My summer has not turned out quite how I pictured it. The
strangest, and most poignant, of events has me marooned in the metropolis of
Livingston, roughly half an hour in every direction from all that I hold dear.
Livingston is a transient town, gateway to Yellowstone Park and home to a
raft-able stretch of the Yellowstone River. During the summer, fishing guides
hover like gnats at every bar, easily recognizable in their khaki short-sleeved
shirts with sunglasses propped on their heads. Rodeos and fairs bring cowboys
in their Wranglers and Stetsons. Mike, a native with long white hair and beard,
sits in front of a country clothing store strumming his guitar, a fixture of
downtown Livingston. For the tourists with cameras hanging from their necks,
he’s part of the wildlife, and they snap pictures, unbidden.
I’ve become the roommate of a spirited
young man who, unbeknownst to me, worked south of my childhood home every
summer, and while he fishes and guides this week, I have his apartment to
myself. Unfortunately, he and every other friend I have encountered is a
cigarette smoker, and my sinuses are taking quite the hit. To put it plainly, I
feel terrible. I’m hoping a beer and some food will help that, and I’m taking a
venture downtown to see what Main Street has to offer. I’m not raising my hopes
too high: from what I gather, Livingston serves up potential far better than it
serves up cuisine.
If the décor is saying anything, it’s that
“The Sport” certainly refers to hunting, not football. There are at least a
dozen racks mounted to the walls, and several stuffed pieces as well, including
a badger which sits behind the bar across from me. The racks are still attached
to their heads: a white-tailed deer, elk, moose, and wild boar, to name a few.
The bar itself is enormous, and spans two-thirds of the room. A floor to
ceiling antique shelving unit houses bottles of wine and ancient trinkets. The
kitchen, from what I can see, is tiny, inhabiting a hole at the back of the room,
slightly elevated and off to the right, adjacent the bar. The pick-up window
faces into a hallway to its left, which must also lead to restrooms. There’s a
separate dining room in the store-front to the left of this one, but in the bar
are scattered a half-dozen tables of the home dining variety. By the time I
left, they would be filled with locals and tourists alike, the rancher-looking
men in the window being replaced by three guides.
The waitress/bartender greeted me
immediately, and instructed her helper, a quiet, eager girl who couldn’t have
been fifteen, to serve up the water I’d asked for while she tended to a table.
When she returned, she rattled off the specials in that oh-so-typical rote
regurgitation, giving me slightly scripted, though not unpleasant, attention. I
ordered a honey-rye ale, brewed in Butte, and glanced at their small menu. The
sandwich selection was ordinary, the salads uninteresting. Nothing was really
grabbing my attention. I considered trying another location, but I’ll be damned
if I’m that asshole that gets up and leaves because I couldn’t find anything to
eat.
I wound up being very pleased with my warm
pastrami sandwich with mustard, and what I think I remember being provolone, on
top of thick, moist baguette, ringing up at $7.50. I don’t find the cheese
particularly important. On a heaping hot pastrami sandwich, the only thing that
matters to me is the pastrami, and theirs was good. Not Brooklyn’s Fette Sau,
but good. The house fries were shoe-string, seasoned with something akin to
Lowry’s, and I was less impressed with them. For shoestring, they had hardly
any crunch, and the seasoning was uneven and unremarkable. The food took longer
than it should have, considering the nature of what I ordered and how many
people were in the restaurant, but this relaxed pace is starting to feel like a
trend here in the west. The younger girl, while hardly saying a word to me,
religiously kept my water glass brimming. (Returning readers may see a
returning theme with my water glass: I’m a high-maintenance water drinker, and
I admit that up front. I drink gallons of water every day, and my biggest
complaint is having to track down a waitress to refill my glass.)
The ambiance of The Sport is lacking. The
huge mirror behind the bar, in combination with the bar’s broad expanse and the
height of the ceilings, create a warehouse effect that is uncomfortable. The
sheer volume of the room dwarfs the dainty low tables. I would much rather have
seen heavier, “manlier” leather banquettes and maybe a pool table, definitely
an old-fashioned juke box. There’s a lot of space to fill, and the neither the
music, the furniture, nor the food are creating any warmth in atmosphere.
So the question, “Would I come back here?”
Maybe. I was watching the guides in the window, the newest having just sat down
and ordered, without aid of a menu, the fish tacos. I noticed the other two
were already dining on the same dish, and I’m beginning to wonder what I
missed. As for being a place I’d want to hang out? It’s got as much personality
as a storage unit.
The Sport
114 South Main Street Livingston, MT
(406) 222-3800
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