Meeting Barbara Stanwyck, The Drover, Omaha

While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.
― Willa Cather, My Antonia

Where there is great love, there are always miracles.
― Willa Cather

Tonight, The Drover, Omaha.

There are some things special to this town: the cobblestone streets of the Old Market, the inspired music scene, the range of funny old bars. The old steakhouses are another. Which is saying a lot, since I have been a vegetarian for most of my life.

I love discovering the unique flavor of a town. I long for the old routes across the country, how they would carry you through the small towns as you made your way. I dream of those journeys through all those local specialties. Maybe I became a musician purely for this type of travel. Maybe it was just to taste all of the different types of regional  pie.

Omaha was the place in the center, where the country’s cattle came to meet their fate. This stockyard legacy makes my liberal vegetarian cells silently cringe. Yet this history brought forth some old restaurants that are still standing and that I adore, and The Drover is my favorite of these.

The Drover is like a cave, with low ceilings, brick walls and round stucco fireplaces built randomly into small rooms. The lighting is yellow and warm, and the chairs are low wooden ones with rounded backs that set you perfectly to the table. There is a vaguely Spanish feel in the big wooden doors and the beamed ceilings.

Shortly after being seated, a dark mound of bread loaf arrives with the knife stabbed in its heart. It is piping hot and served with iced butter. The whole place smells like the bread. The smell of baking bread affects me deeply in a primal place and I have zero ability to deny its call . I can say that in every fantasy of home life I have ever entertained, the place has smelled like this.

The salad bar is a must. My vegan friends would scoff at its paltry layout, yet there is a place in my soul for iceberg lettuce, toasted sunflower seeds, pepperoncinis, canned beets and bleu cheese served on a chilled silver dish.

In most of these old steakhouses the bar area is a delight, and full of regulars. This one is small, and the bar crowds the room to the few narrow perches along the walls. Deep red, brick walls, wooden beams: it is where you arrive when you walk down the narrow entryway hallway.

I see Deejah there. Last time I was here she turned me on to the shrimp appetizer. She’s deep in conversation so I will say hello as I leave. She will most likely still be there, holding court.

In the 18 years I’ve been coming to this town I’ve seen some places fall by the wayside. That’s just the deal. Here, as in San Francisco, I have some friends whose sole conversation consists of bemoaning the loss of the old and I can certainly commiserate, but for the most part I’ve let it go. The Drover, Brother Sebastian, Johnny’s Café, these steakhouses hold on.

Omaha sports “the greenest restaurant in the country,” as well as a whole district of modern and gourmet restaurants. I like to sample those as well. In a city that is more a collection of neighborhoods than an urban environment, I am thrilled that there are now vegetarian options, organic markets, and more diverse cuisine. The rugged history of the town shows up in its historically bland and heavy food. The new flavors have been a while coming, and I’m thrilled with this new development.

The old, though, has its comfort. There is some glamour in the history: the saddle strung up by the fireplace and photos of cowboys. Steak is something I know little about, but the old man is a connoisseur. He would have to be, brought up in this town. The Drover is his favorite as well. There is the whisky-steak here, which I imagine is just what it says it is, and when he says it’s the best, I believe him.

Steakhouses always have a fish option, and it’s never the greatest meal, but I really don’t care. Tomorrow, I’ll choose my normal fare, but tonight, what feeds me is the atmosphere. Being here is like living in suspended disbelief, going back in time when we trusted that the food we were eating was pure and healthy and our dominion over animals went unquestioned.

The clientele are mostly locals, and I guess some business takes place in the bond formed by the cramped ceilings and hi-balls. The conversation is lively but the carpet and stucco and wood-beamed ceilings muffle the din to a low hum, not the hysterical ringing of most modern restaurants. Maybe this is why I’m drawn to this place, for these simple sensory inputs alone: dim golden light, soft muffle of sound, the texture of the smooth, thick walls, smell of warm bread.

You can get lost in the small rooms and the warm hues. I would never want to break the mood by opening my computer, heavens no. I write on napkins and receipts. The light of the Apple logo would upset the entire vibe. I don’t want to do it.

