Sandhills Dinner
A few weeks ago, Bill and I headed to a family reunion in Norfolk with daughter, Victoria, and son, Levi, in the back seat. On a Friday morning, we angled our way up to Alliance from Gering, then caught Highway 2 across the sandhills. I like to call it "no man's land," because the whole region, though beautiful, is very sparsely populated.
When we drive to Norfolk, it takes us about six hours of driving time, plus another hour or so for necessary stops, to go the 373 miles from here to there. It's important to note that I feel like regular stops are much more necessary than Bill does, but he usually humors me. The problem is that there aren't too many places to stop along the way, so we have to plan carefully for mealtime stops.
There is a 200 mile stretch where the biggest town might have 200 people on a good day. Most communities have at least one gas station with an abundance of snacks and various kinds of drinks, but none of that is on my doctor-prescribed, low-fat diet. As we headed east, we stopped in Mullen for lunch. We've stopped there before, at Big Red's. It's a roadside diner, of sorts, that serves anything that can be cooked on a flat grill or in a French frier. The food is good, but most of it is too high in fat for me. Even the mini-tacos I ordered were prepared in the frier, so I ate a couple and traded the rest for half of Bill's grilled chicken sandwich. Victoria and Levi happily devoured their hamburgers and fries.
We enjoyed our time in Norfolk, catching up with relatives we hadn't seen in a while, and eating some good food, of course. We left for home on Sunday morning. Unfortunately, when lunch time rolled around, we were nowhere near any towns with known places to eat--and Victoria and Levi were both starving! (It doesn't matter how old they get; they still love to eat.)
So I did what anyone would do--I pulled out my phone to do some research. Now, the middle part of the state has rather sketchy cell service, so I watched my bars carefully, and finally had enough service to do a quick search of nearby restaurants. We knew that Thedford had a couple of decent places to eat, but those two restaurants provided only slow food, especially on a Sunday. We didn't really want to spend more than an hour at a restaurant. (And by we I mean Bill, who was anxious to get home in time to coach some pole vaulters.)
The town of Halsey, population 68, wasn't too much farther than Thedford, but we were a bit skeptical about its eating establishments, if any. I should have known better.
I had forgotten how Dad had always asked us kids, and Mom, if we wanted to take a Sunday afternoon drive. We always did. We liked exploring the countryside in southeastern Nebraska and northern Kansas. We often went fishing at some pond or reservoir, or got out of the car to explore old, abandoned stone houses, or we walked along with Dad as he hunted for pheasants on some friend's land. No matter where we went on our Sunday afternoon adventure, we invariably stopped at a rundown bar, in some tiny town, for supper. Sometimes, the bar was the only functioning business left in town. Regardless, the food was always excellent, and the people treated us as if they had always known us.
Halsey had just such a place, the Double T Bar and Steakhouse. It was open, so we decided to give it a try. As we scrambled out of the car, I commented that it would probably have hamburgers, served with a few crinkle cut dill pickles and a handful of Lays potato chips, or it might have a Sunday buffet, with two or three salads, potatoes of some kind, and chicken or roast beef.
As we stepped out of the sunlight into the dimly lit bar, it seemed like I was returning to my childhood. The bar was on the left, just inside the front door, and a pool table occupied a large space nearby. The walls were covered with memorabilia, including the mandatory Husker sign and several beer signs, undoubtedly provided by salesmen, free of charge, over the decades. Toward the back of the room, a group of seven or eight elderly people sat around a table, finishing their Sunday dinner. One of the women welcomed us and invited us to have a seat at another table. Then, she told us that the buffet was open.
We had our choice of salads--iceberg lettuce, macaroni salad, and jello salad; mashed potatoes and gravy to go with roast beef and pan-fried chicken, canned corn, and a homemade chocolate cake in a 9x13 inch pan. The potatoes were real, and the rest of the food, with the possible exception of the corn, was the very definition of home cooking. It was, hands down, the best meal of the trip.
 |
| I was too hungry to take a picture of the food, which was served on typical mid-20th century dishes. Like everyone else in my family, I ate it all. |
When we were almost done eating, one of the ladies got up to leave. She stopped at our table, asking where we were coming from and where we were headed. Then, she informed us that she was 92 years old, still living on the ranch. She didn't look a day over 80.
In a small town, everyone knows everyone and their business, and any visitors are fair game for conversation and general nosiness. We didn't mind. In fact, I expected it. That's just the way it is in small town bars. They really function as community gathering places.
I got up to use the one and only restroom before we got back on the road. It was dingy and not terribly clean, just as I expected. It hadn't been painted in years--or decades, probably. But the door had a lock, the doorknob was an interesting antique, and the toilet and sink worked just fine.
We didn't dawdle; our whole dining experience didn't take any longer that it would have at any typical fast food establishment. Bill paid for our reasonably priced meal, and we were on our way.
There's nothing like a little nostalgia to round out a satisfying trip to a family reunion.
Comments
Post a Comment