Memories of the Star Café

 

Bud Kennedy’s article in this morning’s paper announced the sale of the Star Café in Fort Worth’s Stockyards National Historic District. I’d known about it, but seeing it written up in detail, with a marvelous picture of the dining area, made it all too real. The Star is one of my happy memories. Good friends Don and Betty Boles have owned it for forty-two years. I’d  hate to correct Bud, but I think before that they owned it for a spell, sold it, and then bought it back. And I was always told it was the oldest, continually operating restaurant in Tarrant County. I don’t doubt it.

I’d call the décor funky, but I know Don would object to that. But the place is crowded with memorabilia, even a porch swing hanging from the tin ceiling, the requisite deer head with antlers, a giant beer bottle, and neon beer labels. Signed pictures of celebrities and rodeo stars line the walls, along with a sign that says, “Don’t mess with the neon lights.” Behind the bar and high up a shelf hold more western “stuff,” including an old tricycle that fell on Betty one night. Fortunately, her injuries were minor.

If the décor is funky, the food is delicious. The Star is known for chicken-fried steak (my favorite) and baseball steaks—the latter too big for me to tackle, but they sure do a good rib-eye. They make their own ranch dressing, which tastes better than other I’ve ever had, but the house dressing is an oil, green olive, and cheese concoctions. I don’t know who invented it. Long ago, when Eva, the then-elderly cook, was working at lunch, Wednesday was meatloaf day and friends and I from TCU would go for lunch. And there was always Betty’s own banana pudding.

For a few  years, I ran the cash register on Saturday nights, and oh—the lessons about mankind! I made some friends, like John the postman who loved to talk western history with me and tell me all he knew about Elmer Kelton. I learned to be cautious about a group of people who would cheat you every way they could, like demanding change for a hundred when they gave you a fifty. There were regulars—people who were there every Saturday night, and if I never knew their names, I knew them well enough to greet them as friends. Many were dressed to the nines to go dancing in the honky-tonks just down the street. When there was a national act at Billy Bob’s legendary country music nightclub, we knew the Star would be busy.

So many memories—like the time Betty and I worked from morning to late at night because there was an all-day festival (talk about sore feet), or the birthdays and family occasions we celebrated there—wedding parties during Jordan and Christian’s week-long nuptial festivities, a party to introduce Colin and Lisa as a couple. My kids often chose it for dinner, and I remember Megan saying one night as we sat in the downstairs bar waiting for a table, “I am perfectly happy right now.” Or Jamie begging the kitchen staff one Sunday morning to put an egg on his chicken-fried, even though they had stopped serving breakfast. Or grandchild Maddie at three wandering back to stand by me at the cash register—Betty disapproved of that one.

My favorite time at the Star was late—the café closed at nine, so we though nine-fifteen was late—when people began to drift away, and I saw Betty come down the restaurant with a glass of wine in her hand. I knew then it was time to quit and have dinner. Betty and I usually split something, from steak and baked potato to chicken-fried, but we occasionally deviated. One night I brought a jar of sauerkraut with me, and we had Polish sausage.

I haven’t been to the Star since before pandemic, mostly because I got out of the habit of restaurants. But I will go for a farewell meal. I imagine the Burtons will want to go, and Betty suggested Jean and I go one night. I’m told the staff will all stay—including Bino the cook—and the new owner, somehow connected to the stars of Yellowstone and 1883 plans to keep it like it is. But it won’t be the same.

A PS: I even wrote a short story set in the Star. Rumor always was that it or Miss Molly’s B&B upstairs, was haunted. And I knew that Don kept a baseball bat by the cash register in case of trouble. So I wove a story about a ghost, a waitress with “the sight,” and a baseball bat—one of the few times I ever included paranormal in anything I wrote. Hmmm. It never was published. I’ll have to see if I can find in on my computer.

Y’all really should get on up there and have you some chicken-fried! Go for the mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad with ranch. Top it off with Betty’s banana pudding.