By the time I reach St. Regis (Exit 33 coming down off of Lookout Pass in Montana) I’m usually hungry. The Travel Center promises fudge, ice cream, slot machines, a full-service restaurant with the word “huckleberry” in the title, and a massive trout tank in the shape of a moat that you can actually crawl inside. It also offers almost as much travel kitsch as the 50,000 Silver Dollar Bar a few miles back up the road.
It is true that the St. Regis Travel Center can’t match the 50,000 Silver Dollar Bar in the area of medieval swords and black ops knives. Yet unless you want a replica of Excalibur in the trunk or a Chinese knock-off of a Navy Seal blade under your car seat, I recommend stopping in St. Regis.
Particularly if your destination is the Flathead, actually leaving the freeway at Exit 33 feels like real progress rather than just caving into the tourist trap pressure of a bar surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of silver dollars with a life-sized carving of an Indian chief guarding the door.
St. Regis is the place to stop, but where to eat has never been settled to my satisfaction. The seasonal trailer hocking fresh Montana cherries at highway robbery prices is an viable option. The Travel Center restaurant isn’t.
I still haven’t mustered the courage to go into the restaurant in the center. The word “berry” in the title combined with a cave-like entrance is part of it. Bad experiences at similar places next to other exits in other states is also a factor. Then there is the urgency to keep moving. Junk food from the racks near the register might not be heart-healthy or wholesome, but it can be eaten in the car.
Yet there is something more that has kept me out of the restaurant all these years. For absolutely no rational reason I can identify, the place feels sinister. I may be missing the best buffalo meatloaf on the planet cooked by some rising truck-stop star who will win Top Chef. But if I am, you’ll have to tell me because the place makes me nervous.
This has presented a problem in the hunger-for-hot-food department until now.
Now another option at Exit 33 takes credit cards. Frosty’s Drive In isn’t new, but for years they’ve been a cash only spot.
No longer. They take credit, and offer at least the pretense of fast food with their drive-up window. Realistically you probably want to park and walk in. Frosty’s isn’t the place for your burger in a minute or two. Try six. Or ten.
Neither is it the spot for a culinary revelation. You can, with confidence, skip the banana shake. The handmade sign made me hope for actual banana. Instead, the syrup they use produces a color not found in nature and a taste to match. But the Mushroom Burger was a surprise in the other direction.
It has personality. The beef appears to be food service standard, but the bun is fresh, grilled slightly, and comes with a smear of special sauce. They include a cheese product without advertising it on the menu and the cook takes the time to slap the canned mushrooms on the grill. She is also generous with the hand-torn lettuce.
Frosty’s isn’t In-N-Out, Fatburger, or Shake Shack, but it does give me a place to stop when I’m hungry in St. Regis and not in the mood for kitsch and travel center sinister. I count this as progress.
