We ain’t in New York anymore. The trail to adventure led to South Dakota. A sprawling state with vast wilderness areas, National Parks, the Mt. Rushmore Memorial, Crazy Horse, wild bison, mustangs, prehistoric archaeological sites and gold. For all of those reasons tourists find themselves immersed in the joys and travails of travelers. Sometimes the cravings for something familiar takes over and the ‘Gotta have it’ becomes a passion.
The hotel included a buffet breakfast. Their toasted bagel turned out to be a soggy lump of dough that was unpalatable. What you may ask is breakfast without a toasted bagel, potentially with a royal ’schmear and lox?' You may even go so far as to ask where can I get a decent pizza in this town? Of course you are at altitude, couple of thousand feet more or less depending where you’re standing. Dough don’t do it exactly the same as at sea level. Plus it’s dry out here in the wilderness so foods behave in ways only clever chefs know how to handle. Alas after that morning’s wake up bagel it would require daring do to try another.
Then there it was. On the way out of Rapid City on the road toward Bear Country U.S.A. and Reptile Gardens. An oasis of wonder in an otherwise complacent landscape of buildings. Black Hills Bagels. There was a huge sign with a cowboy riding a bagel. Yipee yi yo, as they say in these parts. It just couldn’t be. But it was. ‘Turn back, turn back, we passed it.’ Was it a mirage? They occur when New Yorkers travel the vacant plains of South Dakota looking for bagels. Suddenly those brown spots on the prairie that look like pumpernickel turn out to be bison.
It was time for a reality check. Black Hills Bagels just happened to be the victim of a taste test. Bagels on the prairie, indeed. Who are these South Dakotans fooling anyway? You just don’t play around with bagels in our town….Mmmmmm, cowboy riding a bagel, well it was worth a shot. Inside the place is pretty cool and it was packed. There was a line at the counter. What do these suckers know. They likely never put spurs into a real New York bagel in their lives. And lox, my goodness, they only eat Walleye and that without Rabbinical supervision.
So we stood on line. There were little chunks of bagel to nosh on with dips of cream cheese. Why not. It’s free. It’s good. Maybe we don’t even have to wait on line if we eat enough free snacks. Too late, the owners themselves asked us what we wanted. A big gulp to get the freebie down and of course a bagel with cream cheese and lox would do. “What kind of bagel?” Oh there were more than one. Whole grain. “What kind of cream cheese?” That was easy enough. I passed the test then sat down. The local paper proclaimed a record turkey season. No front page is satisfactory without murder and mayhem. What do we care about turkeys except at Thanksgiving.
The Espresso was exceptional. How could a bagel emporium in South Dakota’s Black Hills have an imported Espresso machine? Ha, it was another of those illusions so prevalent on the plains. “Bagel with lox and cream cheese,” Jack Jensen called out from the counter. ‘Jensen?’ What’s a Scandinavian doing cooking up bagels in South Dakota? This must be a new form of gastronomic terrorism. It couldn’t work.
We took the concoctions to a settee by the front window. Pretty comfy. With the first bite it was immediately apparent that what couldn’t be done was. Deeeeelicious. The crust was crispy and the dough soft. Cream cheese heavenly and the lox, only a salmon caught off Nova Scotia could taste so good. We had to find out how Jack did it. He had to be a New Yorker. Maybe he was a fugitive from Brooklyn. He has a beard. There are such people of course but could he be a once famous excommunicated bagel maker?
“I’m a musician. I was on the road 25 years. I play the guitar and sing,” Jack told me. That didn’t sound good. It accounted for the cowboy riding the bagel outside but had nothing to do with his real secret, how they make bagels. I didn’t think he'd tell us. And he didn’t, at least not right away.
“Debra, my wife wanted me to be at home. I had a morning meeting here. There was a sign on the door, ‘Closed. Will reopen soon.’ The bagel place had been open six years and going down hill. I called a realtor and within two weeks we bought it and were open for business.”
Jack and Debra showed us the back kitchen where the real secrets were kept from view. There they were, South Dakotans stirring dough, popping bagels out of a shaper and putting them on trays. “The difference between us and Kosher is that they boil them. We steam them. The bagels have a softer crust. Older people like them. They don’t pull out their dentures with the bagel,” Jack said. Very funny. Maybe he gets bus tours. From the previous morning’s cream cheese they could use it as denture cream and not worry. Here it was not so certain, their cream cheese was elegant, soft, rich and gently creamy. No wonder he considered denture wearers.
