Forever on Our Mind: 30 Oz. to Freedom
Eating my way through one of the biggest—and best—dining experiences in Oregon
49-79. 30 Oz. to Freedom
July 2016:
The waitress collects the scattered plates in front of me and asks, “Are you done with the baked potato?” The stack clatters in her hand. “All finished with the beans?” A Garth Brooks song I’ve only ever heard in karaoke bars plays over the speakers when she wonders, “Want me to wrap that steak up?”
Finally: "Did you save room for dessert?"
My eyes bulge in disbelief. An involuntary spasm of laughter escapes at the audacity of that question. After having endured a full dinner at Cowboy Dinner Tree, I could see myself summiting Mount Hood in a blindfold easier than I could eating another crumb. I may never eat again, and I’m only half-kidding.
But I can’t help myself: "Well, I've come this far—”
"—You might as well go all the way," she says.
I do not disagree. And with that, she heads to the kitchen for a slice of strawberry shortcake.
***
A little less than 90 minutes earlier, I pulled into the dusty parking lot outside Cowboy Dinner Tree near the hamlet of Silver Lake (pop: 315) for the restaurant’s famous steak dinner—one of the most extravagant dining experiences anywhere in Oregon.
It’s a night I’ve looked forward to since I made my mandatory reservation a few months back. When I initially called to secure my 5:30 p.m. dinnertime, the kind employee said I could choose between a 30-ounce steak or whole roasted chicken to pair with the restaurant’s prix-fixe menu—though I’m sure they’d never call it that.
With that steak, I’d enjoy a piping-hot baked potato, bowl of pinto beans, fresh-baked sweet rolls, salad, and dessert. I’d later learn from some cursory, pre-dinner Googling that I could wash it all down with pink lemonade, iced tea, water, or coffee. If I wanted a beer, I’d have to buy it elsewhere and drink it in one of the restaurant’s on-site cabins—assuming I was staying the night, which I was not. There would be no substitutions and no sharing. My tab, which at the time totaled $30, could only be paid in cash. The employee wasn’t sure whether Blue Cross Blue Shield would cover the necessary medical care that would surely follow.
***
Fresh from a few days of camping at Crater Lake, I arrive tonight as hungry for the experience as for the meal. The breezy weather of the high Cascades gradually gave way to scorching temperatures as I descended toward the Oregon Outback, where the Cowboy Dinner Tree resides. A real cowboy might say, “It’s hotter than two rats fuckin’ in a bison leather boot”—but I’m just an uncreative city slicker who’s been eating Clif Bars and dehydrated beef stroganoff for three days now; I may finish my steak and ask for seconds.
I’m a few minutes early, so I kill time by checking out the gift shop next door and catching a glimpse of the eatery’s namesake juniper, which resides just behind the wooden building. In the early 1900s, chuckwagons welcomed ranchers and cowboys for hearty dinners under its branches.
Eventually, I walk through the creaky screen door at the restaurant’s entrance and am directed to a table next to the window. The hum of a neighboring box fan is drowned out by Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, and other classic country legends playing in the background.
A few minutes later, the waitress drops off a Mason jar of iced tea and a family-sized bowl of salad. I settle on a few tongs of leafy greens, ostensibly so I can call this meal “healthy” with something less than a straight face. The salad, slathered in a sweet honey mustard dressing, brings to mind the opening act at an all-day music festival: I pay respectful attention, think "This isn't half bad" once or twice, and promptly forget about it five minutes later.
Almost as soon as I put my fork down, as if on cue, she returns with a plate of nine sweet rolls and a bowl of beans mountainous enough to feed an entire Fourth of July picnic.
I ladle a few scoops into a cereal bowl, gently blow the surface to cool the spoonful down, and dig in with all the subtlety of a Southern Oregon sunset. Even before swallowing, I taste the elbow grease and love in every bite. Gone are the cloyingly sweet maple notes and syrupy texture common among store-bought cans of baked beans; in their place, this steaming bowl elicits a smoky, charred flavor that’s buoyed by chunks of meat in the stew-like mix. With an eye on the main course cooking over an open flame in a lean-to shack outside, I resist the urge to eat more and put the spoon down after a single serving.
