A fancy night out, Texas-style

 

With Victor at 97 West

As the old-time cowboys used to say, I have now been up the trail and seen the elephant. Neighbors Victor and Prudence took me last night for a belated birthday celebration at the Drover Hotel in the Stockyards. The Drover has literally been the talk of the town in Fort Worth. Even my Austin daughter has heard of it, and so had my Frisco granddaughter. It’s upscale and very Texan.

We entered the restaurant—97 West—through a lovely courtyard, beautifully landscaped with what looked like wildflowers to me—and comfortable furniture, along with the requisite leather and wood Mayan chairs that do not look comfortable. Very southwestern.

But it was a statue in the foyer of the main lobby that really caught my attention and defined, for me, the ambience of this new hotel. A man, sculpted of bits of metal and wood, stands, rifle in hand, steely eyes on the distance, a flat-brimmed hat rather than a Stetson. Maybe he’s supposed to be a drover, though he looked more to me like a Texas Ranger—the image of steely determination and fierce courage.

With Prudence in the lobby

In graduate school, my area if special interest was the history and literature of Texs and the American West, so I’m more than a bit attuned to myth-making art and language. Even the marketing materials of this hotel buy into the myth, boasting “we harness the West's true spirit to create a new legacy for the Fort Worth Stockyards” and inviting patrons to “step into the legacy.”

Fortunately, it’s all done in good taste, mythic or not. Lots of dark wood in floors, tables, and exposed beams, massive stone fireplaces, great soaring windows, stone sections in floors, huge chandeliers. Like Texas itself, everything is bigger and grander.

The restaurant, 97 West, is spacious and open with large windows at the back that reveal an inviting patio. Inside it’s distressed wood, leather, and dark. Not a trick is missed to put the Texas stamp on things—down to the cowgirl outfits on the hostesses (young and pretty, of course). The bar is appropriately front and center. Service was smooth, efficient, courteous with just a touch of jocular familiarity. I ordered chicken-fried steak because Pru insisted it was wonderful, and it was. Not your usual tenderized round steak but a New York strip with a good crust that stayed on the meat. Not cream gravy but a gravy Pru thought was spicy but I didn’t (usually she handles spice much better than I, and today, after a lunch of leftovers, I decided she was right). Mashed potatoes that were among the best I’ve ever had, lightly seasoned (shhh! Don’t tell Jordan who prides herself on being the queen of mashed potatoes). And diced carrots that were crisp-cooked. Generous servings, and as I said I brought some home. Victor had the redfish, which was a much smaller plate and left him hungry enough for a wedge salad that was artfully arranged so it didn’t look like most wedges to me.

Chicken-fried New York strip

Even though I couldn’t eat a bite more, Prudence insisted I take the bread pudding home for breakfast. It’s a ginormous piece and will make breakfast for at least three days, but she was right—it’s a divine way to start the day.

It was fun to drive through the Stockyards. I haven’t been there since well before pandemic, so I saw places I’d read about—like Provender Hall—and the transformation of Mule Alley into a string of trendy boutique shops. My loyalty is still and always to the landmark Star Café across Main on Exchange, but I can see the emerging vision of a world-class tourist attraction.

A bonus: I mentioned I hadn’t yet been over the much-vaunted White Settlement Bridge, so Victor drove us home that way. It was higher and longer and grander than I expected but still made me think of the Bridge to Nowhere. I still don’t understand the plans for Panther Island which strikes me as a money pit that has been in process too long and displaced too many small businesses. But Kay Granger obviously didn’t consult me.

And another unsolicited opinion: Why change the name of White Settlement Road? We’ve all called it that forever, and the name speaks to its history. It’s not a racist statement—it’s a historical fact. Sometimes political correctness wears me out.