Me: "Hi, honey. I'm just getting back to the hotel and you'll never guess what I ate for dinner."
The Girl: "Um, I don't know... Country fried steak?"
Me: "Keep the last two words."
The Girl: "Chicken fried steak?"
Me: "No, just the last two words."
The Girl: "Fried steak?!?"
Thank you, Notorious N.A.D. After spending time here, he was able to point me in the direction of Sir Scott's Oasis in Manhattan, Montana. No, they didn't throw Jane Fonda out of the place. That doesn't make it any less cool.Here is the basic breakdown - they have dinners with a ton of stuff included and most of those dinners revolve around steaks and seafood. There's one gem on the menu, though - fried steak strips.
From the gamebreaking e-mail exchange:
Sir Scott's Oasis in Manhattan - about 20 miles down 90 is world renowned for their steaks. It's worth driving there. Plus, they're the only place in the world that has fried steak strips. They sound disgusting, but taste amazing.
So, so true.
I call ahead and hear they can't get me in until 8 or 9 p.m. I decide to say, screw it, it's not like I have much else to do until my morning flight. I get there and Manhattan is a little one-street town like many other one-street towns.
When I head inside the restaurant, there are three options: dining room, bar area (with slots and a chain-smoking section!) and three tables right up front that are for walk-ins. I opt for the tables and again, more options: table for two, four or six.
All by my lonesome, I'm told to take the table for six. Even when the table for four opens seconds later and I offer to get out of traffic and take that one, the hostess insists that I stay put.
Awesome.
So, aside from a bowl with an ice cream scoop full of butter, dinner is fairly uneventful. A comically proportioned gentleman with his wife sit down and order drinks before they choose dinner - he opts for a double Jack and Coke and she gets a water with a side of tequila shot.
I've never seen someone order a shot as their dinner drink... and I lived in Green Bay for four years.
At one point between bites of fried steak and baked potato, I see what I assume is a home sale taking place on the log bench for those waiting for tables. Apparently, it's two grand more than the possible buyers wanted to pay, but the hot tub is back on the table.
This takes ten minutes to try and talk the buyers into the idea. I have no clue how that ended because they all went to the bar.
Boys and girls, never walk into a bar with papers that will lock you into a 30 year mortgage in your pocket. Just a friendly tip.
So, I'm there with five empty seats and I'm nearly finished up with dinner and invite a family of three to sit with me and take over the other side of the table.
In my mind, this works much like urinal math. Ladies, there is a world-respected and complex mathematical equation for which urinal to take when you walk into a restroom. Men don't walk in all willy-nilly and pick a random urinal. You must leave a buffer urinal empty if possible - I assume so you don't catch gay - and if there is no urinal available that fits the bill, there are a series of check-downs that you have to work through. This is more difficult than it sounds.
It must be done at full speed as you approach. Forget harnessing the power of the atom - if you can capture the brainpower of the walkup to the urinal, you'd shut out supercomputers at chess for the next 50 years.
Back to Sir Scott's, where there are three chairs on the north side of the table and three on the south. Without getting too involved here, I assumed they would fill in two seats on the other side and one person would sit on my side, but leave the gap between us.
I was half right.
The couple's daughter sits next to me, with the gap and dad sits down right across from me. This is all sorts of wonderful. I now have a stranger who needs space where my Coke and half my dinner is sitting.
I'm OK with this, but it strikes me as a little strange and a lot of uncomfortable. I'm not that territorial, so I scramble to move things out of the way. It's still a weird setup because I'm close enough that it's strange if I don't react to what they're saying, but really, it's none of my damn business when this guy is headed to Canada or who will feed the horses in his absence.
So, we chat a bit as I get my check and work on my sherbet. Big surprise, he's been to Chicago, it was too big and he hated it. His daughter informs me that she thinks she might have seen the Holy Spirit in the backyard (no lie) and the new, God-fearing me tells her that with the Holy Spirit being everywhere, that sounds about right. She smiles and I feel like a good person.
I'm ready to go, but Sir Scott's has one final surprise for me - the takeout arrangements are a paper bag and a plastic bag - I shit you not, it says, "Fruits and vegetables, 5 a day for better health."
Enjoy your leftover fried steak (available in 14 or 20 ounce servings), sir!
So, you head home with a paper bag, stuffed with a plastic bag and that plastic bag is stuffed with fried steak. USA! USA!
So, if you find yourself in the greater Bozeman area - refer to the link above, track this place down. It may sound disgusting, but it tastes amazing. I'm thinking of opening the Chicago branch.
Other bits of random:
* To explain the picture above, that's my phone in my room tonight. One-touch connection to the Country Kitchen. Three dollars for delivery, knock yourself out.
* I saw the mountains today, briefly, as I made an emergency sheetrock anchor run to the hardware store. In short, it was amazing and totally explains why people rave about Montana.
For 98 percent of my visit, it's been dark or snowing or dark and snowing. Without the mountains, I honestly can't tell this place apart from Minnesota. That's a statement to be taken at face value.
* This is one of the few places where I can see the justification for all-wheel drive and nature-violating SUVs and pickups. After driving a Toyota minivan for two days and trying to enter traffic that is really clipping along, I long for a vehicle that would make Al Gore swear vengence on my family.
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