Our table at the Texas Roadhouse in Springfield, Illinois, sat in view of a mural depicting a mix of Illinois and Missouri sports legends. Former Chicago Bear Mike Singletary and St. Louis Cardinals shortstop Ozzie Smith drank beer and played cards in harmony with a shifty-looking cartoon armadillo in a cowboy hat. In the background, bartender (and Chicago Cubs Hall-of-Famer) Ryne Sandberg shook a martini for a cigar-chomping Mark McGuire (former St. Louis Cardinal). “See?” the mural seemed to say. “Even bitter sports rivalries don’t come between Roadies.”
These are not my normal digs. Still, I’d specifically chosen a hotel one mile from this Texas Roadhouse when my husband and I planned a four-state drive from Las Cruces, New Mexico, to Chicago this spring. Until recently, I had avoided the beckoning neon glow of Roadhouse signs, each one featuring the state of Texas in a jaunty cowboy hat. Even after we moved to southern New Mexico, a few hours south of Route 66 and home to several Texas Roadhouses, I wasn’t immediately drawn into the Roadhouse universe. I’ve been to more than my share of middling steak joints around the country, and couldn’t help but expect overcooked steak and sad, microwaved potatoes eaten on a table that smelled like bleach.
But over the ensuing two years, I started to notice that our local Roadhouse, with its peanut shell-strewn floor (peanuts are free at Roadhouse) and servers known to spontaneously break into line dances, was perennially packed. On road trips through the west and back to Illinois, we saw that this phenomenon wasn’t limited to locations near the chain’s namesake state, either. (Texas Roadhouse is headquartered in Louisville, Kentucky, and the first location opened in 1993 in Clarksville, Indiana.)
I wasn’t just imagining it: With more than 650 locations and counting across 49 states and nine countries, Texas Roadhouse is the fastest-growing restaurant franchise in the world. It’s valued at $2.3 billion (including its other brands, Bubba’s and Jaggers), according to Brand Finance's annual ranking. Trade writers like to chalk up Texas Roadhouse’s success to its embrace of digital ordering and payment that reduces wait times and turns tables faster, or to the fact that it nails the elusive concept of a value steakhouse with consistent, affordable food in a dressed-down environment. But beyond the vaguely Southwestern theme and $24.99 steaks ‘n sides, what makes this casual steakhouse stand out in a veritable sea of Outbacks and cowboy-chic LongHorns, to the tune of 300,000 meals served per day? While on our winding road trip from New Mexico to Chicago, I felt a pull toward that Texas star; I needed answers.
As we pulled up to the restaurant, the many flat-screen TVs flashed through the windows, creating a mini light show. “Y’all can follow me!” said the host inside, as she grabbed a basket of warm buttery rolls from the pass. The back of her shirt read “I ❤ ️my job!” We followed the sweet, yeasty aroma past the horseshoe-shaped bar, aglow beneath a neon Texas star, to our table. Blonde wood paneling, taxidermied animal busts, neon signs, and TVs airing every sporting event known to man comprised the prevailing decor; cocktail napkins littered the floor.
Around us, the vibe felt low-key celebratory, like a family reunion at the park; multigenerational groups sipped technicolor margaritas and passed around bloomin’ onions (sorry, “Cactus Blossoms”). I spotted two teenagers on what looked like a first date, feasting on steak and Coke. A group of friends at the bar shouted in exasperation at their underperforming St. Louis Cardinals.
Our waiter sensed right away we were first-timers. When I didn’t instantly snap the tabletop menu QR code with my phone, she took it as a sign and handed me a huge laminated one instead. “Sometimes I just want to hold a menu in my hands, too,” she said reassuringly. Overwhelmed by choice (seven categories for entrees alone!), I figured I’d go with a steak—taking a cue from the many hulking pieces of meat I saw around the room. When I briefly wobbled over whether to order my New York strip medium or medium-rare, she slid a little photo guide in front of me, illustrating the levels of steak doneness.
My strip, which arrived a little darker than the one on the diagram, was nicely charred and seasoned, if gristly; my husband’s bone-in ribeye was better, and medium-rare as promised. The mashed potatoes tasted like they came from a box, but a loaded baked potato was scoopable and light, well-seasoned, and heaped with bacon, cheddar, and sour cream. The rolls were as good as everyone says—tender and sweet with a slick of cinnamon-honey butter, plus more for smearing. I get why the recipe blogosphere faithfully churns out copycat after copycat recipe. I would like them to please unriddle those heavenly green beans, too, braised till soft in bacon and onion broth… nevermind, they already did.
Unlike LongHorn, which leans more traditional in its interpretation of steakhouse food, Texas Roadhouse has a decidedly country cooking bent—a little Southern, a little Creole, a little clichéd-cowboy Texan. And though every dish didn’t hit the mark, the flavors were warm and familiar, and the portions were generous. It’s the rich, throwback food I associate with the very American obsession with road trips. Call Texas Roadhouse the nighttime companion to the diner, maybe. You’ve driven all day in the white minivan, everyone’s starving and cranky. It’s time to stop for gravy-smothered beef tips and a loaded baked potato.
As we ate, clapping and shouts of “Yee-haw!” broke out. Over the tops of the booths, we could see a man in his 70s clamoring onto a saddle that the staff had wheeled out. One handed him a cloth napkin, which he waved around his head with vigor while they half-chanted “Happy Birthday.” His family laughed and clapped along. I got the sense this was an annual tradition.
After an evening at the Roadhouse, I have my own theory about the chain’s enduring—and growing—popularity that goes beyond streamlined digital ordering. There’s a line from the 1961 film Breakfast at Tiffany’s when socialite Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) explains why simply being inside the luxury jewelry store helps soothe her ongoing feelings of dread: “The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there,” she says. The Roadhouse may not be quiet or fancy, but I felt content and at ease for the hour and a half I spent eating my baked potato and watching people watch sports. I can already imagine myself carving out another night at another Texas Roadhouse on my next great American road trip. It’s nice to know I’m never too far from a place where the bread is free, the game is always on, and the good times are just a napkin-waving saddle ride away.