By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
"Everything in Texas history has something to do with love or war or both," Phelps explains. "Bonnie & Clyde, to the Alamo, to San Antonio Rose." Maybe Phelps has a point. No piece of the Union has a history quite like Texas': No other state has had more flags fly over its territory, has the right to split itself into more states if it so chooses, or had its best wide receiver attend his criminal trial in a full-length fur coat in July. It's hard to imagine someone launching a restaurant called Love & War in Delaware.
Not that there's much inflation to this self-absorbed boasting. The 1999 Grolier Encyclopedia says Texas occupies 7.5 percent of total U.S. land mass -- enough square miles to swallow all of New England, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Illinois, and still have room for pecan pie -- a deliciously sticky dessert ($4.95) at L&WT, especially when ordered a la mode. But such comparisons are foolish, because after a few minutes of listening to a native, you realize Texas transcends state designations. Phelps even calls the regions from which his menu items emanate "the five states of Texas": The Border (with Mexico); The West Texas Plains; the Hill Country; East Texas Piney Woods; and the Texas Gulf Coast.
It's funny to watch a non-Texan try to take all this in. I visited L&WT one evening with a companion who hails from Oregon. We took a seat on the patio, where a guitar player was plucking a tune about why he had to dump his girl: He was Texan, his dog was Texan, his car was Texan, but she was a foreigner -- probably from Delaware. Another guy crooned about being a battle-hardened Confederate soldier in 1865.
Anyway, we ordered the Beaumont bugs ($7.95): little crawdad tails hailing from the Gulf Coast state, armored in batter, deep-fried, and piled on a bed of fries around a ramekin of red-pepper cream sauce. Billed as spicy, the caked tails were actually bland, though the coating was crisp, greaseless, and thick. So thick, my companion peeled it off every tail she picked and just ate the meat, which was notably lacking in moist sweetness. (People from the Pacific Northwest tend to go into "fat shock" when exposed to fried foods.) When finished, she had a small plate piled high with golden brown casings. "Oh, my God. I've never seen anything like that before in my life," said our server after getting a glimpse of the mound. Obviously, this was her first brush with an Oregonian.
But my companion felt the same way about L&WT's Caesar salad. The greens were limp, the croutons were coarse and dull, and the dressing was infused with a fake smoke flavor. She felt better about The Stockyard ($20.95), an 8-ounce filet from the West Texas Plains. But not much. The meat (purported to be Certified Angus) was a bit mushy with a washed-out, livery flavor.
My New Braunfels bratwurst ($12.95) from the Hill Country was far better. Venison brats and shriveled smoked venison sausage -- tossed on a bed of snarling, mushy kraut of little note -- was moist, firm, and savory. The brats, however, did seem a bit too suffused with cheap black pepper.
But the food, eminently passable (it got an "A" rating from the Plano Environmental Health Department), isn't the most engaging thing about L&WT. It's the props and the people. That patio, fashioned out of stone and cedar, has an outdoor seating area bermed with bales of hay that separate the seating area from Central Expressway and a set of railroad tracks. From one patio post juts a long horizontal pole, from which hangs a small ring from a long string. The ring is attached to a hook on the post. The object of this game is to stand far from the post, swing the ring, and try to catch it on the hook. "It's kind of a dart game for Texans," says Phelps. "We kind of stole it from a bar we saw it in."
But that's not all the Texas entertainment Phelps has employed. He has just installed a washer pit. "It's kind of like horseshoes," he says. In this game, washers (not the Maytag kind) are tossed at two small holes spaced several feet apart.
So L&WT is more than grub: It's Texas cultural immersion. Phelps, who grew up all over the state (his father worked for various chambers of commerce), says he not only wants to give people a taste of Texas, he wants to provide a history lesson as well. Most of the flags that have flown over Texas or the Alamo hang on the walls, as do various framed covers of Texas Monthly magazine. There's an 1899 Savage 30/30 Texas Ranger rifle above the fireplace, and the winning paddle from the 1986 Hopkins County stew contest. Phelps says he sent more than 200 letters to various Texas counties for stuff to kitsch-out his digs; much of the paraphernalia is still in storage. "We don't ever want it to look like a theme restaurant," he cautions. "We want to keep it tasteful. We call it Texas Heritage."