I employ no such restraint with the plate of scratch-made sweet rolls. Each pillow of fresh-from-the-oven perfection dissolves almost instantly on my tongue. I use a knife to dab a bit of butter on the first few rolls but quickly cast aside all pretense of respectability, put my silverware down, and pick up the butter dish.
I can’t believe I’m putting this into writing and sharing it with the wider world, but I’d be lying if I left it out—so here goes nothing: I am so eager to eat my fourth and fifth rolls that I dip each directly into the cup of half-melted butter and bite into them whole. I eat each like an apple—there’s no other way to put it—but I’ve never felt this way about a Fuji or Golden Delicious. The waitress swings by, sees my picked-over plate, and offers to bring more—a suggestion I don’t discourage. I understand the unhinged joy Scrooge McDuck must have felt while swimming around his vault of gold coins.
I mercifully slide the plate away after seven rolls, wipe some butter from my beard, and turn my attention toward the rest of the restaurant—partly to admire its Western influences and partly to avoid being alone with my gluttonous thoughts and wondering what I’ve done with my life.
Nods to the Oregon Outback’s European-American history are found across every square inch of the Cowboy Dinner Tree’s weathered interior. Floorboards creak as waitresses whisk food through saloon doors between the kitchen and dining room. Wooden chairs groan under the weight of diners who've driven several hours for the bucket-list dinner. A saddle straddles the support beam between two sections of the dining room. Saddle blankets hang over the windows in another room, and a coat rack fashioned from old horseshoes resides near the front door. I half expect to see Butch Cassidy plop down at a table next to me.
Notions of the Wild West typically end around Idaho or Nevada in the pop culture ether; most people imagine loggers and lumber mills when they ponder Oregon’s version of the “Wild West,” if they think of it at all—but the restaurant's visuals recall an era when cowboys and ranchers plied their trade amid juniper and sagebrush in the Oregon Outback. It wasn't just a little char I tasted in those beans or sweetness I sampled in those rolls; it was a hint of Oregon's oft-forgotten history.
Another waitress brings me back to reality with the main course: a top sirloin steak that Guy Fieri would find to be a bit much. It easily doubles the next-largest steak I can ever remember consuming. A nearby family, having just sat down, oohs and ahhs at the bloody brick before me. I briefly feel like a famous singer or actor dining in public—yet in this instance, my steak is the celebrity; I am merely the paparazzi who’s lucky to get this close.
I effortlessly cut through the perfectly cooked steak, its exterior slathered in grill marks, with a butter knife. If a single gram of fat clings to the 30-ounce cut, I never see it. The bright pink insides melt in my mouth, and the smoky flavors linger long after each bite. If this is how cowboys eat, I resolve to learn to ride a horse and tie a lasso. (Is that what cowboys do with lassos? Is “lasso” a verb? Is it both? And what’s all this I hear about “rustling”?) Those city slickers back in Portland can keep their organic kale and flaxseed bread; I'll take a steak the size of a shoe any day of the week, at least until my heart gives out at 38 years old.
***
The waitress sets a pair of plastic to-go bags at the edge of the table and wonders how much more I have in me. A cattle drive starts trampling my digestive system, and my arteries harden up like a pair of brand-new ostrich leather boots—so I tap out after eating roughly a third of the steak. Even with a box fan at my back, I start sweating.
A few moments later, she returns with an almost comically small cup of strawberry shortcake. A credit card-sized slice sits buried under a single scoop of ice cream, with berries falling off the sides—all squished into a bowl the size of a thimble. It’s both a completely unexpected follow-up and an oddly fitting conclusion to the preceding decadence. My mind returns to the waitress’ initial inquiry: At this point, in this restaurant, who really saves room for dessert?
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