10,000 Silver $ Bar a trip down memory lane

Whoa, what a trip!

This place has not changed one iota since at least sometime in the mid-1970s, if not earlier.

When Q. and I entered the building one recent lazy Sunday afternoon, it was a bit of a sensory overload as memories began flooding back.

My parents used to get bored and drag me along for day trips here and there, and for some reason, we often would end up here at the ultimate tourist trap – Lincoln’s 10,000 Silver $ Bar in tiny Haugan, Mont., just across the Idaho border.

Maybe it was the glitzy name, or maybe it was just the era, but a trip here when I was a wee tot seemed like a visit to a magical place, huge and all bright blinking lights and fun, fun, fun. Even my parents would get excited, looming greedily over the salad bar with lit cigarettes, sipping highballs.

I recall the place as seeming fairly classy at the time. But now, visiting here is like flashing back to another era that you can never (and don’t really want to) relive.

The magic is gone, and the years have not been kind.

The grungy off-pink walls give away the fact that smoking not only was allowed here for many years but heavily promoted, too. The scent still lingers on the yellowed wagon wheels and cattle skulls that “decorate” the place.

The well-worn brown Naugahyde booths clash perfectly, leaving one to wonder if even in the deepest, darkest dregs of the ‘70s it was somehow acceptable to mix pink and brown.

“Please Seat Yourself” says the sign at the cafe entry. The gift shop, casino and bar were abuzz with activity, but the cafe was empty except for one table full of gothic-looking teenagers who looked as if they’d been sitting there for three weeks.

Naturally, we picked a booth near them so we could spy on their antics (after all, we were them once, many years ago).

Our plump but pleasant waitress poured water and gave us menus. Wow – the water here is incredibly good. I always brag about how good Coeur d’Alene water is, but this tasted as if it had just melted right off a glacier and into my cup.

The menu is full of standard cafeteria fare – sandwiches, burgers, steak and salad, chicken strips – and the prices clearly are oriented toward the tourist.

I picked a mushroom Swiss burger and fries for $8.95, and Q. settled on a Western burger for the same price.

Good thing we decided quickly because our waitress returned after giving us only about 45 seconds.

“More water, please.” I wanted to bottle it and take it home.

Meanwhile, our gothic teen neighbors were making fun of a busload of Japanese tourists who had just poured into the gift shop.

One thing that can pretty much always ruin a dining experience is pesky, bombarding flies. And Lincoln’s 10,000 Silver $ Bar has some hard-core specimens buzzing around.

We waved our hands wildly, trying to shoo them away, but it was pretty much useless.

One landed for a moment on the rim of Q.’s just-refilled water glass, leaving him almost in tears. “Rats! Now I can’t drink it.”

But I thought, “Oh, good, more for me,” as I wiped off the tainted edge and took a glug.

I’m not a fan of flies, believe me, but Q. is picky and germ-phobic when it comes to that kind of thing. In fact, if I weren’t buying lunch and if he weren’t so hungry, we would have been gone at the sight of the first fly.

The busboy, an elderly gentleman, noticed our wild gesticulations and approached the table gingerly.

“I know. … Sorry about them darn flies. We had a guy in here gettin’ rid of ‘em last night, but as soon as that door opens, they just come right back in. … But hey, it’s just like home, I guess,” he said with a grim chuckle.

Q. and I looked at each other with the same thought: “Maybe your home, dude, but not mine.”

Inside the tiny open kitchen, about six young cooks were racing around, preparing our food and acting excited that they actually had something to do. I’m guessing the cafe must get busy at some point if they have that many chefs on hand.

As soon as our food was done, the workers began roaming the place, desperately looking for ways to keep busy, wiping and rewiping counters.

Our burgers arrived in plastic baskets lined with classic red-and-white-checkered paper.

Mine was huge, and as I went to take my first bite, I dripped a viscous combo of grease and mayonnaise all over the front of my shirt. Argh. Why does this always happen to me – and on my first bite, no less?

Q. laughed, having seen it happen a dozen times before. “Hope you brought an extra shirt cuz I don’t even wanna be seen with you in that dirty thing you’re wearing.” What a pal.

The burger was pretty good, but it became even messier after the bun began to dissolve in my hands. I had grease and condiments all over my shirt, arms and face.

Q. daintily ate his burger, managing not to spill one drop of barbecue sauce or lose one crumb of the giant onion ring that lurked within.

The home-style fries were fresh-cut and delicious. We ate as quickly as possible, so as not to give the evil flies even a chance to land on our food.

Our waitress came by for a final check. “Dessert?” “No, thanks. More water, please.”

The food was tasty and quite satisfying but nothing out of the ordinary – and certainly not worth $9 each. Any local Wendy’s offers similar fare at a better price – let’s put it that way.

Full, we paid and waddled into the gift shop, where I continued flashing back to childhood: the huge bins of shiny multicolored rocks, the cheesy cowboy and Indian art, the faux-fur Daniel Boone hats, the shiny purple foil of huckleberry chocolates, the decoupage placards of Elvis and Jesus, the million little dust-gathering knickknacks covering every flat surface.

At a table in the bar lifelessly sat two carved wooden figures, and I remembered them sitting there so many years ago.

Q. pointed at my ungodly stained shirt. True to his word, he waved bye-bye as he headed out to the car.

Looking around, I found a nice black T-shirt with a shiny, glittery silver-dollar logo and the glorious words, “Lincoln’s 10,000 Silver $ Bar, Montana,” and took it up to the counter, where a couple of clerk ladies were laughing uncontrollably.

I was sure they were making fun of me, so I joked, “Oh, yes, the food was so good here I decided I had to wear it.”

One of clerks said, “Oh no, it’s not you,” and the other one leaned in and whispered to me, “Oh, we’re just boy-watching, and she’s just awful, just awful.” The first clerk fanned herself with her hand and said, “Let me tell you – there are some hot guys around here. Woo hoo!”

I looked around the gift shop and realized the only men there were a couple of scrawny, smelly cowboy types with lips full of chew under huge mustaches and terrible mullet haircuts – in other words, totally not hot.

I gave a bewildered courtesy laugh and handed over the cash for my shirt.

“Wow, welcome to Montana,” I thought to myself as I sneaked into the men’s room to change.