Where Real Men Eat: Cattlesmen’s Café

A faint hum of a neon sign fills the street as we emerge from a cab into the crisp fall night. Low two story turn on the century brick buildings proclaim the wares of the frontier from beneath deep shadows. Faded traces of advertizing clinging to brick walls whisper “western wear” and “cattle auction” as the brisk cold wind has driven every living creature from the wide streets seeking warmth as we move toward the door.

An unpretentious blond brick and plate glass exterior is covered by a simple awning awash in an eerie red glow providing a niche where the scent of searing red meat lingers before being escorted away by a blast of bitter wind. Reaching for the full length plate grass door I grab the longhorn of a silver steer head which marks the entrance of an dining institution which has served cattlemen, drovers, ranchers, cowboys and brokers since 1910.

Food critic Michael Stern noted “Surrounded by the largest livestock trading center on earth, Cattlemen’s is the consummate western steak house. The original dining area maintains its old lunch counter, where brokers, haulers, and buyers come for breakfast of steak or brains and eggs starting at six a.m. In the South Dining Room, which was added in the 1950s, there are spacious upholstered booths; one entire wall features an immense, illuminated panoramic transparency of a herd of Black Angus cattle with two men on horseback watching over them. Curiously, the mounted cowherds are not dressed in buckaroo attire. They wear suits and ties, apparently to distinguish them from common cowboys who work for wages. These gents are cattle ranchers who can afford a blue-ribbon steak.”

The dimly lit dining room is filled with dark mahogany walls and booths covered in white linen tablecloths as black and white sketched portraits of famous visitors festoon the walls. A drone of subdued conversation drift across the dining room as worn cowboy hats slowly hover above the high back booths as we are escorted to our own booth in the back dining room. Looking over the menu the focus is clear, red meat steaks and burgers supplemented with simple country cooking. Feeling the part I order bourbon which is delivered in an oversized simple glass tumbler sufficient to knock any cowboy off their horse. Apparently during prohibition the restaurant was well known for home-brewed “liquid delights” which could be enjoyed on premise or taken home in a simple brown bag.

The colorful history of the café is as rich as its customers. As the story goes “In 1945, Cattlemen's was owned by Hank Fry, a gambler of sorts. In a smoke-filled room at the old Biltmore Hotel in downtown Oklahoma City, Fry was running out of luck and money in dice game attended by a local rancher, Mr. Gene Wade. Fry put up Cattlemen's as the pot if Wade could roll a 'hard six,' otherwise known as two 3s. Wade put up his life savings, which was a sizable amount of money. With one roll of the dice, Gene Wade was in the restaurant business. The '33' brand on the wall of Cattlemen's Hereford Room became a well-known symbol of Wade's good fortune.”

As a culinary explorer I am seldom intimidated by any menu entry I stumble across. I even seek out the most unusual food offerings to expand my knowledge of cuisine, to educate the palette so to speak. I was somewhat surprised and a little unprepared to discover a delicacy on such a common county menu. I read the description a second time to make sure I understood the exact composition of “lamb fries”. As Michael Sterns explains it, “Lamb fries are testicles that are sliced, breaded, and deep fried. Gonads are a highly-regarded delicacy in much of the West; when young livestock is castrated on the range, it is traditional for cowboys to fry their harvest as a treat at the end of the day. Cattlemen’s lamb fries are served as an appetizer: a mound of them on a plate with a bowl of cocktail sauce for dipping and a half a lemon to squeeze on top. They are earthy-tasting inside their golden crust, the exquisite organ meat quivery and moist, with nut-sweet savor.”

Approaching the bottom of my tankard of bourbon my courage is welling wondering what this rare and traditional delicacy would actually taste like. In a moment of liquor induced madness I ask the waiter for an order of lamb fries looking closely to detect any indication of a smile or acknowledgement that the menu item is really an inside joke making city slickers eat gonads. As soon as the words pass my lips I realize the dilemma I had just created for myself. I stare blankly at the waiter looking like one of those moon-pie faced cattle just before being hauled off to the stockyard for execution. Sensing that our conversation is not finished my young waiter stands calmly waiting for my next request. For what seems like an eternity I finally decide of the exact phasing for my next question. “What type of wine would you recommend with the testicles?” Even as the words break the silence of the moment I realize that the discussion has just entered a new territory of which I had never experienced. Fearing that my young server would be at a loss to provide an adequate wine pairing with it then degrading into a public group discussion at the table with the restaurant sommelier, I decide on a heavy dark cabernet that would be robust enough to erase any evidence of testicles from my palette.



As the waiter heads to the kitchen I ask for another tankard of bourbon to accompany my red wine. The table conversation revolves around the anticipated dish. Halfway through the second bourbon tankard the lamb fries arrives mounted high on the simple white plate. We all stare at the plate for a while before lifting a golden brown morsel to our lips. The great secret of county cooking is that you can eat anything if it is covered with enough breading and deep fried long enough, as was the case with the lamb fries. My overriding opinion after finishing the last of the testicles was “been there, got the tee shirt, no reason to go back”.

