It was the original tailgate party. Cowpokes would gather around a campfire for a hearty meal of sourdough biscuits, son-of-a-gun stew, prickly pear au gratin and a steaming cup of Arbuckle’s best. The history books might say that the chuck wagon got parked permanently around the turn of the century but don’t try telling that to the modern-day cowboys who still “go out with the wagon.”

Rowly is a Nevada buckaroo who ran a cow outfit for an insurance company out of Chicago. Once a year he took his crew of 18 men and boys out with the wagon to rope and brand over 3,000 calves. And when that chore was completed, he had to travel to Chicago to make his annual report to the Board of Directors. According to Rowly, spending two weeks with 18 smelly cowboys was a lot more enjoyable than two days in the big city.

“The last time I went to the big city for a meeting,” recalled Rowly, “they took me to one of those real fancy boutique restaurants. Our waiter was the friendliest fellow I ever met. He came up and introduced himself, gave us a brief family history and acted like we had all met before. 

“It must have been an enjoyable dining experience for you after eating off of tin plates for two weeks?” I asked.

“Not really, it was a lot more uncomfortable eating at the restaurant. I got frost bite from my salad fork and got zonked on the head with a pepper shaker that was three feet long. When I excused myself to use the facilities, it got real confusing. I located the restrooms easy enough but instead of saying “men” or “women” on the doors they just had pictures of real cute cats on them. 

“You meet some strange cats in the big city,” I suggested.

“Not near as strange as the food.”

“What did you eat?”

“Well, the entire menu was written in French so I didn’t know what to order. Our friendly waiter made some suggestions though. He recommended the veal because it had been raised in a stress-free environment at a rural resort with an ocean view. The lamb was also good, according to our waiter, because it had been brought up in a family setting and was conceived without the use of artificial insemination. The waiter said that he preferred the more sensitive salmon with bearnaise sauce and that the salmon’s name was Julian. That was more than I really cared to know about the food I was about to get intimate with, so I just ordered a slab of beef.”

“Was it any good?”

“I’m telling you they served me a piece of raw meat... called it Steak Tartare or something like that.”

“What did you do?” I gasped. “You didn’t eat it did you?”

“Of course not. I figured I had two options. If I’d been out with the wagon, I could have thrown the raw meat on the ground for the wildlife to eat. Believe me, there was plenty of wildlife in that restaurant though I doubt they’d have eaten it either.”

“What was your other option? I queried.

“If that chef would have been our camp cookie back home and served us uncooked meat, I’m sure there would have been only one solution.”

“What would that have been? Throw it on the fire?”

“No, we’d have shot him, of course.”