By Donald H. Harrison
SANTEE, California–The Pinnacle Peak chain began as part of the Trail Dust Town complex in Tucson, Arizona, which was converted into a tourist attraction after the movie company that built it for Glenn Ford no longer had use for it as a western-movie set. In Tucson, Pinnacle Peak, which billed itself as the “Home of the Cowboy Steak” became popular enough to warrant expansion to California. Similar restaurants were constructed in San Dimas, Colton and Santee, and they’re all still owned by Louise Tricker.
Here in Santee, Pinnacle Peak’s has gone through two incarnations; originally it was situated at Bradley and Magnolia near Gillespie Field and the now defunct El Cajon Speedway; today it is on Mission Gorge Road, near Santee’s western border with San Diego. Anthea Cullington, a waitress who has been serving up steaks and cutting off the neckties of any city slicker who dares come in wearing one, has been known by the nickname of “Cimarron” for more than 40 years. With such a job and moniker, you might think she came from a cowboy town like Tombstone or Dodge City, but in fact she’s from the Norfolk Coast of Great Britain, which faces Holland. As a child, she says, she was always fascinated by the American west.
Most patrons know that their ties will be cut off if they come in wearing one, and, liking the idea, they will buy a used tie at a thrift shop or will go through their closets to find one given to them by some friend or relative known not to have a shred of taste. According to Cimarron, some patrons get very innovative. “We had one fellow who fashioned his out of iron; another who made it out of a heavy chain — he called it the ‘tie that couldn’t be cut.’ Another had one tie tied to another and another that slowly unravelled as we pulled it out. There was a pair of shorts at the bottom of all those ties!”
Generally what will happen is that after the offender is served his salad, but before the staek arrives, the server will come through the restaurant ringing a cow bell—which is loud enough to get everyone’s attention. Announcing that there is one of them city slickers in the restaurant, the server will ask him to stand and to take an oath right there and then never, but never, to wear a tie to that restaurant again. Then, the server will call out the question, “what shall we do with the tie?” and nearly invariably the delighted response from patrons at all the surrounding tables is “Cut it Off!” Thereupon a large scissors is produced with a flourish, and snip! snip! — off it goes.
Cimarron confided that if a patron was unaware of the policy, and wants to keep the tie, servers will allow him to do so — provided he takes off the offensive neckgear immediately.
Cutting off the tie is in keeping with the western theme of the restaurant, where busboys are called “rustlers,” long picnic-style tables prompt strangers to sit together, and flames from the mesquite grill cast campfire like shadows on the faces of the cooks. Naturally, the steaks have fitting names with the “Trail Boss” being a 28 ounce Porterhouse, the “Cowboy” a 20 ounce T-Bone,: the “Cowgirl” a 15 ounce T-Bone, and the Kansas City being a 16 ounce boned New York Cut. The menu, by the way, is printed on a brown paper bag, suitable for carrying the steak bone back to the family dog.
The first tie cut at the first restaurant in Santee was that of Rick Dressell on February 18, 1969. When the restaurant changed locations in 1985 most of the ties that were clipped after Dressell’s were taken off the walls, packed into a large crate, and moved to the new restaurant. There are over 54,000 of them inside the crate — a testament to the kinds of sartorial punishments men have had to endure over the years.
It used to be that the ties would be hung anywhere there was a space available. They would be on the walls and the rafters. However, the fire department put the cabash on having ties on the rafters and furthermore required the restaurant to spray the ties with a fire retardant before mounting them.
Manager Dan Elksen says with with the requirement to firepoof the ties before displaying them, he has been carefully packing them away so that a year or more worth of ties can be treated together. Thereafter, he said, new ones will replace some of the old ones now hanging on the restaurant. As Pinnacle Peak has been in the new location longer than the old one –and serves more customers — Elksen believes well more than 54,000 ties are on display in the present establishment.
Replacing them is a bit dicy, he said, because some patrons like to come back and point out their old ties, “so we’ve got to be careful.” However, with the rafters now off limits, room has to be made for the newer ties somewhere.
Rules for how ties are displayed are not the only changes made over four decades, reports Cimarron. When she started at the restaurant, the custom was for the waitresses to kiss a fellow on the cheek after the tie was cut off — which naturally sent other men running for their closets. Cimarron remembered one fellow who grabbed her by the waist, turned his head and turned what was supposed to be a peck on the cheek into a full-on kiss on the lips. She shuddered while telling the story, and said she was quite relieved when the restaurant abandoned that custom.
The menu has changed to keep up with the times, she added. It used to be steaks, chicken and hamburgers, but now they’ve also added prime rib, salmon, brochettes and other fare to give patrons more options.
No customers are more problematic than children in the tie-cutting ritual because even though their parents are grinning like Cheshire Cats, the children do not always understand it is all in fun. Cimarron said there was one little boy who always wore a bow tie — not just to the restaurant — and was horrified when she came towards him with a scissors.
The server nicknamed “Hoss,” whose parents knew him better as C.J. Lunkins, remembered one boy who was asked to promise never to wear an ugly tie in the restaurant again. The boy burst into tears, saying, “It’s not ugly, my grandpa gave it to me!”
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Harrison is editor of San Diego Jewish World. This article appeared previously on examiner.com