Dinner at the Star

 

In one week, we went from feeling sophisticated to funky western. Tonight, the Burtons, Jean, and I had dinner at the Star Café in Fort Worth’s National Historic Stockyards District. For forty-two years, my good friends Betty and Don Boles have owned the Star. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Betty and Don have sold the classic steakhouse. Saturday night will be their last hoorah. So the last couple of weeks they’ve been busy with folks who have come for a last supper. Tonight was out turn.

Betty was waiting for us, with a reserved sign on the front table that I’ve always loved. It sits right in the front window so you can watch the comings and goings on West Exchange Avenue. Of course, you have to mind the sign that says, “Please don’t mess with the neon lights!”

Wine was served, and we fell to nostalgic stories and memories, with lots of laughter. The late-night dinners when the café had emptied, the night one of Jordan and Christian’s friends fell asleep in a booth, the times Jordan wanted to take home a pint of the house-made ranch dressing, the luncheon after Jacob’s christening. I asked about the people I remembered—Bino, the cook who is still there; Emilio, the clean-up guy who left after long years; the prep guy who’d been there since I remember; the postman who used to come for supper before he went dancing and always wanted to talk about western history. Other faces and memories swam before me, but I couldn’t be specific about them.

For me, nothing would do for dinner except chicken-fried steak. You can get steak, nicely done, in a lot of restaurants in this city, but good chicken-fried is a special thing onto itself. Betty and I split an order, with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Saying she knew they’d never serve it at Trinity Terrace, Jean also ordered chicken-fried, declaring she would take half home with her. She didn’t. She ate it all. Jordan and Christian ordered filets, and Jacob had chicken fingers which I remember were so large I could barely eat one. It was all delicious.

Best of all was seeing Betty. For years, she and I went to dinner every Wednesday night, sometimes to our regular places, other times adventuring out to try new places. In recent years, we added Jean to the tradition. But then pandemic hit. I knew Betty was still working weekends at the Star, which made me leery, and then I got to the point that getting me out in my walker was just too much trouble. I stayed home a lot. Tonight I realized that it took at least two people to help me at the two steps in and out of the Star—Betty couldn’t do it herself. So our habit fell by the wayside, much lamented by both of us. We have gotten together occasionally—a couple of times to go out with others, a couple of times on my patio. But we have missed each other, and it was good to reconnect tonight.

A thoroughly happy evening!

In other nonconsequential news, I got my hair cut really short. I notice in the picture how fat my face looks. But my doctor said, sanctimoniously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” That’s because if a health catastrophe hits, you might need that reserve in the hospital. Also losing weight stresses organs in your body like the heart. So here I am, eating modestly—honest, most of the time, just not this week—and still gaining weight. I have decided to be happy and not worry about it.

One thing I did worry about: my extreme fear of weight, as it showed itself in Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment the other night. By serendipity, 23andMe, which I subscribed to several years ago, sent me the next day a report on my fear of height. My first thought was “How did they know?” Well, of course, they knew by profiling, and they said most people have a 29% chance of fearing heights; I have a 38% chance. Furthermore, people who fear height get their sense of balance from visual points of reference—if you are at the edge of a high balcony, you have no such visual points. I instantly remembered being in a wide, empty lobby where the walls and floor were of neutral marble (faux, I presume)—no pictures, no furniture, no plants, nothing. Just that faux marble. I told Jordan it was the kind of space that made me feel spacy. When she asked what would happen, I said, “I don’t know. I’ll lose my balance and fall on the floor.” Now that makes sense to me. There were no visual points of reference. I am deeply relieved to know the reason for my fear and that it’s not just a silly idea in my mind.

So, a great evening, a good week, and I am ready to sleep. ‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

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.

Let's Rodeo

 

An old family picture on the Midway
not sure what year this was but
some of those kids are pretty young

Came across a blog from 2015 about rodeo and my family, and I hope you'll indulge me if I repeat it tonight. It still speaks for how I feel about rodeo, though now all our babies are teenagers with too many activities and their parents too busy--our rodeo days as a family are behind us. Lisa, my Tomball daughter-in-law, posted just today that she misses those days. So do I. Here's what I wrote seven years ago:

Let's rodeo!

