Imagine Bozeman in the 1960’s. The outside world – the cities beyond our enclosed ring of mountains – is in the midst of the swingin’ sixties, music and culture quickly and vastly changing. The winds of changes shift. Social upheaval begins to send warning tremors and shockwaves throughout the country. Way up in the rockies however, Bozeman has remained a true blue cowboy kind of town.

Always charmingly a little behind the fast paced world, Main Street in downtown Bozeman provides a small town atmosphere where cowboys, ranchers and the like can wander on a day off away from the ranch. After picking up feed for the horses, parts for the tractor, sugar and dry goods for the kitchen, they no doubt wander in to a cafe for a cuppa joe and a hearty meal.

The Western Cafe provides just such a welcome escape from errands. Warm, friendly, inviting, it sits on Main Street, near the Eastern edge of town. Situated next to an old fashioned barber shop, the two store fronts look like picture perfect small town gathering spots. The barber shop marked with a red, white, and blue pole, and the Western sporting a Seven-Up logo on its square plastic sign.

Fast forward 50 years later, and the Western is still watching over East Main Street, surveying the trucks, trailers, and now fleets of hatchback Subarus that sail past. And they still serve a mean breakfast. Hearty and tasty plates of bacon and eggs, hotcakes, biscuits and gravy, and chicken fried steak are the order of the day here, not to mention their famous (for good reason) cinnamon rolls.

When you open the heavy wooden door, you are greeted with a cheery hello. Servers hustle about, pouring coffee and bearing heavy trays of food. On my first visit, I took a seat at the bar and surveyed the cheerful bustle. In a moment, I was offered coffee and given a menu to peruse. The menu offers standard breakfast fare – heavy on eggs, bacon, omelettes, pancakes, french toast, and the usual breakfast items. Having arrived in that ambiguous hour between 11:30am and 12:30pm, I surveyed the lunch side of the menu as well. This features hearty sandwiches, burgers, and patty melts. Feeling the breakfast vibe, I ordered a Southwest omelette with sourdough toast and hashbrowns, and eyed the five different kinds of hot sauce decorating the counter in front of me. The Western takes it’s fire very seriously, and I debated the merits of green, original, garlic, and chipotle Tabascos, and Chalula sauce. Which would fare best with my meaty omelette?
I settled on a mix of garlic and chipotle, and listened to the sound of steel guitars and achy heartbreak as Linda and Emmylou sang “I Can’t Help It If I’m Still In Love With You”. This was no nonsense, swingin’ country. Down the bar from me, a server rang up a customer at the walk up cash register, all the while stomping and pounding his fist grandly to the opening strains of Johnny’s Folsom Prison Blues.

As I waited I looked around. Through a back door, I could see the dishwasher rockin’ out to his own headphones, running plates and silverware, empty coffee cups and heavy steel cookware through the washer. He wasn’t diggin’ the country, and I wondered what sounds – hippie-grass, screamo, indie-pop, underground hip hop – were helping to scour the dishes.

My food arrived quickly and I dug in. The omelette was cooked to my liking and nicely seasoned, and the hashbrowns were crisp. My coffee cup was always full, topped off by pleasant, no nonsense servers.

As I ate, I was tempted by the desserts sitting in front of me. Directly above my head was a silver metal bake case loaded with slices of pie. Next to it sat a whiteboard that was updated as I ate. A red dry erase marker cheerfully scrawled “cherry” as a hot pie was set to cool on the counter in front of me. Sweet temptation … Over my next several visits blueberry, apple, and peach pie were added to the list.

Next to the pie case sits an old fashioned “milk cow” – one of those large, rectangular silver boxes with steel levers controlling milk spigots. Any diner, cafe, or cafeteria in mid-century rural America sported one of these fantastic “cows”, streaming wholesome and nourishing milk for the nuclear family of mom, dad, and 2.4 kids.

Times have changed since Jr. dunked cookies into his glass, and the town has changed as well. Bozeman and the surrounding valley has nearly tripled in size in the last twenty years, and Main street now features chic salons, boutiques, fine dining and wine bars. It’s a far cry from the town that my parents and I drove into in 1995, Ford Aerostar van covered in dust from our cross country trip. We emerged from the very same Western Cafe, road weary and displaced, only to discover “go back to California” engraved in the driver’s side door filth. (We had Washington plates, but back then California was associated with any outside intruder).

Quickly growing roots in our mountain valley, I experienced sympathy growing pains as the town boomed. I remember when 19th Street was an empty stretch of fields, and the mall marked the far western edge of town. Critical of the booming development, I watched as fields became buildings and mourned with a teenager’s idealism at the loss of yet another perfectly placed view of Mt. Baldy.

My opinion has changed now, having spent a few years in faraway populous cities and suburbs. I returned to a town still relatively open and free, and still the most beautiful paradise in the Rockies. At heart, Bozeman remains a down to earth, and uniquely approachable place. For all it’s mountain grandeur, its people are friendly, open, and real. Bozeman has retained, indeed strengthened, a sense of small town community and a grassroots, ground-up ethic. It sports a demographic that ranges from ski bums and students, to young professionals, artists, more than a couple Hollywood mover and shakers, and yes, the tried and true Montana cowboy.

Each of these can be found chowing down at the Western. A glance at the table of college freshmen, and the two old cowboys seated next to them showcases the Bozeman balance – a mix unique to the town.

Gathering up my things and heading to the front to pay my bill, I caught sight of a sign posted by the door. It reads “distance from Bozeman, Montana to …..” followed by a list of cities and mileage – from Roundup, Montana (174mi), to New York, New York (2,169mi). The list is long, and the possibilities are endless, but you don’t need to leave your seat to experience down home service, fill up on chicken fried steak and fresh baked cinnamon rolls, and revel in the mix of people and life that is Bozeman.

443 E Main St.   Bozeman, Mt 59715
(406) 587-0436
Mon – Sun:   6:00 am – 2:00 pm

Food:   4
Prices:   5
Atmosphere: 5
Service:   4.5

A Bozeman native, Chelsea Hunt has witnessed an explosion of good food in the valley in recent years. Reading about, writing about, and eating good food make her happy.