Perhaps part of the reason I love The Drover is because it is one of the strongest food memories I have of my late father. Like he did, I order the filet, medium rare. Like he did, I load my iceberg lettuce salad with croutons and a heavy pour of thick Thousand Island dressing. Like he did, I love the dim, Western-themed interior and the stiff drinks and the crispy onion rings, dunked in ketchup.
But honestly I think I would love The Drover even without those powerful memories from my childhood, because it stands the test of time in a way few restaurants do, even in Omaha, land of the longtime steakhouse.
Even after a fire and being closed for many months and then reopening, The Drover is still packed most nights. I appreciate its longevity. Its commitment to heritage and history. Most often now, you’ll find us at the bar, over a cocktail, sharing a steak and a burger (the burger, by the way, is great.) Just like my dad would have imagined.