It's rodeo night for my family. They arrived in bits and driblets between five and six this evening, snacked on the food I put out (including great sweet potato salad), drank a bit of wine, and were out the door a little after 6:30, leaving me a quiet house and snacks to put away. I may have said this before, but rodeo makes me nostalgic. When the kids were little, it was a rite of passage when a child was deemed old enough to go to the rodeo, though I don't remember what age. We always went with one other family, ate at the cafeteria (nothing fancy like Reata at the Rodeo in those days), watched the show, and came home exhausted. Early on, I realized I really didn't want to watch the bull riding--my heart was in my mouth the whole time, and I think it got so I waited in the hallway. Now I don't want to see man or beast hurt. When the grown children decided they wanted to come for a rodeo weekend, I politely declined. But now it's an annual affair that brings them all home, and I'm all for that.
One branch of the family--the Frisco Alters--will not arrive until tomorrow. Eleven-year-old Eden is an animal sympathizer to the point of being vegetarian and would not go to the rodeo; the rest of her family are not much interested either, so they'll arrive in time to tour the barns, etc. I still remember Eden's father, my Jamie, as a child going through the barn, holding his nose and lifting his feet high with each step  as though he could avoid the muck. Darn rain--Midway won't be much fun tomorrow. Once again, I'll stay home in a quiet house--too much walking and standing. (Gosh, I hate sounding like an old lady!)
In recent years, we've gone to Joe T.'s for dinner, but Jordan suggested a change which I welcome. We'll go to the Star Café owned by good friends Don and Betty Boles. Have a reservation for 17. I can already taste the chicken-friend steak with cream gravy.
Poor Christian has already been to the rodeo five times--tonight is six. He takes clients, plus he went with Jordan's office and took two little boys last Monday night. He's relieved that there's only one more week. I would be too.
Stock show--properly known, I think, as the Southwestern Livestock Exposition and Stock Show--really changes the character of Fort Worth for its three-week run--restaurants and roads are crowded, and there's a general air of excitement in the city. I saw a wonderful picture on Facebook last night of the darkened city with the lights of the Midway blazing in the middle of the picture--thanks to Brian Luenser. To me, that said it all about what the stock show does for Fort Worth.
I know it's a very good thing for the city and its economy, and there are days I miss walking the exposition hall and seeing the FFA animal exhibit--all those little ducks sliding down into the water and eggs hatching. I miss funnel cakes and the heavy smell of fried food and the earthy smell of the barns and the warmth emanating from the cattle. For me, a Chicago native, it's part of an acquired taste; for my Texas-born kids, it's part of their heritage.

Let's rodeo!

It's rodeo night for my family. They arrived in bits and driblets between five and six this evening, snacked on the food I put out (including great sweet potato salad), drank a bit of wine, and were out the door a little after 6:30, leaving me a quiet house and snacks to put away. I may have said this before, but rodeo makes me nostalgic. When the kids were little, it was a rite of passage when a child was deemed old enough to go to the rodeo, though I don't remember what age. We always went with one other family, ate at the cafeteria (nothing fancy like Reata at the Rodeo in those days), watched the show, and came home exhausted. Early on, I realized I really didn't want to watch the bull riding--my heart was in my mouth the whole time, and I think it got so I waited in the hallway. Now I don't want to see man or beast hurt. When the grown children decided they wanted to come for a rodeo weekend, I politely declined. But now it's an annual affair that brings them all home, and I'm all for that.
One branch of the family--the Frisco Alters--will not arrive until tomorrow. Eleven-year-old Eden is an animal sympathizer to the point of being vegetarian and would not go to the rodeo; the rest of her family are not much interested either, so they'll arrive in time to tour the barns, etc. I still remember Eden's father, my Jamie, as a child going through the barn, holding his nose and lifting his feet high with each step  as though he could avoid the muck. Darn rain--Midway won't be much fun tomorrow. Once again, I'll stay home in a quiet house--too much walking and standing. (Gosh, I hate sounding like an old lady!)
In recent years, we've gone to Joe T.'s for dinner, but Jordan suggested a change which I welcome. We'll go to the Star Café owned by good friends Don and Betty Boles. Have a reservation for 17. I can already taste the chicken-friend steak with cream gravy.
Poor Christian has already been to the rodeo five times--tonight is six. He takes clients, plus he went with Jordan's office and took two little boys last Monday night. He's relieved that there's only one more week. I would be too.
Stock show--properly known, I think, as the Southwestern Livestock Exposition and Stock Show--really changes the character of Fort Worth for its three-week run--restaurants and roads are crowded, and there's a general air of excitement in the city. I saw a wonderful picture on Facebook last night of the darkened city with the lights of the Midway blazing in the middle of the picture--thanks to Brian Luenser. To me, that said it all about what the stock show does for Fort Worth.
I know it's a very good thing for the city and its economy, and there are days I miss walking the exposition hall and seeing the FFA animal exhibit--all those little ducks sliding down into the water and eggs hatching. I miss funnel cakes and the heavy smell of fried food and the earthy smell of the barns and the warmth emanating from the cattle. For me, a Chicago native, it's part of an acquired taste; for my Texas-born kids, it's part of their heritage.