Nostalgia is a funny thing. When I started Nostalgia Drop, I was more obsessed with the idea of shared nostalgia, like how so many people love Back to the Future or love to hate New Kids on the Block while knowing the lyrics to every song and singing them under their breath when no one else is around. But sometimes nostalgia is a very personal connection. One that is not shared.
One of the most nostalgic instances I can remember came when a friend in college theatre, and I drove through Wyoming. His old beat-up car broke down and we had to spend some time in Rock Springs to get it fixed. Now, with the breakdown at least 30 years in the past a lot of the particulars are foggy. I do not remember if we had to spend the night or if we were lucky enough to get a tow truck to take us into town and get the repairs going early enough to get us out of town and on our way.
But I do remember that the mechanic gave him an estimate and offered us lunch at the best place in town. I’ve only been to Rock Springs a couple of times, all in the 1990s, and I have no idea what restaurant offerings it had outside of fast food joints. But the owner of the shop said it was the best, and so we followed him.
While hazy in memory, the repair shop was a family-owned deal, and the large Latino family also owned several other businesses in town. We went across the street to another shop. I cannot remember if it was a hardware store or an auto-parts shop or somesuch, but in the back, through the doors marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, there was a large flat grill set up. And there were a ton of people there ready to eat.
I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but now it reminds me of old-school ranches where the hands work their fingers to the bone all morning from the pre-dawn streaks across the sky to the heat of early afternoon, and then come to the house for a lunch and break bread with the owners of the ranch and ranchhands alike. And then they would all go out and continue their work until sunset or later before heading home for well-deserved rest. It was a family, and yes, it was a family business, but I don’t think everyone eating steak sandwiches were family in a genetic sense. But they were family. People from their different businesses came over, ate lunch, and relieved others so they could come. If they couldn’t, they took sandwiches to them.
And that steak sandwich, filled with grilled onions and green peppers, cooked perfectly and seasoned to perfection, was the best steak sandwich I have ever eaten.
Maybe it was the combination of English, Spanish, Arapaho, and Shoshone languages mixing together as everyone chatted and talked about their days and lives. Maybe it was that damn good steak sandwich when I was hungry. Maybe it was that we were having an off-the-beaten-track adventure in a town that was usually a truck-stop waypoint for snacks before moving on. But it was a glorious memory that I still cherish, even if some of the details are fuzzy.
In today’s world, when I hear people talk about American exceptionalism, it’s usually in political-speak. But for me, the ideal is in that shared grill, in a backroom with no health department management to speak of, and the shared employee families coming together that is much more prescient.
And damn, could they make a great steak sandwich.