his friend's driveway and began unloading pans, cooking oil, and food. In the kitchen he made a beeline to an old gas stove, lit the burners, and turned a knob to preheat the oven. Within minutes, little round catfish cakes were sizzling. He opened the oven door and ... KABOOM! A big ball of fire rolled past Spears, who ducked, jumped away, and began slapping his back and arms, his eyes wide and wild. The oven didn't have a pilot light, so gas had collected inside. When he opened the door, the stovetop burners ignited the escaping cloud. People who wonder if Spears will go down in flames are thinking figuratively, not literally. But even genuine fire rolls off his back. He wasn't burned, the catfish cakes got cooked, the food was well received, the museum soiree a success. Spears has a knack for surviving, sometimes in spite of himself. His supporters expect him to overcome his latest setbacks -- financial disarray, skittish investors, thinning prospects, and a seemingly growing number of detractors who relish seeing Fort Worth's culinary peacock getting his tail feathers roasted.
Chubby wasn't the word to describe Grady Spears as a child growing up in Fort Worth. "I weighed probably 250, 275 pounds when I was in the sixth grade," he said. "I mean I was fat." A city kid enamored of the area's western heritage, he dreamed of cowboys, Indians, and horses. A taste of the country life arrived in the sixth grade when his family moved to Granbury. The next year he was determined to enter a calf scramble in Houston, where anyone skilled and fast enough to nab a bovine on the run would win the animal and enough money to raise it for a year. "My grandfather took me down to Houston," he said. "My parents were goin', 'There's no way this kid is going to run fast enough to catch one of these things.'" He caught the beast but lost his breath and collapsed. "I had to have the oxygen mask put on me and everything -- in the middle of the Astrodome," he said. That embarrassment was overshadowed by the thrill of having a calf to call his own. "I raised this heifer all the way through, and the agricultural bug bit me," he said. He detested schoolwork. He just couldn't stay focused. Although he has co-authored five books as an adult, he doesn't recall reading a single book in school. Raising a calf and working outdoors helped give him direction and get him in better shape. "We moved back to Fort Worth when I was in ninth grade," he said. "I was hell-bent on becoming a cowboy. My grandfather had a friend named Bill Roach who owned Vann-Roach Cattle Co., and Mr. Roach gave me a job. I worked cattle from the time I was in ninth or tenth grade all the way through until I graduated." A vocational agriculture program allowed him to attend school half a day and work in the Stockyards the other half. After he became famous at Reata, national magazines would portray him during these early years as a cowboy riding the range and roping cattle. His job was not quite so glamorous. Bill Roach died years ago, but Weldon Vann remembers when Spears worked there as a barn "pilot." "Pile it here and pile it there," Vann said, laughing. "He started off basically as a labor hand. He didn't have a horse; he didn't have a rope." Laborers (on foot) fed, watered, inoculated, branded, castrated, and loaded cattle. The work was hot and demanding, and Spears grew stronger. From the baby fat grew a strapping, hard-working six-footer with an abundance of personality. Eventually, Spears was promoted to cattle buyer, but it's a career move that generally requires several years of experience to produce a decent income. To supplement his pay, Spears began working part-time as a busboy at the now-closed Epicure on the Park. Offered a full-time promotion to waiter, he quit his cattle-buying job and embarked on a course that would make him a famous chef in his 20s even though he never attended cooking school -- a fact that causes resentment in a field where peers have spent lots of time and money on culinary educations.
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That's a Two-Moo Meeting
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From the Week of May 19
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New threats and old mistakes challenge the Brazos' protectors. By Kelly Lipscomb
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