It's a 'Burgh Thing!

April 1996: Eating Oklahoma

After four months of scraping by I finally landed a long-term freelance gig with an area computer company. (In fact, what was supposed to be a “few weeks” turned into more than two years.) What better time to take a break? With steel grey clouds hanging over the ‘Burgh until July we’ve decided to jet out to my brother’s home in Ponca City, OK for a week of restin’, relaxin’ and EATIN’, EATIN’, EATIN’!

We arrive in Wichita, KS on a Tuesday afternoon and munch on sandwiches during the hour ride to Ponca. JT is on the air at the radio station and upon tuning in to his show we discover that we’re being touted as that afternoon’s “celebrity guests” — if you can call a zine editor and his surgeon girlfriend “celebrities.” I’m secretly hoping to discuss my plans to get former Philly shortstop Larry Bowa in to the Hall of Fame, but I know JT is far too smart for that. Instead, we end up chatting about how my girlfriend and I met and play lots of Thin Lizzy and Meatloaf.

After that it’s off to Ristorante Bravo, which was known as “The Twister Cafeteria” in the days when Jon DeBont’s summer blockbuster was being filmed in and around town. No encounters with the town-friendly Bill Paxton, Abe Benrubi or Cary Elwes. Nor do we run in to bitchy Helen Hunt, bane of the townsfolk’s existence. JT does give me a brief tour of the restaurant and shows me the patio where some of the film’s stars were spotted smoking some devil weed. After that it’s a couple gourmet pizzas topped with chicken, sausage & artichoke hearts, black olives and shrimp. Yummy and unlikely to bitch at the locals.

[Editor’s Note: JT recently informed me that Bravo is no longer Bravo. The owners tried to turn it into a combination family emporium (think Uncle Moe’s Family Feedbag Emporium) and sports bar (think, well, sports bar) that didn’t feature family food or sports bar food. Surprisingly, the eatery failed, leaving families and sports fans with nowhere to go but home.]

Wednesday is spent fasting so we can properly enjoy what has been touted as the best steakhouse in Oklahoma, perhaps the entire Midwest. That’s a mighty big claim for a mighty big state, but we’re up to putting The Rusty Barrell to the test. And no, that’s not a typo, there’s an extra “l” on the end — I’m assuming for “love,” or perhaps “lard.”

Going to this place is like visiting a steakeasy. Located at the rear of a strip shopping mall you actually have to walk past a couple dumpsters and buzz a doorman to be let inside. Upon crossing the meaty threshold you need a good two minutes for your eyes to adjust to the incredibly DARK, DARK, DARK interior.

The flaming grill pit is located right in the middle of the first floor and we’re escorted to a second floor bar where we wait for our table. Once seated we dive in to a huge salad bar where I get a heaping helping of pickled okra, though I’m not sure why. I don’t think I’ve ever had pickled okra in my life, but JT insists that it’s all part of the Rusty Barrell Experience. Since this is the man who introduced me to the likes of Bowie, Zappa, T. Rex, Ramones, Pistols, beer and backgammon, I’m willing to pile on the ol’ okra.

Dinner is dominated by the best, biggest prime rib I’ve ever laid my eyes upon...as big as my head, and then some. I’m starting to like this.

On Thursday we venture to Tulsa, which might be Oklahoma’s capital, although I’m not sure. For lunch we swing our transmission-fluid-leaking auto in to Don’s House of Polish Sausage, located across from Tulsa’s minor league baseball field. Don’s an old Polish guy with a mouthful of gold teeth who would feel right at home in some of the ‘Burg’s grittier neighborhoods. Don pops out of the kitchen to say “hi” and give us his recommendations regarding the case filled with Polish sausage, bratwurst, knockwurst and varying flavors of Italian sausage. We make a group decision and select some sweet Italian sausage on rolls with sauteed onions and sides of sauerkraut, potato salad ‘n slaw.

In case we get hungry later — which we do — we grab a couple pounds of bratwurst to throw on the grill in the evening. (Oink, oink.) As good as the food is, Don reminds me of MOTEL HELL. He doesn’t look a damn bit like Rory Calhoun (who starred as Farmer Vincent), but I’m spooked by the site of this dude in the backroom making the sausage. However, this vision doesn’t stop me from wolfing down two bratwurst sandwiches later that evening.

By Friday all attempts at culinary restraint were damned and we decide to go all out in an Okie Feeding Frenzy. Breakfast is at the Country Kitchen in Osage County. JT likes Osage County because he can buy smokes sans taxes. I like it ‘cause the Country Kitchen serves up the “Hungry Man’s Breakfast” of eggs, meat, biscuits and gravy for the low, low price of $5. It’s also a lesson in Meat Mathematics as we discover 1.5 slices of meat = 3 sausages = 6 slices of bacon.

In traditional vacation fashion, we work off our fat- and caffeine-filled breakfast by smoking, drinking and playing Trivial Pursuit...a pleasant combination that does nothing to prep me for our trip to Dugan’s, an intense BBQ experience. JT and my sister-in-law Nancy try their best to fill us in on the controversy surrounding Dugan’s and Head Country, another Ponca BBQ joint.

Seems that chef Paul Dugan had been working over at Head Country where he put his butchering experience to work selecting the choicest cuts of meat to be topped with the world famous Head Country sauce. Some sort of meat-related controversy followed (?!) and Dugan left to open his own joint, which happened to serve an “All-You-Can-Eat BBQ” on Friday nights.

Hungry enough to eat my combat boots, we ventured to Dugan’s where we ran in to Ponca’s other 28,000 residents! With enough substances clouding my decision-making process to make things “messy,” I ordered some sort of BBQ rib abomination and ate myself through at least two heaping helpings of the delectable slabs.

Frankly, I think Paul Dugan was trying to kill me.

And now, the end is near...