“It’s an art,” Jack continued. Of course it’s an art practiced only in New York. He must have escaped from Brooklyn to make these bagels. Kidding aside, this place has good food, great bagels and where else can you get a picture of a cowboy riding a bagel.
Now South Dakota had to pass another test. Where and when would this be? We totally avoided pizzas. The thing they popped on a paper plate at Chicago’s airport while waiting to change planes put us off our feed forever. It sat like a lump in the stomach. Luckily the airport pizza was complacent. It didn’t move up or down during the two hour flight especially when we hit turbulence on the approach to Rapid City. Pizza was off the check list of foods to eat in South Dakota thanks to Chicago.
What’s this, Custer, a town named for a flamboyant Civil War General, demoted and disliked by the president? Disliked enough so he was sent to Dakota territory in 1874, with 1,200 men, 110 wagons and 300 cattle to survey the area for forts. When his engineer found gold in Frenchman’s Creek the flood gates were opened. Little did Custer know that just outside of town, at the crossroads of Highway 36 and 79, well within sight of Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse, somebody would build a pizza place.
I’m not going to make any jokes. The owners are giants. I mean they are big. Don’t shake hands or you'll find the mitt presented will swallow you whole. There it is stark and naked: a memorial to American enterprise, Lintz Brothers Pizza. Somebody had to feed them to get them to grow to this size. Maybe their pizza is worth a chance, we figured; after all it is a long way back through Chicago to New York.
“We have a ranch. Raise cattle. Put a trailer camp on that ranch. A friend was making pizza. Greatest pizza I ever ate,” Jim Lintz spoke. A deep, craggy voice from a six-foot-five-inch frame filled out with muscle. If Jim says their pizza is good, say it is good and leave it alone. Never mind that he is a cow pusher so far from New York that pepperoni don’t grow here.
“Highway 79 became four lanes and ran right over my campground. We didn’t rebuild. A cell phone company crew always came in for pizza. When they passed last time they found out we were out of business,” Jim’s voice boomed. Here’s where the story gets good, it is not where their pizza receives any complaints since Jim’s son Brian is also a giant standing only an inch below his father with broader shoulders.
“Three years later the phone rings,” Brian Lintz picked up the tale. The son of the crew chief was on the line. “‘Dad just died of cancer. From his deathbed he asked us to build a pizza company. Dad and his crew liked you and your family and he had great memories eating pizza there.’”
“We found out he owned lots of telephone companies,” Jim added. Through the wonderful benefactor, Lintz Brothers Pizza was born. They’ve been in business 9 years so maybe there’s something to it. We let Brian choose what we‘d eat. When he found out we were from New York, Pizza capital of the world, Italy notwithstanding, he said he’d prepare his Flaming German Samoyan.
With a name like that we were not at all ready to take another flight. Out of the oven it came. It looked good. Here’s a state where pepperoni could be casino chips, who knows, we decided to keep quiet, eat it and get out of town before saying another word.
Brian’s last words were: “I have a strange sense of humor and my taste buds go along with it.” Oye, oye oye, what did we let ourselves in for.
The pizza was unusual to say the least. Sauerkraut, Canadian bacon, sausages, jalapeño. The crust was nicely baked. It was not doughy, cooked through and the taste was scrumptious. Ha, no wonder, their family roots are from Austria. A little kraut from cabbage they grew on the ranch had to be good. Well that was another story of survival of the hard times when the family was left with hail damaged cabbages they couldn’t sell and and to prepare for every meal.
“My brother is six-foot-four-inches, weighs 340 pounds and has twenty-inch biceps,” Brian said proudly offering a gluten free pizza crust made right there. We tried their Greek pizza with its tasty thin crust. Likely the very best we ever ate. Even if it was lousy, when you are among these giants, remember, say it’s good and ’mange.' It is good and the Lintz family are wonderful hosts with a great sense of humor and hospitality. I grew three inches after eating there.
For more information about South Dakota visit their website at www.travelsd.com or call for free brochures, maps and a travel guide 1-800-732-5682. When in the Black Hills be sure to visit Black Hills Bagels, 913 Mt. Rushmore Rd., Rapid City, SD 57701 telephone 605-399-1277 or visit their website at www.blackhillsbagels.com. For the best pizza anywhere stop at Lintz Brothers Pizza, 14287 Highway 36, Hermosa, SD 57744, telephone 605-255-4808 or visit their website at www.lintzbrospizza.com.
