Some dreams are best left as dreams. A few years ago I read about a restaurant that specialized in buffalo dishes. They raise their own grass fed buffalo (actually bison) on the premises. No, it's not like a seafood restaurant where you select which lobster you want to have killed. The turnaround time for buffalo is a little longer. I assume though, that if a particular buffalo looks especially tasty to you, you can make advanced arrangements.
I really wanted to try this place, so I was excited when I finally had the opportunity. As we neared the buffalo ranch, I had visions of a sort of Ponderosa hidden in the hills of Pennsylvania. I expected to be met by Little Joe and Hoss. I thought there would be lots of "howdy partners" and silver stars for polishing off a giant slab of buffalo steak.
In the interest of avoiding a law suit for the publisher of Sugar & Spice, I won't mention the real name of this establishment. After all, I am only a "Guest Contributor." And let me say from the start that buffalo (American Bison actually) is a delicious and supposedly healthy meat that I can highly recommend. It's so good that it's very difficult to destroy it, even with completely incompetent cooking. I know this for sure because the... let's call it the "Buffalo Ranch"... tried their best to incinerate this meat. In fact, they seemed to do everything in their power to destroy the entire dining experience. But the Great American Bison is apparently unbeatable.
Upon arrival in the gravel parking lot, instead of Hoss Cartwright on a horse, we were greeted by a cowboy on a riding mower. Well, he didn't actually greet us. He seemed to be more interested in singing along, loudly and off-key, to the country tunes on his ipod. But he was dressed in cowboy hat and open Hawaiian shirt. The 3 cars in the lot (including our own) should have given us some idea of what awaited inside. There was one other party already seated. The word "party" here is not meant to imply any sort of celebration or, for that matter, even happiness. The three diners scurried for the door as if they had been trapped inside waiting for some other unsuspecting fool to come along.
Inside, the solitary employee drummed his fingers on the counter as we perused the hand written poster board "menu." By then I had already decided to make this a quick lunch. I ruled out the $23 buffalo steak and instead opted for the $7 Buffalo Roast Sandwich. The waiter/cook/busboy attendant impatiently asked what condiments I would like. I told him I had never eaten a Buffalo Roast before and therefore was unsure of the optimal combination of condiments. "I like it with American cheese, pickles, mayo, ketchup, onions and tomatoes," he hastily explained. Wondering why he seemed to be in such a hurry, I scanned the room for a sign posting closing times. It seemed that we had the whole place to ourselves for the next 5 hours. My wife broke the awkward and confused silence by telling him to "just put pickles on mine." Yes, I added, "just pickles will be fine." The young man closed his eyes briefly and rapidly shook his head in apparent disbelief. "OK," he said. "It'll be about 10 minutes."
We adjourned to the dining area where what had to be an 84 inch projection screen was blaring an episode of the television show "COPS!" I have often wondered why people are entertained by watching the suffering of other human beings. Now I would have a chance to find out...while eating buffalo roast. In what seemed to be only several seconds, the waiter brought our sandwiches. Dry, store brand hamburger buns with some meat that seemed to be cooked to nearly resemble beef jerky. A very dry meal. Even so, the buffalo itself was quite good.
The waiter took a seat at the next table, watching COPS with great interest. I scanned the room. It was decorated with an "American basement" theme. Junk in piles around the perimeter of the room. Some of the piles were covered with tarps or old bedspreads. There was a large poster on one wall that read "Drink all your beer. There's thirsty kids in India!" We ate quickly.
After consuming the meat, leaving the bread and pickle on the plate, I stood and began to formulate an exit strategy. The waiter watched me suspiciously. I noticed a tray of plastic-wrapped pie slices. Apparently we would be offered these "desserts." There was a display of buffalo-related items at one end of the room. As I moved toward the exhibit the waiter hurried to the corner, apparently concerned that I might try to pilfer a valuable buffalo tooth or a buffalo souvenir pen. Like chess men we countered each others movements around the room until there was a sudden flash of light. It was the lawn mower cowboy coming in for a drink. I made a dive for the door. I heard my wife just behind me yelling "Gangway!" My last memory of the place was the feel of her foot on my back.
Bison is delicious.
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