GOOD CALL BAD CALL* * An ESPN feature, when they are not shouting at each other or talking about salaries instead of sports, or dogfights and shootings instead of touchdowns or baskets.
Wednesday 16th January 2008
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We had made it to Oklahoma City, where we wandered around looking for a hotel, first on the eastern outskirts, then in the center near the OU Medical Centers (deserted streets) which resulted in the first minor contretemps where our normal level of affectionate banter and amiable bickering degenerated into slightly elevated interplay (ie. personal insults) and a "frank exchange of opinions" about map-reading abilities.
Eventually we ended up in a dump (Best Western) after being told no room at the inn at four other establishments on I-40 West.
At least we were perfectly placed for a quick getaway, which we did the next morning after an outstandingly poor breakfast. BAD CALL.
After endless traipsing along flat and blustery Oklahoma the previous evening, we aimed for Amarillo and the Big Texan Steakhouse Ranch, our destination for lunch.
CROSSING THE TEXAN TUNDRA
From Oklahoma City across Okie and the Texas panhandle is a long flat windy stretch across a barren wasteland along the old Route 66, the first transcontinental route that still has a romantic allure to it.
Nowadays it runs parallel to I-40 and is a cavalcade of camions, the lifeblood of America. Besides the easily recognisable names (the everpresent Walmart being the most common) there are plenty of other names which continually crop up-England (no relation), Covenant, and Trinity- among others.
The only way to pass the time is to concentrate on overtaking them, look at the signs along the highway, and reflect as to why anyone would want to live in this god-forsaken place.
When I did this route before, it was in the heat of the summer in 1980 in my little Toyota Corolla with Steens, when the temperature ranged from 100 to 118, the hottest I have ever been in my life.
This time it is snowing the whole way, a prairie snowstorm that whistles across the road at a 90 degree angle, the wind too strong (I am guessing 30-40 mph) and too horizontal for any of the flakes to alight on the ground.
Driving the UHAUL is exactly like sailing against the wind, with the steering wheel the tiller.
You feel the steady beat of the wind against the not inconsiderable bulk of the UHAUL, but because there are gusts you can't overcorrect.
And when you pass a truck you have to anticipate and adjust for the blast which arrives the second you emerge from the lee of the sixteen wheeler. It makes for tiring driving, and seems to drag on forever.
It also makes you wonder about the lives of the people out here. Blazing heat, freezing cold. Why not just move on?
But Texans are hardy folk and convinced of themselves, at least. This is evidenced by their constant braggadocio.
Texas is the World's Capital, the Number One, the most Amazing Place for Superlatives, e.g. the Biggest Saddle Store, the World's Largest Steam Museum, the Catholic Superstore, and the Largest Cross in the Western Hemisphere (which makes you wonder where the largest cross in the Eastern Hemisphere is).
We decide to go to the latter two, our original plan of going to a mega-church having fallen by the wayside, mainly because we had not happened past one by the wayside.
Anyway, of these two religious uber-places, only one lived up to its pre-match billing, and boy did it ever!
Little Groom Texas (pop 587), nothing more than an exit off of I-40, is home to the newly created wonder. Erected by Cross Ministries, Pampa Texas Nite number (806) 665 9603 in July of 1995 of the year of Our Lord, the gargantuan cross, which is visible for a couple of miles away, seeks to show all who pass by that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, a Light to guide us on our Journey, as the sign leading up to it says.
Our previous stop up the road to refuel offered us a choice between an RV Park or a Historic Jail (2 Blocks South on 2 East), both of which we declined.
Perhaps the harshness of one begat the construction of the Cross. Who knows?
Anyway, we parked the car in the (mostly deserted) parking lot to take pictures, and noticed that the cross was much more than just a cross. The site is quite large, and surrounding the cross are the twelve stations of the cross, which meant that just snapping a few photos in passing was not going to do it justice.
We were going to have to get out of the safety of the heated cab. When we dismounted from our trusty steed, we emerged into what could only be described as the antithesis of a blast furnace.
It was perhaps 20 degrees, but with that wind raking across you it felt like 20 below.
Taking pics proved problematic (I had intended to take all the stations of the cross but only managed two), as within a minute all exposed skin was aching and my fingers were numb.
