"100 bottles of beer on the wall, 100 bottles of beer…" After our day at Custer State Park, we were debating whether to eat in Custer or Hill City. We were leaning towards Hill City, when we spied a large, compelling, funky looking wooden building on a side street. At the end of the street was Dark Horse Steak and Brew, an upstairs beef and beer establishment. A sign advertised 7 oz filet mignon with fries for $6.95, and Bob’s mouth began watering. Upstairs, the outdoor deck, with torn carpeting, looked in need of cleaning and sweeping. Inside, the big cavernous dining area was… empty of people, save another couple who’d also just arrived. Eventually a young waiter came out of the shadows and seated us. Although we were a bit early for dinner, I always worry when a place is this quiet. But Bob wanted that fancy steak so we proceeded to our booth. From their list of 100 beers, we ordered a pitcher of Michelob amber. I’m not in the habit of lifting up cushions to check underneath, but as I sat down, I slid the pad, which was small for the seat, back, and couldn’t help notice grit, grime, and bits of old food particles on the bench underneath. I shrugged this off, and ordered a pulled BBQ beef sandwich with caramelized onions and provolone cheese, Bob his filet. Together we shared a large "Sam’s Classic" house salad, which sounded interesting: tossed greens, jicama, cucumber, pecans, feta cheese, and raisins, with choice of dressing – for $5.95. This arrived first. The iceberg lettuce was old and browning on the edges, there was NO jicama whatsoever, and only a miniscule amount of pecans and raisins. I’m used to Bob making a fuss about this sort of thing, but he seemed not to notice, probably had his mind on his coming filet mignon. Depending on the mood I’m in, I’ll sometimes say something, other times keep quiet; this was a quiet time for me. I simply put the old lettuce on the side and ate the rest.
This turned out to be one of the few times that Bob just loved it and I was less than thrilled. He ate his bacon wrapped filet mignon with gusto, while I took a bite of my pulled BBQ beef sandwich and bit into solid chunks of steak that held together firmly, nothing "pulled" about it. Bob took a bite and said, "Yeah, it doesn’t seem to be pulled but it’s good". More shrugging on my part; what kind of a passive mood was I in anyway? Maybe still in my post-bison trance.
After dinner Bob called over the fry-cook, a husky guy with a barbecue sauce splattered apron, to compliment him on the tasty meal. Bob would return in a heartbeat, but not me. Well, maybe just for a beer…