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 Sonoita's Locals Lose An Institution Of Sorts. By Jeff Smith
SO THERE WERE these two middle-aged guys wiggling their toes in the sand at Miami Beach, and one guy says to the other, "How'd you happen to wind up here?" and the second guy says, "Well I was in the dry-goods business back in Scarsdale, doing very well, and one day the damndest thing happens: a fire broke out in the warehouse and the store burned right to the ground. So I took the insurance money and retired down here. So how'd you come to be here?" Apropos of nothing in particular, The Steak-Out burned down a week ago last Saturday. For many of you this sunders the sole significant link between your world of urban sophistication and frenetic chaos, and mine of quiet contemplation and bucolic tranquility. The Steak-Out was Sonoita's signature watering hole and feed bag, home of one of the West's most commodious and potentially crippling margaritas, and at whiles, a pretty tasty sampling of mesquite-broiled beef.
But that, to borrow from Star Wars, was from another galaxy--far, far away and long, long ago. Like most of the local yokelry, we Smiths had pretty much taken our custom elsewhere. Those natives who still frequented the place with real frequency were of two classes: serious money or serious drinkers. An epitaph to the grilled grill, written by a colleague and neighbor of mine, waxed lyrical about the end of an era. Right, I remarked, to the folks at Isabel's cafe in Patagonia a couple days later, the era of the $30 steak with no potato. Indeed The Steak-Out had grown in many ways since the first time I wandered in there, 29 years ago. It grew bigger, somewhat shinier, somewhat more cowboy-roccoco, but mainly it seemed to grow spendier and too big for any country cousin's britches. Owner Mike Wystrach, whose--shall we say, candor?--left nobody who knew him neutral on the subject of Mike Wystrach, made no bones and no apologies about the high price of a piece of meat, an iceberg salad, a bowl of beans and some balloon bread. We told him he was pricing the neighbors right out of the joint, and he agreed and said he didn't much care. He made his money off the tourists and the officer corps from Ft. Huachuca. They thought they were getting a dose of the honest-to-john Wild West, and they didn't seem to care if it cost a week's pay. Outside of the Tourons, you could still find some authentic local color, in the persons of personages like Cattle Kate and Dutch and Brucie, who hit the upper bar where the pool table was, pretty reliably on Saturday nights. Beer and whiskey prices stayed somewhat nearer to reality and the consumer price index than the beef tariff at the Steak-Out. Cynical as I may sound in this left-handed tribute to a latter-day historic landmark, I will carry fond memories of my experiences at The Steak-Out, and hope that Mike got a generous insurance settlement and will plow it back into the ashes at the corner of state highways 82 and 83, so the place may rise again, Phoenix-like.
Only this time, no cut over $15. And it wouldn't break you to
throw in a baked potato, Michael.
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My son Caleb and I were laboring over a batch of tacos when daughter
Liza arrived from Tucson with the news that the old fire-trap
up at the corner was now a smoking ruin. At first we didn't believe
her: then we laughed. I guess you could say it was a bitter-sweet
laughter: our family had enjoyed many a good meal and a good time
at The Steak-Out. Testimonials to that effect, clipped from the
pages of the Tucson Citizen a decade and a half ago, decorated
the walls of the foyer at the restaurant.
