After indulging in a competitive game of Scrabble with the family (quint is a word!) and several Sparky IPAs, I spent the next morning mentally preparing for an afternoon round at Loon Lake.
One unfortunate side effect of this whole “try new venues and document the experience” project is that I have come to the conclusion that my gym time and meal planning on non-venue days need to become considerably more disciplined.
So naturally, I decided the best way to prepare for golf was to not fucking eat anything.
Brilliant.
Slightly hungover, running on fumes, and with absolutely no ooomph in my swing, I somehow managed to shoot a 49 over nine holes.
Dad shot a 53.
I'll take that.
I love this golf course. I love playing it. It's challenging without feeling punishing, and there's enough variety to keep every hole interesting. Even us lefties get a little love, although the second hole can go fuck itself, especially when you're staring up at that bastard of a side hill.
It's the kind of course where you can have a genuinely fun round even when your scorecard is doing its best to ruin your afternoon. Considering I was slightly hungover, hadn't eaten, and had absolutely nothing behind my swing, a 49 felt pretty damn respectable.
The staff also deserves some credit. Everyone I’ve dealt with has been super friendly and professional, and that makes it easy to keep coming back. A good course is one thing, but being welcomed by people who clearly enjoy having you there makes the whole experience that much better.
By the time we finished, though, I was hungry enough to eat someone's arm. Thankfully, there was food waiting.
I ordered the Hot Hamburger: two homemade hamburger patties, Texas toast, sautéed mushrooms and onions, fries, coleslaw, and gravy.
Oh, fuck me, the gravy.
This thing came out absolutely fucking drowning.
The gravy wasn't an accompaniment. It was the main event.
There were two hamburger patties somewhere underneath it. Probably.
The fries were buried. The Texas toast was fighting for its life.
It was less a hot hamburger and more the kind of smutty romance novel where everyone gets aggressively choked and nobody bothers with a safe word.
Which brought one particular Bloodhound Gang lyric to mind:
“I want you covered, want you smothered like my Waffle House hashbrowns.”
Well, somebody at Loon Lake clearly took that shit personally.
The problem was that the gravy couldn't quite decide what kind of gravy it wanted to be. One bite was deep, rich, and full of flavour. The next was noticeably underseasoned. Then it would come back with some flavour again.
Make up your fucking mind.
The homemade patties were actually good. They were nicely seasoned, had a solid texture, and were easily the highlight of the plate.
The fries were also perfectly crisp and tasty, right up until they disappeared beneath the gravy.
The coleslaw, meanwhile, disappeared before the plate even arrived.
Forgotten from the order.
At that point, I was too hungry to launch a complaint. After nine holes, a slight hangover, and the nutritional planning of a fucking idiot, I would have happily eaten the napkin.
But that's ultimately where the meal landed: mediocre.
Not bad.
Not memorable.
Just a collection of decent components that never quite came together. Good homemade patties. Good fries. Good mushrooms and onions. Inconsistent gravy. Missing coleslaw.
There was a pretty good hot hamburger hiding in there somewhere.
I just had to excavate it.
Next time, I'll get the gravy on the side.

One important thing before you go:
If you're heading to Loon Lake Golf Course, remember that you're entering a Saskatchewan provincial park, so you'll need the appropriate provincial park vehicle entry permit. Don't assume your golf fees cover park entry, because you will likely end up with a ticket.
There has also been some incorrect information circulating that the Lloydminster Public Library lends provincial park passes for up to seven days. That isn't correct. The library's pass-lending program applies to Saskatchewan regional parks, not Saskatchewan provincial parks.
So before you load the clubs into the truck, sort out your provincial park pass.