P.S. - An Unexpected Adventure at Penn Lake Roast Beef (Republish)
A story of friendship, loss, and (of course) a really good lunch.
In case you missed last week’s note, I’m traveling this week to see family in NY, and celebrate my brother-in-law’s wedding in Maryland! Today’s issue is a republish of a piece that was popular amongst readers, originally published July 21st, 2023. Enjoy!
For today’s P.S., I asked Andrew to create a written version of a story he told me a few months ago. It’s a captivating tale featuring multiple roast beef shops and their owners, full of twists and turns and unexpected connections. So, without further ado, please enjoy “Roast Beef Story” by Andrew Urevig:
I don’t know if this is a restaurant review or a diary entry or some unholy mix of (a) my idle personal ramblings with (b) the plot synopsis for the next great based-on-true-events inspirational blockbuster film. But whatever it is, I’m trying.
Here’s what happened: A few weeks back, I was driving home from a few thrift stores—or maybe many thrift stores, that’s fine, I love Goodwill—and ended up on something of a journey.
Thing is, in the moment that starts the little odyssey, I really need to get some gas. My tank is on E, and I’m on Google Maps trying to triangulate the nearest gas station that also has a decent discount on Upside (can’t turn down cash back).
I think I’ve settled on a good one, so I’m driving in its direction when I glance to the left and see a sign for a restaurant: Wally’s Roast Beef. A whole restaurant just for roast beef? Sounds good. And now I’m kind of hungry. Curious, I look it up. Great reviews. But this day, at this time, Wally’s Roast Beef is closed. Damn.
I keep driving. Problem is, I’m kind of shit at driving a car and following a map at the same time…so I’m getting all turned around, going the wrong way and then another wrong way and then another wrong way—until I finally get to the gas station. It’s fine.
I pull up to the pump and start filling. Against the backdrop of grimy pavement and blue sky, we’ve got the sun smiling and birds chirping and gasoline slinking into the tank—a real American scene, in like a somewhat positive and somewhat negative but also complex and nuanced way. Then, it happens.
I look up. I glance. I see.
Across the street, a storefront in the middle of a strip mall is marked with big red stylized letters: PENN LAKE ROAST BEEF.
Huh.
I’m thinking about how, honestly, I’d never in my life seen A Roast Beef Place—except, like, Arby’s, if that counts—and now I’m seeing two in one day, two in ten minutes. Maybe that’s my own ignorance. Maybe people really love roast beef. Maybe there’s a whole segment of the economy and public opinion dedicated to restaurants that specialize in roast beef, and I’m only now catching up to the zeitgeist. But, look, I’m ready to catch up, so I’m staring at the sign: PENN LAKE ROAST BEEF.
I go to Google Reviews, as always, because Celisia taught me to live my life according to Google Reviews. I’m scrolling and reading and soon I’m interested: near enough to 5 stars, rave review after rave review, and everyone seems to just love the woman who works up front (per one review, “so kind, sweet, charming, and welcoming”).
Let’s go. I hop in the car, pull across the street, park, and walk up to the spot. A red and white sign announces “fresh roast beef, slow cooked overnight.” A neon sign, green and purple, says open. Right above the door is a big banner with yellow type: Kevan’s Roast Beef.
Kevan’s Roast Beef? Isn’t this Penn Lake Roas—oh, OK, I’m getting it: a few big red banners hang in the windows, putting the two together: Kevan’s Penn Lake Roast Beef. A big yellow bull head dominates the center.
Inside, there’s a big menu overhead with colorful pictures of all the options: mostly variations of roast beef, but also some Chinese food: egg rolls, wontons, etc. You can get roast beef egg rolls! It’s a brilliant fusion concept, but not in a pretentious way; it’s the kind of fusion concept that’d never bill itself as a fusion concept. The walls are decorated with Chinese art: wood engravings, illustrations of birds and nature, beautiful red and white vases, art of bull heads, a wall-mounted string instrument, which I learn is called an erhu, a kind of Chinese fiddle.
There’s one person in line ahead of me, ordering from—as the reviews promised—a very nice woman at the counter, and through a window into the kitchen I see a guy in the back cooking. The person ahead of me is ordering, really, a lot of roast beef (maybe enough roast beef to feed a family of 4? or 6? I just found out about the roast beef economy so I’m trying to keep up) and the nice lady at the counter is deftly trying to upsell: Do you want extra sauces? All good, do you want pop? Do you want wontons? No… OK, how about a half order of wontons, for half the price? It’s great.
As I wait, I’m still looking around. On the counter stands a framed photo of two men: an older white guy in a blue jacket and an Asian guy in a red polo, both smiling wide. Next to the photo is a painting of some koi fish, and at the bottom of the painting is a white strip with black text: “kevan worked for wally from 1989 to 2011.”
Wait. Wally? Could it be…? How many roast beef guys have made their mark this one corner of Bloomington, Minnesota? And what about Kevan? Is it the case that—