Much to our dismay, the entrance was disappointingly equipped only with the industry-standard round doorknobs and exclusively one-way hinges. To boot, there was a pronounced lack of gartered legs dangling between the banisters overhead, killing time until the next oh-so-risque; leg-kickin' stage performance. There was, however, a burly maitre d' confidently sporting a cute, flower-adorned apron, who dutifully showed us to one of many empty tables.
Aside from the showdown between the San Dimas sheriff and Marty McFly in the back bar, we didn't notice anything particularly hustlin' bustlin' or bovine-rustlin' about the place. They even had imported beer list -- Zima and Bud Ice. Guess that's old west for Generation X. Wonder if the Gen XI old west dining experience CD-ROM will be this authentic....
To be fair, the proprietors were true to the second half of their establishment's moniker; they did have steaks. For those less inclined to partake of the seething meat, they also boasted an impressive array of ice water and pretzels to complement their two troublingly indistinct poultry selections -- the Western Chicken Burger and the BBQ Western Chicken Sandwich. And, at that, well-complemented they were, juxtaposed with delicate yet brutish, loopy yet linear, sensible yet perhaps even grotesque beer-mug-crossed-with-wine-glass beverage goblets. Of course, to any educated southern Californian, culture, good taste, and San Dimas go hand in hand in hand.
Despite our jeers of "Raging Waters is for sucks" and "Bill and Ted lacked the requisite sensitivities to potentially catastrophic temporal inconsistencies and the eminent onset of gastroesophageal reflux," we failed to incite any of the good-time shotgun showdowns we so fondly recalled from our U.S. History classes. All we did manage to provoke were the mildly unsettling sidelong glances of a man and woman wearing coordinated vinyl Texaco jackets.
If there was any sort of culinary appraisal to be made about barbecued hamburgers and chicken sandwiches, we would indeed be flinging them forth with all the deluded authority of so many teenage Burger King grillmasters. Yet at about seven bucks per plate sans drinks and tip, and considering the fact that the kitchen must have used up a full bottle of BBQ sauce between the two of us, upon exiting we felt in no way compelled to whirl around and shoot the bartender for overzealousness on the tab. We managed to rustle up the obligatory 15 percent gratuity and mosey on out of there, our chins still high, our chaps mostly unscathed.
Upon reflection, we were emphatically not abducted by amorphous interdimensional beings during our meal, which precluded this otherwise paranormal dining experience from becoming the next X-file. Our hearts burdened by this obvious disappointment, we rode off in the direction decidedly antithetical to that of the long since concluded sunset, adding a notch to the steering wheel for another markedly uninspiring topic for our weekly literary excursion.
"Real tomato ketchup, Eddie?"
"Uhn, nuttin' but the best, Clark."
In conclusion, we must remind you that if there really are any cowboys in San Dimas, they have probably long since traded in their saddles for inner tubes, and are passing their last days gliding down the long and swerving roaring rubber rapids of life.
If you're hankerin' for some none too rootin' tootin' nor too high-falootin' old western grub, head for the sunset on Arrow Highway until you hit the wooden-marqueed mini-mall complex that heralds entry to greater San Dimas. Old West Steakhouse is at 536 West Bonita Ave. Telegraphs are accepted at (909) 394-3277.