Dining Reminiscences: The Sequel

Last week’s letter about dining experiences went over so well, we’ve decided to do a sequel. Read on!

The Shady Nook

We’ve been known to drive 150 miles out of our way just to spend the night in a motel on the Salmon River in picturesque Salmon, Idaho.

We’ve made that effort several times mostly because just down the road from the riverfront motel is “The Shady Nook,” an old-fashioned home-owned restaurant that serves the ultimate in steaks and seafood. The best.

The most recent visit we made there was especially memorable. The place was full of diners except for one small table. Trouble was, the hostess explained, that the one remaining two-top table was in a room where a private party was in progress.

We said we’d happily sit there if the people in the party didn’t object to us. We certainly didn’t object to them. We ordered our meals and soon realized that the people celebrating a birthday were making an effort to include us. We didn’t know each other from Adam.

By the time the party was over, we had been fully taken into the group. We’d learned each other’s first names, told each other stories and jokes. We had all joined in singing happy birthday to the honoree.

When we left, we shook hands all around. Probably we’ll never see any of those people again. Wouldn’t know them if we did.

But what a fond memory. A surprise birthday party in Salmon, with a large group of people, eating, drinking, laughing, carrying on for almost three hours.

Another remarkable dinner at the Shady Nook on the banks of the Salmon River, in downtown Salmon, Idaho. Apparently, one can’t remain a stranger very long in Salmon.

Hickory House #1

Once upon a time we travelled to La Junta to visit the Koshare Indian Museum and Kiva and Bent’s Old Fort. We stayed in a motel adjacent to the Otero County Jail. At dinnertime, we rode up the street until we came to The Hickory House.

The sweet, pungent odor of searing beef magnetically drew us inside. Ahh, it was like I was suddenly at home. The Hickory House was a cooking-smoke-filled beer bar which just happened to be capable of preparing one of the best rib eye steaks I’ve ever tasted.

The evening was so enjoyable that it handily made up for the screams of the prisoners next door when we went back to the motel. Chalk one up for a fun night on the town in La Junta.

Hickory House #2

Some months later, again drawn to southeastern Colorado, we found ourselves stopped for the night in a nice new LaQuinta Motel in Lamar. Got the hot tub room.

We inquired at the check-in desk as to where to dine. The clerk immediately recommended The Cattleman, within walking distance north of the motel.

When it came time for dinner, we set off on foot. Also within walking distance, but in the opposite direction, was (are you ready for this?) a restaurant named The Hickory House.

So we overruled the desk clerk’s recommendation. After all, the Hickory House in La Junta had been superb. We greedily sought a repeat, a rerun.

Bum idea. As we entered the brightly-lighted eatery, the staff had just finished cleaning up after a customer who had vomited in one of the booths. Not a good sign.

We did stay there for a meal. Ask me why. I don’t really know why we stayed. Steak wasn’t even on the menu. There was no evidence of seared beef smoke.

The food was mediocre. No. That’s too kind. It was less than mediocre. Sort of like Goodberry’s in Greeley – frozen TV dinners, slightly warmed, for which one pays $9.99.

The moral of the story: Not all southern Colorado Hickory House restaurants are the same. Next time in Lamar, it’s the Cattleman for us.

Fleming cuisine

Once upon a time in a land that seems so far away, Laura and I and some other Greeley friends rode our motorcycles out east to Fleming, Colorado, for a big biker party and sleepover.

This was a seriously demented idea. More alcohol was consumed that night . . . there’s nothing to compare to it in my limited experience. Even I was far from qualified to participate in the volume-consumption competition.

This event went on until the sky began to show dawn’s approach. No one slept very much – some didn’t want sleep, some couldn’t sleep for the racket. Including many residents of tiny Fleming.

The ostensible reason for this event was to have a meeting of “Riders for Justice,” a group dedicated to bikers’ rights in Colorado. The meeting happened the next day, but we were all too bleary to make much sense of helmet law discussions.

After the meeting, we were hungry. There was a café up the street – we’ll call it “The White House” for obvious reasons. Read on.

I ordered bacon and eggs. After a time, here came my breakfast. Everything on the plate was white, a pasty, doughy white. Even the egg yolks were white.

The hashed brown potatoes were white. The toast was white. The bacon was white. The plate itself was white, and it was covered with substances that were all the same color. White.

I told the waitress something like, “You don’t have to serve bad food just because you live out here in the sticks.” She said, “I don’t live here. I live in Sterling.”

Smoked turkey

Some of our biker friends called excitedly one day to announce they had just purchased a brand-new turkey smoker. “Come up Sunday afternoon. We’ll have some beers, then eat turkey!”

Hey. We like to eat. We enjoyed a leisurely ride up to Ault, socialized for a while, drank beer, and once again got hungry.

“Time to eat!,” our hostess finally announced. She served me first. She cut a huge chunk off the turkey breast and slapped it down on my paper plate.

It was raw. Blood red. Not even warm. The skin wasn’t even smoked enough to be edible. “How long did you smoke this?” I asked.

More than an hour, she said. Apparently these people had never prepared a meal by any other means than a microwave.

Barbecued pork

Once in a time long ago, in a place too close for comfort, we got invited to a barbecue.

The Sundowners Motorcycle Club invited us to the Greeley clubhouse for a Sunday afternoon keg party and barbecue. Hey. We get hungry. We go to party.

Someone had set up a gigantic steel barbecue pit on a trailer. Inside the propane-fired device was an entire pig which was being turned occasionally by a man using big wooden shovels.

We drank beer. We listened to loud music. We cavorted and disported ourselves. It was good wholesome American hilarity.

By and by, someone shouted, “Time to eat!” Outside, there was a self-serve table featuring a heaping platter of meat alongside potato salad, French bread, cole slaw. I was hungry. Until I got a closer look at the meat.

It was raw. Bloody raw. I became a vegetarian for the day. Raw pork? I think you could die from that. On the other hand, I didn’t hear of anybody who died . . .

The sushi lesson

Once upon a time, my brother Dick and I made a service call at an apartment on 5th Street and Bridge in downtown Brighton.

The tenant there was a tiny little woman who spoke no English, only Japanese.

We repaired the leaky faucet or whatever it was in short order.

Our tenant wanted to say thanks, so she made motions for us to seat ourselves at her kitchen table.

From the refrigerator, she brought a tray of the prettiest looking food. It was so beautiful so as to look like cookies or candy. Oh those vivid red, green and white colors.

Dick popped a whole one in his mouth. He liked it! “That’s good,” he said, taking another.

Mine? It tasted like raw fish. Soon I figured out it tasted like raw fish because it was raw fish. Wrapped in seaweed. Mixed with some peppers, the red and green colored ones.

I knew where the bathroom was, because I had just been in there. I excused myself as best I could with a full mouth. I privately and carefully removed the seaweed from my teeth. I suppose the Japanese can eat all the seaweed they want.

I don’t eat seaweed. Or raw fish.

-0-

Word of the week: Speculum. You will be shocked to discover that this word comes from the Latin, specere, “to look.” A speculum is a mirror, especially one of polished metal used as a reflector in a telescope. In medicine, it’s an instrument used for dilating a cavity to facilitate examination.

A friend of mine once re-named the student newspaper at Idaho State University. Since time began, the paper had been called “The Bengal.” It became, “The Speculum.” Rather adroit, I thought. Caused a big outrage on campus. Right on.

Next week’s word: Seder

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section!!