This is submitted for the Memoir Writing Groups prompt, food.

The best meal I ever had actually was in June of 2006, and began sometime well before it was served, even before getting that emergency phone call while stretching my legs in Venore Tennessee. But, I’ll start this little tale in Venore, an area that is flat as the Smokies are not, yet only a few miles separate them.

The cell phone rang and shortly afterwards, three of the four bikes that made the trip to Tennessee went roaring up the highway to Maysville. That fourth bike had been in an accident up on the Smoky Skyway; Curtis and Sheila had been rushed to the hospital.

Most likely breaking every speed limit along the way, as well as one severe violation of a one way street, the three bikes illegally, but safely, arrived at the Maysville hospital in what had to be close to impossible time.

Curtis had two broken ribs, Sheila was sporting a broken elbow, and the bike was near death. Apparently, 64 year old Curtis had tried to maneuver past a boulder that had tumbled to a rest on the Skyway; in doing so he had lost concentration, run off the road and had hit a culvert.

After the couple was released, we made sure they got a cab back to the hotel in Gatlinburg and the three bikes carrying five riders were on their way back as well. We rode the ten miles into Townsend watching the sky turn grayer by the mile, but no rain;  not until we were on the northern route through the national park and about 45 minutes from town.

We all stopped and put on the rain gear for a humid downpour that lasted maybe 90 seconds. The dark clouds clung to the tree tops and threatened to spit on us every inch of the way, but those clouds just laughed at us in an evil, humid manner as we made our way up and over, then down into town.

Wet rain gear on a hot June evening is not a pleasant experience, especially in the bumper to bumper traffic of Gatlinburg.

Curtis and Sheila had been back at the hotel long before the rest of us, because no matter how direct the route, a well trained motorcycle will find a way around it. Their motorcycle wasn’t well heeled, as evidenced by the fact a flat bed truck was on its way to pick up the two wheeled miscreant.

Finally, back to the cheap room, into the shower, and eventually back to the street where we all decided to meet. Sheila, Curtis, Laura, and Randy wanted calzones. I wanted a steak. I convinced Deb and Jim to go on a steak hunt with me, not just any old steak served at those supposed ‘World Famous’ trendy steakhouses; I wanted one the locals kept secret.

Not three blocks away, we found the treasure. Not more than a heavy stone’s throw from the park’s entrance, too far away from all the buzz for most tourists to walk, was a rustic red wall that was tucked underneath an under used hotel. If doors could tell tales, the one that was in the middle of that rustic red wall looked as if it could tell three lifetimes’ worth.

The three of us huddled up next to the door to look at the dirty plexiglass display that was in dedicated service to protect a faded menu.

Steaks!

Pulling the tired door open and stepping inside to the dimly lit bar and grill that felt way more bar than grill, the three of us felt our way to a wobbly table near the bar. The bar seemed to be the greatest source of light in the place and we weren’t ready to give ourselves to the dark side yet.

Holding a candle near the menu so I could see exactly which steak I was going to order, I read these words:

“It really doesn’t matter how you want your steak done, it will be red in the center.”

They who guarded the secret knew I was going to find them.

I’ve had great salads, and salads that weren’t so bad, that salad was one of the not so bad types, but the beer, company, and conversation almost made me forget the humdrum tasting salad. Something was nagging me; trying to warn me about what was to come.

The steak seemed to take forever, especially seeing as how the dining room that opened up beyond the bar had maybe four couples in an area that could easily seat forty-four. Not much bar noise, or grill noise for that matter; just the occasional clinking of glasses being washed or stacked.

As busy as that place was, I began to wonder if the clinking was a recording.

Finally the meat arrived. All fears of a tainted treasure fell away as I cut into the thick, juicy t-bone. The steak melted at the hands of the cold steel knife. Every red centered morsel was like a slice of beef heaven. For once in my life, I had not left a trace of meat on a steak bone. I actually think I sucked on the bone.

Not one of the three of us wanted to leave the table when were finished. I think we believed that some magic fairy was going to land with more of those steaks. Like junkies franticly scraping glass pipes.

We eventually made our way from the grill and back up towards the center of all that is touristy in Gatlinburg. Once we met up with the other four, they went on and on about their calzones. Finally, one of them asked how our meal was; we looked at each other, smiled, and answered, “Good.”

We were going to protect that secret.

In memory of Curtis, who succumbed to lung cancer in 2008; two years after the trip.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Years ago I started writing Flash Fiction for just the sheer enjoyment of writing, and now it has turned into a full blown addiction. I can't quit the horse, man! Another dirty little secret about me is my ability to write all kinds of web content. SEO content, articles, blog posts, manifests; you name it, I'll write it. Looking for some help? My gun hangs at r.alex.crabtree@gmail.com

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