Chumming.Com Field Notes:  07.19.98
 
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        (Max) We weren't hungry.  We had waited so anxiously to hear the  Clipper's throaty rumble in Stillwater, and  now, chugging along Highway 212 across verdant Minnesota with its peaceful farms and wholesome little towns, like the model-train layout I had as a kid, the early-evening breeze somehow subdued the rancorous belly acids that had gnawed at us.  That is, until we passed a herd of cattle and were all instantly ravenous. 
        Hector, MN (pop.1145) presented the next available opportunity for dining, so we coasted off the highway and into the gravel lot beside the Hector Bar and Grill, which we found as friendly inside as it was creepy and menacing outside.  Seated at a table in the back, we slurped on Schmitt's Draft and checked out the menu.  Mmmmm...Frito Pie!  I would've been happier only if they were serving bacon souffle, in which case I would've had a double order of both. 
        Alas, it was not to be.  Seems Frito Pie is a seasonal dish in Hector and can only be ordered during the cold and brutal Minnesota winters, when it is needed most.  Same with the homemade chili and the German Burger, which were my second and third choices.  I finally settled on the California Burger, which I figured was only served during the summer.  Eager to see and taste what it was that would be quintessentially Californian about the sandwich, I was surprised to find only meat, mayo, lettuce, tomato, and onion between its bun, none of which struck me as anything overly Californian.  I suppose I could have asked the guy who served us, but he looked like he just failed his parole officer's piss-test, if you know what I mean, and I never liked a good ass-kickin' for dessert. 
        The Hector B&G also does a brisk business in package liquor sales.  We probably saw a good portion of the locals buy beer or whiskey there; hell, I'd need a drink too, after spending all day on a tractor or hanging around town waiting for something to happen.  Anyway, right before we left, three young Hispanics, none older than 18, came in and bought two 
cases of beer.  Weird enough, to see the first non-white people we had seen since Madison, WI in this tiny farming town, but that they were dressed like hard-ass cholo gangbangers straight from 16th and Capp (in SF) made it absolutely bizarre.  I guess I should've known: South Dakota was dead ahead. 
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                                                        Max Riistoffel 
 
 

        (Max) While deciding to use eating experiences as points of reference for these notes, I chose to dismiss any visits to fast food.dispensers, since I prefer the slower variety.  That was before we pulled in to the DQ in Eagle Butte, SD, on the Cheyenne River Reservation. 
        We spent the night in the East Whitlock Lake Use Area, not to be confused with the West Whitlock Lake Recreation Area, ten miles to the north, where they have hot tubs and snack cakes 'n shit. 
        We put the Clipper down at 4:00am in a windswept and haunted campsite that gave no clue as to what lay beyond the dark, except that it was wet.  A relentless morning sun saw us propped up on a burnt, broken isthmus of land that gnarled its way out into Lake Oahe.  No wonder only a malignant haint spent the night out there with us. 
        By 2:00pm, we had passed through LaPlant, to no satisfaction, and triple-digit sunshine juggered our nauts.  The Clipper was idling at nearly 50mph and we all needed either shade or a shot to the dome, so we hit the Brazier for Blizzards in the AC.  Burgers and fries, again, but they were cooked to order at least, and really pretty good.  And after watching the two young women spinning out soft-serve sculpture from the Royal Treats station, I am now a disciple of the medium. 
        We had the feeling that the DQ was THE place to be in Eagle Butte on the hottest day of your life.  Three teenagers, the boys wearing ties, asked each of us as we walked by if we had noticed the girl among them pouting at all.  They laughed as if the joke were on us, but we couldn't figure out how it could have been.  So things were as they should've been.  And Sturgis was in our crosshairs. 

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                                                        Max Riistoffel 
 
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