Work last week had me driving out to a casino about 120 miles southwest of the Twin Cities to check out their kitchen operation. First time I’ve been out that far in about 20 years. One passes through Eden Prairie , a suburb as blasphemous to smart development as one could imagine, and Chaska, an old town being invaded by the same sprawl. Beyond that, Highway 212 goes through a number of smaller towns, corn fields (how much corn do we need, anyway?) and some really small towns, including Bird Island, which holds about 1,200 people. At the lone intersection in Bird Island stands Athmann’s Inn, and I decided that might be my lunch destination on my return trip.
The casino had just completely modernized their kitchen, and the food and beverage manager gave me a tour. No matter the technology, I’m still just amazed at the preparation involved in feeding thousands of people per day. Now, with that volume, you’re not going to get a great meal—what you’re eating is being served because it holds up well after possibly spending days, fully cooked, in a cooler and then reheated to serve—but the best big-ass kitchens can give you something that’s pretty good, and that’s as amazing a feat as any 5-course meal assembled at the swankiest restaurant in any urban setting.
That’s not saying I would prefer a meal served at a convention center. Just that the process does take skill and planning, just like a restaurant.
I was starving by the time I left the casino after the behind-the-scenes tour. Your chance for a meal on the road in those parts range from Cenex gas and convenience stations and the occasional bar and QSR. Thankfully, I remembered passing Athmann’s Inn, and pulled off to the left in that one-intersection town.
I walked in the front door and felt like I walked in the back. No host station, no bar, just a couple Formica booths along the wall, a man seated at a table reading the newspaper and finishing a meal, and a large wooden round table around which elderly retires sat and conversed and placed a dice game. A slightly formal dining room was visible, the retractable wall open. Old photographs of the main street and intersection from the early 1900s hung on the wall, the scene largely unchanged from today.
A grandmotherly server rose from the table and told me to sit anywhere I’d like. I took one of the booths, and noticed the bar against the back wall. She handed me a menu, under the name of restaurant read, “Since 1955.”
“Fifty years,” I said.
“Yes,” the waitress said. “And they just celebrated the 50th anniversary on Sunday.”
Is there actually an “inn” here?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and returned to the round table of regulars. Others strolled in through the kitchen entrance, hidden from view—this was the true town hall, here—and they all served themselves coffee.
I turned my attention to the lunch menu and was surprised, in the sense that the last time I read something like it was the scheduled meals from a high school cafeteria. For lunch, there were things like a “Fishwich,” a teriyaki chicken thing and a “Gutbuster.” The waitress also pointed out some sort of pork rib sandwich they had advertised on the table, that pressed-pork-in-the-shape-of-ribs meat patty, similar to that McDonald’s McRib abomination. Not feeling particularly daring, I went for the BLT.
In all seriousness, I find the BLT to be both a safe choice and sufficient lunch test for a kitchen when I’m not in the mood for anything fancy, or if all other options sound unappetizing. Simple ingredients you wouldn’t think it could be screwed up, but often are. Bad tomatoes. Bad lettuce. Lousy bread. Bacon overcooked to splinter when bitten. Miracle Whip. Those things, either singularly or in combination can send me into a rage.
The sandwich arrived in about 10 minutes, the standard white bread toasted and sufficient, the lettuce crisp, the bacon cooked but not too crisp and mayonnaise. And the tomato? One of the best I’ve had this year. Seriously! This is one advantage of traveling out in the sticks in Minnesota in the fall: Excellent, locally grown produce. It was perfectly ripe, juicy and cut thick. And the fries? Nothing spectacular, but piping hot and crisp.
All those restaurants trying to adapt this sandwich to fine-dining heights with foie gras and oysters or Kobe beef should maybe reconsider and just stick with the original on the menu. It’s like a classic 1950s-era car sitting in parking lot filled with anonymous Lexuses.