(written by Matthew Hansen-reprinted with permission from The Omaha World-Herald)
Rich Yost was tidying the boxes in his basement when he happened upon his own personal chunk of Omaha restaurant history. He had forgotten almost completely about this, forgotten that he had collected tiny, free artifacts for decades and pasted them on a posterboard and displayed them proudly for visitors. He remembered now. The 53-year-old took the posterboard upstairs. He peeled the 200-odd matchbooks and business cards off of it. He arranged them on his kitchen table. He emailed me. “I made a discovery which took me on a trip down memory lane,” he wrote.
Which is how I ended up over at the Yosts’ South Omaha home, taking my own personal trip through what Rich calls “the graveyard of Omaha restaurants.”
It’s a tour of the Yost family and their food. It’s a story, or a series of stories, that isn’t really about food at all.
You say DAK-ery, I say DYE-kery. However you pronounce it, daiquiri practically screams tropical venues with palmetto fans, thatched rooftops and a sapphire-blue sea. In the past 40 years, this once-unassuming daiquiri somehow morphed into a cliché umbrella drink, served slushy and sweet with chunks of pineapple in a piña colada glass.
Photo © Guzzle & Nosh/flickr
It was the date drink of choice at UCLA whenever couples had enough money to go off campus and eat out. Chart House, Gladstone’s, Monty’s Steakhouse, all of them served up a fancy daiquiri with all the trimmings.
Good cocktails should be enjoyed from home just as easily at they are at the hands of a capable bartender. Never before have we had better access to quality ingredients, good recipes and expert how-tos than we do now. There’s simply no excuse to drink crap.
Starting with the As, and zigzagging from there, join us on our adventures in home-crafted cocktails.
Ever fancied yourself part of the Round Table? Not that round table, of Lancelot and Arthur. No, the real one, at the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street. The place where in the 1920s famous people like Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley and Herbert Ross once sat for hours every day where they quaffed illicit highballs, critiqued each other’s work and even launched The New Yorker.