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There were bad omens as well, though. On my two visits to the restaurant -- we were dining early in both cases -- our servers introduced themselves with this ungrammatical caveat: "First, let me tell you what we're out of." The daily blue-plate special goes fast, we discovered (though I'm not sure why -- the selections didn't seem all that enticing to me), and so do the mashed potatoes.
I ordered the slow-roasted bison pot roast, which really was tender and delicious, even if the portion was stingy and the garlic mashed potatoes tasted garlic-free. (I may have gotten the last order.) Carol Ann's "Beer Can Chicken," which the menu lovingly describes as "infused with rosemary, garlic and Anchor Steam Beer," was beautiful to gaze at, but the crackly amber skin was shockingly salty, the chicken itself was dry, and it wasn't hot. Bob, thank goodness, loved his beefy burger, even though it was far too juicy for its sourdough roll, which quickly dissolved into mush.
Like the appetizer menu, the dessert list isn't very substantial. It's mostly ice cream and cookies (which are baked in the kitchen but are hardly exceptional), though Ted's recently added a fruit cobbler. Its big chunks of tart apple in a caramel syrup might have been really wonderful -- had the dish been a few degrees hotter.
The problems continued on my next visit a couple of nights later with Bob and Gia, when two really fine salad offerings -- a Caesar tossed in a light, garlicky, eggless dressing and an iceberg wedge scattered with crunchy bacon and chopped tomato -- were followed by three disappointing entrées. I picked at my bison meatloaf, which was barely warm. But it was practically steaming next to a side of stone-cold "squash casserole," a congealed, overly peppered mound that looked and tasted like wallpaper paste. And yes, I have accidently sampled the latter, so I know. I swallowed; Gia spit hers out.
Gia's 7-ounce "seared beef tenderloin filet" was barely thicker than a pancake. It was such a cheap-looking cut of beef that I asked the server if it was even choice. (She insisted it was.) Bob's Kansas City strip wasn't just flat; it was fatty and tough. He managed to gnaw through it only after dousing it with steak sauce. And even though the accompanying french fries were fabulously crispy, they were once again ... cold.
"I hate to say this, but maybe they should rethink their microwave policy," Gia whispered. Or get a really powerful heat lamp. Or hire some swift-footed runners to assure that customers get their dinners as soon as the kitchen plates them up.
I don't care that Ted's menu calls the joint "the most authentic saloon this side of Montana." I visited Montana last year and ate in several real saloons and steakhouses -- and was overwhelmed by the sizes of the portions and the quality of the meat, the vegetables, the oversized desserts. The food, I noted, lived up to everything else in Big Sky Country.
Paradoxically, things aren't so eye-popping at Ted's Montana Grill. But my opinion must be in the minority, because although the restaurant isn't exactly a cattle call during the lunch hours, the dining room and bar were as raucous and noisy as the old stockyards on the two nights I visited, including a 40-minute wait on a Saturday night. Flawed or not, Turner's bison bistro has obviously made itself home on the range.
