The Restaurant Pilgrimage: Trilogy

What? The Friday Letter “Boring?” In a rut maybe but never boring. Enjoy Friday Letter #91, Part Three of “The Restaurant Pilgrimage: Trilogy.”

The Virginian

The first time I stayed and dined at “The Virginian Hotel” in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, was in 1946. My Aunt Ruth took me with her when she went to Sinclair by steam-engine train, to visit her new husband, my Uncle Russell.

I remember looking out the second-story hotel window down at the railway crossing. The train we had come in on was still parked through the crossing, and the red warning lights blinked on late into the night. I suppose the crew would have moved the train, had anybody needed passage.

I was just barely four years old. Bacon and eggs the next morning pleased me mightily. Perfect, just like at Gramma’s. The conductor tried to speed me up after breakfast. I’m told I glared at him and said, “Don’t hurry ME.” Sounds suspiciously like a young Mr. Tommy.

There’s a very soft spot in this old heart for the Virginian. In all the times I’ve stopped there since – over a period of 60 years, much of it traipsing back and forth to Idaho – never have I been treated poorly.

Not once have I been served a bad meal. Never has The Virginian let down its reputation of hospitality. Every night is cowboy party night; let the beer and whisky flow.

We stopped in Medicine Bow in 2002, during Ken Omoto’s most recent trip to the U.S. from Japan. We had led Ken from Thermopolis through Casper and south on the “back road,” State Highway 487.

After a delicious hamburger lunch, our worldly biker friend Ken asked, “How do you know about this place?” So I told him this story, which you have just read.

Thanks, Virginian Hotel!

Oscars

For the longest time, I simply didn’t get it.

Historically, the big truck stop and tourist magnet in rustic Limon, Colorado, was known as “Fireside Junction.”

When a few years ago it became “Oscars,” my eye thought it saw an apostrophe there. I thought it was some narcissistic restauranteur who had named his new enterprise after himself, “Oscar’s.”

The last time we went there, I noticed photos of famous movie stars all over the place. Duh. “Oscars.” Now I get it.

However, it’s too late for Oscars. The facility is plain worn out. The restrooms, uh, stink. Grooves are worn in the floor of the overworked kitchen. The staff is tired. The truck drivers are tired. Hollywood movies are passé. Even good old Oscar seems to be tired.

And $7 is too much to pay for a piece of pie.

National Park Ripoff

I was just dawdling, head back, mouth agape, staring at the Aurora Borealis. I’d never seen that before, and its beauty made me forget that women – certain women anyway – get irritable when they aren’t fed promptly enough.

We had stopped for the night at St. Mary, Montana, on the eastern border of Glacier National Park.

There was a food concession there which purported to be a restaurant. I thought there was something fishy when we had to pay before our meals were delivered.

We ordered a diverse collection of meals, a hamburger there, a hot beef sandwich there. Each of the four of us immediately reported the same reaction: yuck.

Had I not already paid, I would have refused to pay. It was inedible. Apparently, the restauranteur had decided tourists don’t deserve freshly prepared fare. Glorified TV dinners would have to do. At $8 a pop. No thanks. We left our meals uneaten.

Even the one blonde hungry girl left hers. We didn’t leave a tip, either.

Four Seasons

Laura’s dad, Ellwyn, was always excited when we announced we were coming to Lebanon, Oregon, to visit.

My father-in-law took vicarious pleasure in our motorcycle adventures. Sure, he asked all the same questions everybody does, as in “Aren’t those things dangerous?” But he loved to hear our route plans, and to mark on his calendar what day we planned to be where.

When he heard we were coming from Boise to Lebanon on U.S. Highway 20, Ellwyn immediately recommended “The Four Seasons Restaurant,” should we arrive in Bend at lunch or dinner time.

So we began looking forward to Bend, looking forward to The Four Seasons. Salivating, as it were, for a café which we knew only by word of mouth.

Sure enough. We arrived at Bend about mid-day, right on schedule for lunch. I was thinking of a chicken fried steak. Laura was looking forward to dessert, probably pie and ice cream.

Ooops. Restaurant closed. Frightening orange and red paper notices stuck to the door. Durn. No chicken fried this noon. Ellwyn was even more disappointed than were we.

Ghost restauranteur

Five or six years ago, on one of our pilgrimages to San Luis, Colorado, we saw a ghost.

We just didn’t know it at the time.

There are three Tex-Mex restaurants in downtown San Luis. The three share similar menu items, ramshackle appearance, quirky business hours, even employees.

One evening, we returned shortly after dusk from a hike up the mountain to view the Stations of the Cross sculptures.

We were tired and hungry. Ahead of even going to our room at the motel there to freshen up, we went directly to the little café closest to the motel.

There was no sign in the window, either Abierto or Cerrado, so Laura suggested we try the door. It was not locked. We went in. We were alone except for someone working back in the kitchen.

I shouted hello, and pretty soon here came a diminutive man with a big grin, wiping his hands on his apron.

He assured us his restaurant was open, and immediately brought cervesa in chilled glasses. Shortly, our meals came. Fresh. Hot. Flavorful. Quite pleasing, actually. A satisfying dining experience.

When we finished our meals, our host began closing up. He gave us a business card, and we parted friends. I have lost track of that card.

Two years later, eager like we are to re-live pleasant experiences, we stayed a weekend in San Luis and went to the same little mid-town restaurant.

We mentioned our previous experience to the hostess, who became more and more agitated the more we spoke of it.

She said our description would fit her late husband. But he had died many years ago, and until recently the restaurant here in San Luis had been closed on weekends so she could tend her other business in Alamosa.

During our earlier visit, our host had mentioned he was driving later to a restaurant in nearby Conejos. “I have to clean up over there so they can open early on Monday,” the man had said.

Oh no, our hostess insisted. We did try to run a third place, in Conejos. But that was many, many years ago.

For a ghost, that dapper little man sure could serve up a great tamale, a grand enchilada, a magnificent chile verde.

The Delta Café

Eighty-five miles. That’s how far our Sportster could go on a tank of fuel, and that’s how far it is from the Nevada border to Delta, Utah, on U.S. Highway 50.

In Delta, one can refuel a tiny Sportster and one can, if one is courageous, dine at the Delta Café.

Although we’ve been told for years not to order seafood away from the seashore, we ordered grilled, breaded halibut dinners.

Delicious. Not over or under-cooked. It was accompanied by real (I said real) mashed potatoes and real yellow-white-sauce. All perfect.

The service was prompt and friendly. The price was fair and appropriate. Even the dinner roll was a “bake and serve,” which is acceptable in remote areas. It had been freshly baked, and was served hot.

For dessert, the waitress brought two monkey dishes with tapioca. Just the right touch. Bravo.

Then after dinner I made a stop at the bathroom.

When I opened the door and flipped the light switch, a flood of cockroaches left the room, across the floor, up the walls, under the sink cabinet.

Yuck. Durn. Guess we can’t recommend the Delta, as good as the food was.

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Word of the week: Seder. It comes from Hebrew, Sedher, meaning arrangement, service or lection. In Judaism, it is the feast commemorating the exodus of the Jews from Egypt. It is observed in the home on the eve of the first day of Passover.

My church, St. Peter here in Greeley, is having a Seder Supper re-creation next week. Lamb. Bitter herbs. Boiled eggs. Matzah bread. Wine.

There doesn’t seem to be a graceful way I can get out of going. Never backed myself into a corner like this before. At least not at church.

Stay tuned.

Next week’s word: Nausea.

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