The Tourons Are Coming!

It was mere weeks after moving here thirty years ago that we began echoing the disdain our new-found friends had for tourists—tourons, in the local vernacular. Few of our new friends made their livelihoods directly off the visitors who seem to pack the town and clog the streets from June through September, that latter month devoted to the newlyweds and nearly deads who wait for the children to return to the classroom before venturing into a world populated by people in Bermuda shorts with cameras hanging from around their necks.

I never could have imagined that some ten years later I would be the chef/owner of a restaurant which relied heavily on those four months of tourism trade to help offset the winter’s dread.

Being a local business was a high priority. I didn’t want to cater to the tourists and ignore the locals who would sustain the business year round—those who would brave the snows to have a plate of pasta and a glass or two of wine. It was a good decision. When I shuttered the place after almost twelve years it was the customers at the tables and the heat of the kitchen that I knew I would miss the most.

I wasn’t wrong.

If there was a third thing to miss, it would be the funny stories and the insights into the human condition that can be gleaned from observing people who have chosen to step out of their element in pursuit of adventure. One of the big questions that emerge from these observations is how some of those people manage in their real lives if they can’t quite handle the rigors of a vacation. The stress of sightseeing alone is enough to drag a family of four into a brawling afternoon of Sturm und Drang.

I might have mistakenly referred to our tourist population as being clad in Bermuda shorts. This being Montana, the cowboy look prevails. Stetson hats, Levi’s, snap-button Western shirts, and Tony Lama boots. The boots are decorated with leather inlays of cacti—boots that have never seen the wet middle of a cow pie.

As it happens, I know several cowboys. Their costumes consist of well-worn jeans, a T-shirt that may or may not host an advertisement (same as the baseball cap) and Timberland work boots with a length of duct tape around the sole and arch.

The best “I’m not from around here” award goes to a man wearing a black satin cowboy shirt with silver trim and fringe. He looked like a goth Christmas decoration. He was with a couple of other people, and they ordered turkey sandwiches and a bottle of Barolo. The wine cost $140 and was the most expensive on my wine list. Naturally, the fringe guy paid with a black American Express card. The card has no credit limit and people have used it to buy hotels and yachts.

They left and there was about an ounce or two of the Barolo left. I carefully divided it into two glasses for me and the waitress. We both spit it out immediately. It was corked and tasted like vinegar.

I suddenly didn’t feel too bad about not having a black AmEx card.

Steaks were never much featured on my menus but there is a certain expectation of having steak when visiting a state with more steers than people. The steak I liked the best was a thick-cut T-bone that had come from an Italian breed (Piedmontese) that had been imported to Montana. I char-broiled the seasoned steak and garnished it with a sprig of rosemary dipped in olive oil.

The order came in for the steak, well-done, with a Port wine reduction. No chef likes to be told how to prepare a dish. It’s one of those things that you just have to get used to. I wouldn’t have prepared the sauce even if I had any Port wine. He later told me that it was the best steak he’d ever had, despite it being over-cooked.

For the record, I once couldn’t provide ketchup to Matt Damon because I didn’t have any. He lived.

One customer once wanted to know how long my spaghetti was. Until that moment I didn’t know it was twelve inches long and I will never know why he wanted to know. Does it matter?

We had a woman with a gaggle of children who stormed out in a huff because the little brats wouldn’t eat anything but French fries, another menu item I never had.

We had kind of a fussy woman one time who asked way too many questions about where we sourced our food and if it was organic. She quit asking questions when my waitress couldn’t keep from laughing when the customer asked if our zucchini was free-range.

Any business inside a tourist zone is peppered with questions about the local environs. For the most part, we’re pretty proud of where we live and will answer to the best of our abilities.

We’ve also been asked if we could fax a document. One guy wanted to buy a large piece of art we were showing; he changed his mind when I told him he would have to arrange for its delivery. I always liked those who came into an Italian restaurant claiming to be allergic to garlic and onions.

And then there was the guy who wondered why we didn’t have trout on the menu.

“The Yellowstone River is just a few blocks away,” he noted. “You could catch a few every morning and cook them up.”

Uh, no.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Swordfish Syracusa

This is a delightful grilled fish from Sicily. It allows the meaty flavor of swordfish to shine. Serves two.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 celery stalk, finely chopped
1 medium onion, minced
2 Tbs. capers, rinsed
10 large or 20 small green olives, pitted
1# plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped
2 swordfish steaks, each 3/4″-thick
Flour for dredging
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbs. white wine vinegar
1 Tbs. minced Italian parsley
1 lemon, cut into wedges

In a skillet, heat olive oil over medium-high heat for 2 minutes; add the celery and onion and cook until soft, about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to medium; add the capers, olives, and tomatoes, and stir well. After 1 minute, pour in 1/3 cup water, stir, and cook for 10 minutes, or until the liquid in the sauce has reduced somewhat.

Grill the swordfish; sauce; garnish with parsley & lemon wedges. Serve over linguine or boiled rice.