Toby, who was better prepared with gloves and a scarf, lasted longer.
He got a picture of himself with Jesus being nailed to the cross, or as he sacrilegiously put it, getting nailed in Texas.
I felt both perplexed and yet moved by this place. On the one hand, it was the embodiment of the aforementioned Texas braggadocio, a case of my-cross-is-bigger-than-yours chest thumping which is so prevalent in Texas. On the other hand, it was a touching example of how strong the bond to Jesus is out in the vast barren heartland of America. Whose idea was this anyway?
I left with mixed feelings, and as we pulled out onto the interstate and passed by the cross once again, these became even more mixed when I saw the sign, not previously visible, GIFT SHOP OPENING SOON. Ahem, not Amen. GOOD CALL.
Out in these parts, with wide open spaces and a big sky, life seems to be reduced to (literally) the bare essentials. This is reflected in the business along the route. As I told Toby, the route caters to the five basic human activities: EAT SLEEP SHIT FUCK PRAY. All of these are activities in their own right, but when lumped together sometimes clash against each other.
This is true especially about the last two. Because of the laws perhaps, or maybe the truckers, there are plenty of "comfort" stations, as they might euphemistically be called, all along the road. Adult Store for Couples, Love Rest Stop etc.
This being America, however, usually right next to this is some sort of countervailing sign, such as the place in Ohio with the first sign said ADULTXXXX, and immediately behind it another sign 10 feet higher saying PORNOGRAPHY KILLS. Why not just outlaw both? I don't know....
The EAT part of the equation is fundamental to what in my opinion is the big problem in America. The days of the Mom & Pop diner are over , and the jewel of a local restaurant that you would find, say in a piazza in Italy or a small town in Spain, just doesn't exist here anymore, and that is a crime.
Agribusiness, fast food business, just plain business is killing the country, literally.
As an antidote to the steady stream of familiar icons: KFC, MacDs, BK etc. we head for the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, Texas. When Steens and I passed here last (28 years ago) this place was advertised for every mile 60 miles either side of Amarillo.
This was no longer the case but the raison d'etre for the place still existed, and every so often a sign announcing FREE 72OZ. STEAK appeared on the side of the road.
Yes, this was the infamous Big Texan Steak House(come one, come all) where Steens and I watched Bill Jones from Abilene, Kansas try, and fail, to down a piece of meat the size "of my head", as Toby put it, within the allotted time frame (1 hour). If you accomplish this somewhat dubious feat, you then get to eat for free.
If ever there was the perfect illustration of a pyrrhic victory, this was it.
Anyway, we pulled into the place, more garish, downtrodden, and dilapidated than my memory of 28 years ago (no surprise there, what else lasts 28 years in fine fettle?).
Nonetheless, having eaten almost no breakfast from the crap on offer in Okie City, we entered into the vast dining room (two floors) having walked past the Gift Shoppe (of course).
Everything had that country-fair-passing-through-town feel to it...cheap trinkets and stuffed kewpie dolls, sickly sweet cotton candy smell etc.
Not an appetite whetter, for me in any case. The dining room, which was heaving when Steens and I came here so long ago, was practically deserted.
No matter. We ordered what we REALLY came here for, a half-size portion of Mountain Oysters ("if you think it's seafood, go with the shrimp").
These of course, are cojones, fried beef balls (literally).
Not bad really, but I have to say I was expecting something a bit more controversial....you know...big and round and dripping with blood...semen.....whatever.
Nothing of the sort. Just more anonymous meat (tender, actually but then again just ask any guy what the tenderest part of his body is) dipped in batter and fried to oblivion.
And the luncheon ribeye? Well...suffice it to say that there was no surprise that the place was deserted. The best part of the meal was the fried (what else?) okra and the DIY beans and rice I concocted from the raw materials on offer.
We passed on the dessert, a mountainous slice of carrot cake served on a dinner plate.
What is it with these people?
I beat a hasty retreat to the truck, but after Toby finally emerged and showed me his pictures of the 72oz. contest bulletin board, which in my haste to vamoose I had walked right by, I scuttled back in. And a good thing too (thanks Tobes). I would have missed a true World Heritage Site of human behavior.
