A Taste of Courage and Time: My 1980 Summer at The Flame
A Taste of Courage and Time: My 1980 Summer at The Flame
In the summer of 1980, I was a 22-year-old fresh out of the U.S. Army, studying at Northern State University in Aberdeen, South Dakota, and brimming with the energy of youth. To pay the bills, I took a job as a back bar assistant at The Flame Restaurant and Bar, a downtown icon at 2 S Main St, known for its char-broiled steaks and lively lounge. My short time there left me with memories that still shine forty-five years later: the best Reuben sandwich I’ve ever tasted, a white-bearded bartender who seemed plucked from an Irish sailor’s yarn, and a night I saved a man’s life with a lesson born from my past.
The Flame was Aberdeen’s heartbeat, its elegant brick entrance drawing locals and travelers to a bar alive with stories and laughter. The bartender—his 📛 lost to time but his presence unforgettable—was the star. With his snow-white beard, twinkling eyes, and happy-go-lucky charm, he mixed cocktails with flair and dispensed frank, witty advice. Farmers, railroad workers, and wanderers traveled miles for his drinks and no-nonsense wisdom. He was sharp, quick to shut down nonsense, yet everyone loved him, eager to earn his nod. As a young guy restocking bottles, I felt like I was part of something timeless.
One night, the bar’s hum was broken by a moment I’ll never forget. A man staggered past, face flushed, gasping for air, heading toward the restroom. I knew he was choking—not from hands at his throat, but from his panicked eyes and labored breaths. At 16, working at my father’s restaurant, The Fireside Supper Club and Bar in Wessington, I’d learned a hard lesson when my mom choked and slipped into the bathroom, nearly dying before I checked on her. Never let someone choking go alone—they could collapse and be lost. Instinct took over. I vaulted over the bar, my feet clearing the counter in a leap that stunned me. I reached the man, wrapped my arms around him, and performed the Heimlich maneuver. With a heave, I lifted him off the floor, and a massive chunk of steak shot out, flying eight or nine feet. The bar erupted in cheers as he gasped for breath.
Later, I learned he was a wealthy local, but he never returned to thank me. The ambulance crew who arrived told me he’d demanded to be let out of the ambulance shortly after, possibly drunk and upset, claiming I might have cracked his rib. The news stung, but saving his life was what mattered. I never got his name, but that moment, tied to my mom’s survival years before, felt like a calling.
In the aftermath, someone suggested I try The Flame’s Reuben sandwich. I’d never cared for Reubens—my mom’s versions at home didn’t win me over—but I said yes. When it arrived, it was a revelation: in-house smoked corned beef, melted Swiss cheese, tangy sauerkraut, and thousand island dressing, grilled golden on rye bread. The flavors sang—rich, sharp, warm—and its presentation was art. That first bite rewrote my love for food. I’ve had maybe nine Reubens since, across the U.S., but none match The Flame’s. It was more than a sandwich; it was a memory of a summer when life felt boundless.
My time at The Flame was brief. Soon after, I left Aberdeen for Rapid City, chasing new horizons. But I carried those moments with me: the bartender’s infectious laugh, the brick entrance’s quiet elegance, the courage of that leap, and the unmatched taste of that Reuben. The Flame was a place you’d take a date to impress, though I was too young and free-spirited, fresh from the Army and full of college dreams, to think of that. It was a highlight of my life, a snapshot of a time when I was finding my way.
I wish I could thank that bartender or know what became of the man I saved. I hope the Fettig family, who’ve run The Flame for generations, know how much their restaurant meant to me. Forty-five years later, I can still taste that Reuben, hear the bar’s chatter, and feel the weight of that life-saving moment. If you’re in Aberdeen, visit The Flame. Order a Reuben, toast the locals who keep it alive, and maybe share a story. For me, The Flame is 1980—a time of courage, flavor, and a bar that felt like home.