As we straggle though the main dining room in a bourbon fog, I nod at a few of the remaining cowboys seated at the big mahogany booths knowing that I had the balls to eat balls where real men eat.

Where Real Men Eat, Part 2

Hollywood Cafe, San Francisco. Photo by Mr. Blue

"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

Where Real Men Eat

Every once in a while you discover a hidden jewel forgotten by time, the place when real men eat. I have found a restaurant where home cooking is king in Baton Rouge. Louie’s Café opened in 1941 and not a single thing has changed since Truman was president. It was like walking into a time warp. A local business associate treated me to this special part of Louisiana. As we walked in the front of the building looked like a flea market with assorted abandon kitchen equipment discarded over the years stacked up under the awning next to hundred pound sacks of potatoes. The daily specials were painted on the windows in vibrant colors. We walked in through a worn aluminum screen door and stepped onto a black and white checked linoleum floor that had small chips missing.

A long white counter and red top chrome stools fenced in the grill. We were immediately greeted by the grease stained Cajun cook called Frenchie. “Mr. Jimmy, How come it been so long since ya visited me.” Frenchie had the appearance of a well worn and traveled soul. The tattoos which decorated his leathery and wrinkled arms revealed a life of military service and probably a number of incarnations. On his head sat a faded white chef skull cap which covered his salt and pepper hair. “Mr. Jimmy, ya kno ya come by cause I’m so damn beautiful.” Picking out a stool at the counter Jimmy smiled and responded “Frenchie, who the hell told you, you’re beautiful?”

“Mr. Jimmy, I don’st needs nobody to tell me, all I do is look at dis’ beautiful face every morn in da mirror.” Frenchie turned to the grill and kept talking to himself about “How da women love dis’ face”. I felt immediately comfortable sitting at the long white counter with all the condiments organized in small clusters. Half filled bottles of ketchup, mustard, real salt and pepper shakers, and a sugar dispenser not a pile of packets. Don’t look for blue or pink sugar substitutes in this place. Growing up on the east coast I spent many days of my youth hanging out at diners. It’s a culture that’s fast disappearing, replaced by fast food franchises where social interaction is impossible.

Scanning the tables behind me there was a group of four slightly overweight policemen with their heads bent as they shoveled grits from the thick white plates. Behind the officers were three tattooed and pierced college students in torn blue jeans discussing some art book with soft voices? Across the aisle sat a black soldier immaculate in his sturdy posture and brightly polished black boots. Along the counter next to me were three drug addicts who managed to scrape up enough money to buy a home cooked meal before the next bender. The drug addicts warily eyed the police as they probably knew each other from encounters on the dark side of midnight.

In the corner table sat an elderly couple that were neatly dressed in clothes from a farm supple store. It appeared that they have sat at the same table and ordered the same meal every day since the café opened some sixty five years ago. As we waited for service two rough necks from the oil industry strolled in and sat at the counter. They worn dirty yellow hard hats adorned with faded labels and scuffed emblems cataloging the many oil rigs they worked on around the world. Baton Rouge is a big blue collar oil refining town. Their work boots and coveralls were stained with crude oil to the point that they were waterproof.

Jimmy mentioned he had gotten Frenchie a job at this new expensive restaurant as a SU-chef, but it didn’t work out. Frenchie got in the habit of telling the head chef how he should be doing things. Looking at the grill I was struck on how worn and battered the equipment was. Like the old black cast iron skillet Grandma would never let any one wash but herself, there was a thick patina build up by constant daily use for so many years. All the pots and utensils had dents and pocks which gave it a hand hammered appearance. In the dents the patina would accumulate more readily giving the pots a mottled texture.

“Mr. Jimmy, I was up alls night planning dis blue plate special jus fors ya. Ya want to hears it.” The special was a Spanish omelet made with huge square chucks of spiced hash brown potatoes and homemade salsa. I ordered it with a side of pancakes and a mug of coffee. The food arrived on a big thick while oval platter with a smudge of grease where the omelet had just been slid off the grill. It was a meal your heart doctor rolls his eyes after you tell him about it.

The favor of the omelet was to die for. It was so good that I woke up the middle on the night despondent that I didn’t finish every bite and it was tossed out. I reached for the maple syrup for the pancakes and noticed it was extra dark brown. As I poured it on, I thought it must be it has been stored on the counter and has aged to this deeper color. Shoveling in a big bite of pancakes, something tasted very different? It’s certainly a different maple syrup. It took me a second before I realized this is not maple syrup this is old fashioned molasses. It was my first taste of the southern tradition of molasses and pancakes. I slowly savored the new taste combination.

As we got up to leave Frenchie turned from the grill and wiped him face with the red bandana around his neck. “Mr. Jimmy, how dem chillens doin?”
“Frenchie, if you don’t watch out I’ll bring all four of them down here to tear up this place.”
“Oh Mr. Jimmy, ya kno dem chillens love dem special waffles I make dem” Frenchie responded. “They love dem waffles almost as they love dis beautiful face.” As we walked out of the aluminum screen door I could still hear Frenchie talking to himself “All ya kno da women love dis’ face.” Needless to say I spent the next three days in Baton Rouge going back to the place where real men eat.