I adore the bread. I adore the wine. I let go of needing my life to be different, needing my family for Christmas and the haunting longing for other places. Instead, I fall into a fantasy of Barbara Stanwyck and those rugged American movies of the 1950’s.

It is all decadent flavor of another time. I imagine leaving here in a Packard, to a ranch, to a place where there is no question of my grit, of my place, of my strength.

I guess what I am fantasizing about is certainty. There is not a lot of certainty beyond this table. I am not certain that the bread is healthy for my body or that the lettuce of the salad bar hasn’t been sprayed with chemicals. I am not certain that anyone has the right to take any life, even that of an animal farmed for food. I am not certain that my time spent here at this table isn’t contributing to a dark legacy better lost for good. I am not certain of where I stand or what my stand at all.

Buddhist teacher Miles Neale has a “Chicken McNugget” metaphor he uses to describe the compulsiveness of life that keeps us in samsara, the basic misery of human existence. He says realizing the habits that keep us trapped in samsara is like the experience of discovering what McNuggets are really made of. One day you are happily dipping nuggets into sauce packets, and then someone describes to you what they really are and how they are made, the “sickening sludge of chicken parts,” and you can never enjoy them the same way again. Such is our discovery that we have a veil of perspective that keeps us spinning the same unhappy wheels in this existence. Once we become mindful of our ignorance, it’s nearly impossible to want to slide back in.

I’m thinking of that story here because it is never long in places like The Drover before I start to feel guilty for spending money there, for supporting an industry I just don’t think is helpful to the light of the planet. When I was deciding where to go to write this evening, when I thought of the modern restaurants serving organic produce and vegan options, I just couldn’t stomach that noise, those sterile and frenetic atmospheres. I wanted warmth, history, romantic air. Now, I wonder if I haven’t once again chosen the McNugget, full well knowing the brutality at the core.

Well, I ate the crappy fish option and not the delicious whiskey steak, at least I have that to justify myself. Reality is a series of these opaque decisions, and maybe this is why we’re all so tired. I need to buy a toothbrush and I stand in the toothbrush aisle at Target looking at the thousands of little pieces of plastic products and plastic packaging and all I can think about is that swirling whirlpool of plastic the size of Texas in the Pacific Ocean. I imagine some other choice I could possibly make and I feel tired and crazy. Really? There is no other option ? How many of my choices continue our road through chaos?

For good light and the fantasy smell of fresh bread I have slid down the slippery slope of hypocrisy. I judge myself and feel lost.

There’s nothing to do but to go to the bar and have a drink with Deejah, a black business woman who chooses to frequent this place a few days a week. It is 2018 and I imagine that her presence here is probably counter to the past of The Drover. So that’s to be celebrated. We do move forward in important ways. Maybe one day this place will serve kale and quinoa and farm-to-table cuisine that minimizes harm and despair. Maybe one day there will be a modern vegetarian chef who figures out that this kind of atmosphere, sexy and dark, for some people, can be almost more important than the food. Maybe the plastic industry will embrace biodegradable products. Maybe once we fully awaken, our choices will easily uplift us to a place beyond judgment. Maybe it’s as simple as keeping the best of the old while embracing the best of the new.

I guess that all of these questions, all of these decisions, all of this back and forth eases when we let go of our compulsive, thoughtless way of being, this samsara. We can let go of misery and be present and connected to that which brings us peace and freedom. The agony of making these decisions is of the small self trying to blindly find a truth that is known already in the heart. We let go of the struggle and our heart guides us to light, to hope, to imagination, to creative spark. Maybe next time my choice will be less selfish, less comfort-driven. Or maybe my choice of the fish option will send a message to a beloved restaurant and allow me peace with my decision to frequent the place.

I sat in The Drover and I wrote and was inspired and contemplated the light and dark of being. Life is not black and white. When I left and walked to my car and drove through the rainy Omaha night, I felt peaceful and warm, my heart open and the smell of baked bread in my hair.

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Postscript: Three days after writing this piece, a fire broke out in the kitchen of the The Drover and the restaurant is closed indefinitely while they repair the damage. Sending cheer to the staff, and hoping the charm isn’t lost in the renovations.

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