In a glass case they have a cellophane-encased example of the lump that the lumps have to eat, the Holy Grail of Meat Ingestion, surrounded by Texas sized strawberries (Why?) and a Texas state flag on a toothpick. This was a mindblowing blob of flesh, lying there on a bed of ice to entice the brave (or foolhardy).
Interesting, in a kind of bearded-lady-at-the-fair kind of a way.
And then the bright red Board Of Champions, if that is the correct term, with relevant dates and comments.
I focussed on the last two, reproduced below.
There was a place for the date, name, age, weight, time elapsed, hometown, and comment. Herewith two examples of Olympian steak eaters who (perhaps) typify their respective cultures.
Name Age Weight Time Hometown Comment
Scott Cameron 30 187 59:59 Adelaide,Australia Living the dream....
Joe Atterberg 45 315 59:37 Kansas City MO I ate the hole thing
I hope Scott has finally cleansed his bowels from his dream performance, and that Big Joe has returned to feed at a place more in keeping with his spelling skills where his comment would have more relevance, like Krispi Kreme or Dunkin Donuts, for example. Ah, THE BIG TEXAN STEAK RANCH. May it long continue, but next time I might just have a salad.
GOOD CALL.
The day wasn't over, however, and we weren't finished with Amarillo. There was still the Catholic Superstore to visit, the World's Largest,.....or so it said. We were looking forward to this, imagining the mementos and pics we would get.
What we got was an 8oz. version of a 72oz. steak, a small Christian Bookstore in a forgotten mall selling trinkets at inflated prices. Toby and I were going to take lots of pictures, but there was a very nice lady in the deserted store who inadvertantly made us feel like interlopers (which we were, since we had no intention of buying anything). We snapped a couple of surreptitious shots (one of the Pope), whose picture was literally hidden away in a corner, which made me somewhat dubious of the Catholic part of this alleged superstore. Anyway, we said goodbye to the nice lady and moseyed out of Amarillo, possibly never to return.
NEW MEXICO- LAND OF ENCHANTMENT
From the open spaces of Texas, where you have the semblance of nothing tarted up in Texan garb, we crossed over into New Mexico, where suddenly you have ......Nothing. Period.
The road surface changes, there are no houses, and cactus makes its first appearance.
We had decided to go to Santa Fe, having secured an anonymous boutique *** hotel for $60 for the night through Hotwire. By the way, Hotwire.com, if you haven't used it, is brilliant. Based on the principle: you pays your money and you takes your chances, you never really know what you are going to get for a car or hotel, but usually it is a really good deal, and in some cases a GREAT deal.
What a surprise we had in store, when this hotel turned out to be a grande dame located in Old Santa Fe, the St. Francis, replete with a roaring log fire in the lobby, an old fashioned lift with a brass gate you had to close manually, white mosaic tiling in the bathroom, and fixtures like the Union Club of New York.
Everything about it oozed the vestiges of class, right down to the thick towels, and at this price frankly there must have been some kind of mistake. We settled in snugly under our duvets and watched a Duke basketball game, before going off at the suggestion of the concierge to The Shed, a homey Southwest cuisine restaurant in the Old Town.
For the second time on the trip, people mistook Toby and me for a couple.
Yes, a couple, and I don't mean a couple of idiots.
The first time was in Effingham (an aberration, I thought at the time, but perhaps not), when the lady at the Hilton asked me if I wanted a king sized bed for the two of us.
"No," I replied firmly, " I have no intention of sleeping with my son, now or at any time, for that matter," to the tittering from the bellhop, who was obviously gay.
In The Shed, they asked us if we wanted a quiet table to be together, nudge nudge wink wink.
Hmph.
Anyway, the meal in The Shed, a rabbit warren of cozy rooms where you could be alone, if need be, was high-octane Tex Mex....good guacamole (though perhaps not as good as Kevin's) and tortilla chowder.
And we needed it. The temperature was 11 degrees. Fahrenheit.
What a thrill to be in a nice hotel, however. Class is class, pure and simple, no matter what you pay for it.
In this case they could have added another zero without blushing....and the breakfast the next morning (fresh poached eggs rancheros), complete with the New York Times and delicious fresh squeezed orange juice, completed a memorable stay.
GOOD CALL!
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