01/11/2026
He threw a party for 30,000 people with 6 tons of beef and 7,000 cakes—then gave away his entire fortune.
Texas, 1926. Edgar B. Davis had just sold his oil company for $12 million—about $200 million in today's money. He was 51 years old, and by all rights, he should have been planning his retirement as one of the richest men in America.
Instead, he planned the biggest party Texas had ever seen.
But first, understand who Edgar Davis was—because that explains everything that came after.
Born in 1873 in Massachusetts, Davis worked his way up from rubber salesman to oil prospector. He wasn't born into wealth. He understood what it meant to work for a living, to struggle, to risk everything on a gamble that might not pay off.
In 1922, he was drilling for oil near Luling, Texas—a small town that was slowly dying. Previous attempts to find oil there had failed. Investors were skeptical. But Davis kept drilling.
On August 9, 1922, his gamble paid off. Oil shot 200 feet into the air from the well they called Rios No. 1. Within months, Luling transformed from a dying farming community into a boomtown.
Davis became rich. And that's when he did something unusual for an oil baron: he remembered where he came from.
In 1926, he sold his United North & South Oil Company to a group of investors for $12 million. It was one of the biggest oil deals in Texas history.
Most men in his position would have retired to a mansion, invested conservatively, and lived comfortably off the interest. Instead, Edgar Davis announced he was throwing a party.
Not just any party. A barbecue for everyone in three surrounding counties—Caldwell, Guadalupe, and Hays. Free. Open invitation. Bring your family.
Nobody believed it at first. Free food for everyone? For potentially tens of thousands of people? It sounded like a publicity stunt or a cruel joke.
But Davis was serious.
He secured 100 acres along the San Marcos River near Luling. He hired dozens of pitmasters. He ordered supplies that read like a fantasy: 6 tons of beef, over 5,000 pounds of mutton, 2,000 chickens, mountains of beans, potato salad, and bread.
28,000 bottles of soda (this was Prohibition, so alcohol was technically illegal). 6,000 bottles of "near-beer"—the legal low-alcohol beverage that was as close as you could get. 7,000 cakes from bakeries across the region. And 8,700 bricks of ice cream that had to be kept frozen in an era before widespread refrigeration.
On the day of the barbecue—July 21, 1926—people started arriving at dawn.
Families came in wagons, in Model T Fords, on horseback. They came from farms and small towns. Oil workers showed up in their work clothes. Entire communities emptied out and headed to Luling.
By midday, an estimated 30,000 people filled those 100 acres along the river.
Think about what that meant in 1926 Texas. Black families and white families, in the segregated South, eating together at the same event. Mexican American families, Anglo families, oil workers, farmers, storekeepers—everyone invited, everyone fed.
Davis had built separate facilities to comply with segregation laws of the time, but he insisted everyone be served the same quality food, the same portions, the same treatment. For one day, in the middle of Jim Crow Texas, his party was a glimpse of something different.
The pitmasters worked for two straight days roasting beef over mesquite wood. Tables stretched for hundreds of yards. Bands played. Kids ran along the riverbank. For one day, nobody worried about money or work or whether they could afford to feed their families.
Because Edgar Davis had taken care of everything.
The cost? Estimates vary, but Davis spent somewhere between $100,000 and $200,000 on the barbecue alone—equivalent to roughly $3-6 million today. For one day. For one party.
But that wasn't all.
Before the party, Davis had quietly been giving away his fortune. He'd already distributed $6 million directly to his employees—bonuses equal to or exceeding their annual salaries. Oil field workers who made $1,200 a year suddenly received checks for $1,200. Office workers got months of salary as bonuses.
He built a golf course in Luling and opened it to everyone. He constructed a clubhouse specifically for the African American community—one of the few such facilities in Texas at the time. He funded schools, churches, and community buildings.
The barbecue was just the most visible part of a larger philosophy: wealth should be shared with the people who helped create it.
This wasn't normal in 1926. This was the Roaring Twenties—the era of Gatsby excess, of Gilded Age fortunes hoarded in mansions, of industrial barons who treated workers as expendable. The idea that an oil millionaire would give away his fortune to employees and throw a free party for 30,000 people was revolutionary.
Davis was deeply religious—a Baptist who believed the Bible's teachings about wealth and generosity were meant to be taken literally. He'd quote scripture about rich men and needles and camels, and he meant it.
After giving away most of his fortune, Davis lived modestly. He continued working in oil but never accumulated wealth the way he could have. When opportunities arose to make more millions, he'd often sell early and distribute the profits to employees and communities.
The "Davis Barbecue" became legendary. For decades afterward, people in Luling would remember where they were that day, what they ate, who they saw. Old-timers would tell their grandchildren about the greatest party in Texas history, the day an oil millionaire fed an entire region and asked for nothing in return.
Edgar B. Davis died in 1951 at age 78. He'd given away virtually his entire fortune. He left no great estate, no monuments with his name in bronze letters, no foundation that would carry on for generations.
But in Luling, Texas, they still talk about him. The Edgar B. Davis Memorial Hospital still serves the community. Buildings he funded still stand. And every old-timer has a story about that barbecue in 1926, or about the time Davis helped their grandfather, or about the day he gave away bonuses that saved a family from poverty.
Compare that to today's billionaires. The wealth inequality is starker now than it was in the 1920s. Billionaires build rockets and buy social media platforms and add zeros to their net worth while their warehouse workers struggle to pay rent.
Imagine if a modern tech billionaire announced: "I'm giving every employee a bonus equal to their salary, then throwing a free feast for 30,000 people in the surrounding communities." Imagine the shockwaves that would send through the culture.
That's what makes Edgar Davis's story so powerful. He proved it's possible. He showed that someone could strike it rich and choose generosity over accumulation. Could share wealth with workers instead of hoarding it. Could throw a party that celebrated community instead of exclusivity.
And he did it almost 100 years ago, during an era just as obsessed with wealth and excess as ours.
The Davis Barbecue wasn't just the biggest party in Texas history. It was a statement about what wealth could be used for. It was a glimpse of an alternative to the Gilded Age greed that defined his era—and still defines ours.
Thirty thousand people gathered on 100 acres along the San Marcos River. They ate 6 tons of beef and 7,000 cakes and 8,700 bricks of ice cream. Kids played in the river while bands played and families laughed and for one day, nobody went hungry.
And the man who paid for it all went back to work on Monday, having given away a fortune most people couldn't imagine, asking for nothing except the satisfaction of sharing what he'd been given.
Edgar B. Davis proved something important: you can make millions and still remember you're human. You can strike it rich and still care about the people who helped you get there. You can throw the biggest party in history and make it a celebration of generosity instead of ego.
Nearly a century later, people still talk about the Davis Barbecue. They still tell stories about the oil millionaire who gave it all away. They still remember what it felt like when someone with power chose to share it.
In honor of Edgar B. Davis (1873-1951), who threw a party for 30,000 people, gave away his fortune to employees and communities, and proved that wealth doesn't have to corrupt—if you remember where you came from and who helped you get there.
Six tons of beef. Seven thousand cakes. Thirty thousand people fed for free.
And one man who understood that the best use of a fortune is making sure nobody goes home hungry.
