Unexpected Authenticity

“This is the last run. We’re going out for a steak dinner tonight.” My host declares, completely upending my knowledge about local dinner options. I’ve seen cows but no steakhouses. Fine dining has been limited to whatever I’ve been able to salvage from the cabin’s original, adorable, completely unreliable oven. I plea that we should keep skiing on Lake Chelan’s glassy surface, but I’m reminded of the iron skillet still waiting to be saved from last night’s disaster. If I can put off that task for another night I’ll get out of the water.

We park in the weeds at an airstrip nestled between the lake and the foothills of the Colville National Forest, and I’m led down to the annual “Wings Over Republic Fly In.” For $12 I’m given a raffle ticket, baked potato, bun, beans, coleslaw, and a slab of raw meat on a piece of wax paper. Homestead sushi? Not quite. I’m guided over to the seasoning table where I’m faced with every imaginable type of salt. I decide not to deny my taste buds and artfully sprinkle a variety of everything on to my obnoxiously large steak. Following the summer smell of charring meat, I find a large communal cooking pit where I flop down the steak and awkwardly jab at it with a skewer. Help arrives in the form of a local with a large grin.

“The secret is to not flip it too much” she says as she takes over. I focus my attention on the insects buzzing around my legs. My helper points out that I had given away my outsider status by wearing shorts and flip-flops in the evening. Locals know better. I think I’ve made a new friend until I declare my intention of eating a well done steak. Her smile fades, but she still tends to my meat and places it on my plate after a suspiciously short time. I thank her and weave my way through generations in plaid and blue jeans.

The air is alive with sound of stories being retold, comparisons of this year’s festival to the last, and “Blue Suede Shoes.” Elvis, in all of his white suited glory, is performing in a white cube that acts as his stage and tent against the backdrop of the bluest sky. I take advantage of the couples rising to dance and nab a seat. I drink lemonade, and I’m intoxicated by the authenticity of a genuine American moment that includes an Elvis impersonator and is only 20 miles from the Canadian border. Later on I’ll dance, talk, and meander through rows of small aircraft that have flown in for the occasion. For now, I’m content to eat my incredibly tender buy very over salted steak.