Chapter 6: A Roadhouse Unlike Any Other
The lights of Evanston spread out ahead of us. With a population of just over 12,000 the city boasts a thriving retail scene with liquor, gun and fireworks purveyors lining the exit ramps off Interstate 80. Some shops appear to sell all three. That’s a party for another night. We keep our wallets in our pockets and head directly to the Hampton Inn, a clean and predictable property set on a rise overlooking the Bear River Valley.
Arriving Saturday evening at eight o’clock -- after a 500+mile day exploring the railroads of Utah and getting up close to Big Boy #4012 has left us all beat — Jimmy listens to his internal jet-lagged clock and retires for the night; Mike and I clean up and go looking for food and something to wash down the dust of the day.
We hail from New Jersey, the nexus of all-night diners but I travel quite a bit and I know better than to expect 24-hour souvlaki when on the road. As I approach the hotel front desk clerk for some advice on where to eat, I realize I am probably the 200th train nut she’s had to deal with on this sold-out night. I don’t have to ask the question. “It’s pretty late for dinner,” she chides. Apparently getting seated after eight-thirty on a Saturday in Evanston is not an easy task - even with the town packed by the rolling hoard following the Big Boy.
Closing time comes early for most eateries in town except - as she explains - for “the sports bar up the road.” The clerk points out the hotel door, “you can see it from here, it’s just next to the Holiday Inn Express Sign.” She’s confident proximity makes everything OK. Whatever. We’re hungry, we need a drink and it’s open. Win.
In a town ready to close, I fear “the sports bar up the road” must be one those faux-hometown chains where awkwardly framed baseball jerseys from the local high school hang right next to a shitastic reproduction of Babe Ruth’s bat and the ubiquitous headshot of Mickey Mantle complete with inkjet autograph. Yes, that headshot. The one where even in two-dimensional black and white, he looks like he’d drink you under the table, bang your girlfriend, wreck your car, charge it all to your credit card and still hit a dinger the next day. Asterisk, my ass, Mr. Mantle.
We head out guided by our own north star: the Holiday Inn Express sign. The blue and green behemoth looms over our destination; its cool-tone aura overpowered in the pub parking lot by the pink neon haze cast from Romantix, the adult shop where illuminated signs tout a variety of erotic goods and pleasing lotions. The back of the giant lot vibrates with the low rumble of idling long- distance trucks parked for the night. Any connection between the two is not explored, at least by us.
It turns out the “sports bar” has a name: The Lincoln Highway Tavern. A former gas station, the area under the pump canopy has been walled in as the “Pink Elephant” smoking area, while the restaurant itself is housed inside the original main building. It’s funky cool and our only alternative to hotel room whiskey from the gun/fireworks/ liquor store.
Upon opening the door I feel a tingle in my boots, a legitimate twinkle in my weary toes. This is no faux “sports bar.” The Evanston High School Red Devils’ team moms were not the interior designers. No faux memorabilia or cheap pictures of dead Yankees line the walls. The Lincoln Highway Tavern is clearly a roadhouse of the finest order. My kind of place. A haven for honest food and drink, where you don’t have to whisper a pre- apology for the dirty joke you are about to tell.
A diamond in the rough? No. It is a shining GIA 4C’s top level bar-light-reflecting rock of Americana. Love at first sight? You bet. And that’s not even the half of it.
The LHT is not a large establishment, showing all it has to offer once you come through the door. A cooler case full of future bad ideas glows along the left wall. Dramatically lit tiers of liquor illuminate the bar back. To the right, a tiny kitchen hides behind a pony wall with all the modesty of Eve’s leaf. In between high-tops, low-tops and bar-tops offer space to take a load off from a dy on the blacktop. And it’s dark, roadhouse dark. If you walk into the Lincoln Highway Tavern during mid-day with your sunglasses on, you may think you’ve gone blind. There’s plenty of light to imbibe by, but not enough that curious cats can watch you do it. The way it should be.
At this point, you may expect me to tell you about our greasy meal washed down with pints of PBR and a sleeve of Rolaids to ward off any gastric night tremors. I’d expect that, too, but we’d both be wrong. Very wrong.
The secrets of the Lincoln Highway Tavern begin to reveal themselves as Mike and I order our first round. The waitress, a pretty young lady sporting a ponytail and sweatshirt, reels off a list of whiskey options assembled with the variety and good taste I’d expect to find in a Manhattan social club. And she offers a double for just $1 more. Mike goes for a single malt while I begin with a regional whiskey and a pint of Killer Bees, a smooth honey amber ale from up in Jackson.
The menu surprises as much as the whiskey lineup. Emeril Lagasse might call the food core roadhouse staples “kicked up a notch.” I’d say more like eight notches, which happens to mean full-throttle on a diesel locomotive. This is full-throttle food of the best kind. My wings come out fried to crispy perfection: no batter. I’d like to think that any fowl miscreant who’d dare coat wings with an unholy runny paste wouldn’t last long in the LHT. These are wings done right with a very tasty cayenne sauce. If you have a friend who thinks Hooters is the epitome of hot poultry appendages, do us all a favor and straighten them out quickly. I know a place in Evanston...
'The “sports” part of the LHT comes from the good viewing angles of TVs placed around the bar. I am sure this a great bar for watching a game, but fortunately for us no one is playing anything at the moment. The bartender, a bearded gent half my age, turns on an old black and white movie at least three times his age. And it features a train. He’s seen it before, so he talks Mike and I through the plot up until now. This is a full service pub of the highest order.
My main course - a hot iron skillet of chili, cheese and America - ups the ante over the wings with Spinal Tap- level flavor: an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10. I take each bite slowly. I don’t want this end. We enjoy another round or two, talking to the bartender across the room and watching TV. I am happy. Truly happy.
I have had the pleasure of eating in great restaurants around the world, while also racking up an impressive roster of pubs. I generally prefer the latter.
Tonight, the Lincoln Highway Tavern joins Man of Kent (Hoosic, NY) and the Blackbird (Earl's Court, London) as temples of beer and food that I will always make time for.
We leave the LHT knowing there has to be more to the story. The liquor and food selection scream good taste, much more than one would expect from a gas station- turned-pub that is literally the only choice for food past eight-thirty. The mystery was solved a few weeks later after I emailed LHT owner Mick K. in an effort to figure out just what magic he had cast over the humble former service station.
Mick, a Wyoming native, bought the place in 2014 and immediately began transforming the five decade old building. The Lincoln Highway Tavern debuted on January 27, 2015. It’s a cool story about something very dear to me - preserving roadside architecture - but the real twist is what Mick did before the LHT. He’s a certified 2nd level sommelier through the Court of Master Sommeliers and has been recognized for his wine lists by "The Wine Spectator.” Mick managed beverages at two major Las Vegas hotels, having the honor of working directly for Chefs Mark Miller at Coyote Cafe and Jean Joho at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant. That explains a lot.
The curated selection of beers on tap and the bottles behind the bar is no accident; they are the result of a true professional. The food, an elevation of the roadhouse genre that would make Guy Fieri have redefine his schtick as Diners, Drive-Ins, Dives and the fucking Lincoln Highway Tavern, finds it’s roots from years of experience in great restaurants with master chefs. It makes all the sense in the world.
The next time you are driving Interstate 80 through Evanston, Wyoming - heck, the next time you are within a 150 miles of Evanston - check out the sports bar by the Holiday Inn Express sign. If we’re both lucky, I’ll see you there
Read the entire ebook version with many additional photographs
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