By Rachel Hergett EBS COLUMNIST
As a kid there was something magical about the Pickle Barrel. I was two, maybe three, when mom and I moved into family housing at Montana State University. Shout out to the now demolished houses of Jefferson Court, just down the street from the little sandwich shop that has kept college students fed with massive portions for more than 50 years.
Late owners Ken and Kerry Olson opened the first Pickle Barrel in 1974, tucked inside a cinderblock building (formerly a barbershop) at 809 W. College St. in Bozeman, directly across the street from MSU’s Johnstone Center dorms. Over the years, the Olsons franchised—but only to former employees in an attempt to keep the utterly casual soul of the shop intact. Today, only this first shop and the one on Livingston’s Main Street remain.
Part of Pickle Barrel’s magic to my childhood self was the size—the original sandwich shop has always been wee. During peak times, a crush of customers jockey for territory at the counter register separating the crowd from the kitchen, then retreat back toward the door as they await their orders. It’s a dance of sorts in the standing-room-only space.
More magical though, was that a legit barrel of pickles was tucked into the front corner. After the ordering dance, you made your way to the barrel, lifted the lid and used a pair of tongs hanging from a nearby nail to extract your whole pickles of choice. I have always been a fan of a pickle, specifically a cucumber dill. They remain one of my favorite foods. A whole barrel of pickles to choose from felt like a beautiful dream.
Through truly no fault of its own, Pickle Barrel also contributed to what feels like a core childhood memory, one of absolute heartbreak. Somehow in my mind, I had crafted a story that Pickle Barrel made their own pickles inside of these barrels and when the barrel was empty, they would roll out a new barrel—a literal pickle barrel—from somewhere in the back. This is not the case. I was probably no more than five when the pickles ran out, when the barrel supply was depleted and a poor employee had to come out from behind the counter to fill it—from a gallon-sized can! My illusions were shattered. The barrel of pickles was a lie.
How did this feel? It was akin to the collective childhood trauma—that of dropping an ice cream cone in the summer, watching it melt and ooze over hot pavement with no recourse. It may be this scene’s prevalence as a trope that sticks in my mind and not actual memory, but the feeling remains. It’s dismay. This was yours and now it’s gone. Poof. Disappeared.
I like to think I have moved past this. Shattered illusions inside, I very much love Pickle Barrel. Like a truly good lover, I know the restaurant by smell. It is some combination of onions and fresh bread and, of course, pickles. But it is somehow distinctive from other sandwich shops and identifiable well beyond the confines of the building. It follows every sandwich and lingers when the last bites have disappeared. I have walked into a room hours after the evidence had been cleared and correctly announced that there had been Pickle Barrel in the space.
Sure, things have changed a bit. Jenny O’Brien is now the owner. The barrel—I’m pretty sure it is the same one—is now behind the counter and you have to ask for pickles. The pickles are now halves and the turkey for the cold sandwiches is a smoked turkey. The attached house that was renovated into an ice cream shop in the ’80s no longer serves massive Wilcoxson’s scoops, but is used as a bakery that churns out fresh bread and desserts every day.
What hasn’t changed is that Pickle Barrel makes a damn good sandwich. Portions—especially the hot offerings—seem to have gotten a bit smaller over the years, but they remain abundant. A half sandwich is often enough for two or three meals. A whole is measured in feet.
There are days I crave the mushroom steak—a chopped beef sandwich cooked on a flat top with onions, mushrooms, Monterey Jack cheese and a hint of rosemary. Others, I go for the Bobcat special, a cold sandwich with half turkey, half roast beef. There are local secrets, things only available at the College Street Pickle Barrel and often not even available to order online. You can replace the bread with a giant pickle, for example. There are also eggy breakfast sandwiches available from when they open at 10 a.m. “until the grill gets too busy with steak sandwiches.”
After more than half a century, the Pickle Barrel is an institution. While food quality and consistency is important, Pickle Barrel has shown that sometimes a sandwich shop can be more than a shop. Its staff remains like a family, with many who have been on the payroll for decades.
I appreciate that Pickle Barrel maintains its sort of DIY ski bum ethos. Sure, some may scoff that the phone message still says the shop is closed over the New Year—I’m writing this in the last week of February. My call went straight to voicemail when I tried to go old school and pre-order over the phone. Ordering is also available online at picklebarrelmt.com.
Instead, I went inside and did the counter dance with a group of college boys, stopping to say hi to an old friend behind the counter. Childhood pickle trauma aside, Pickle Barrel is still something a little bit magic.
Rachel Hergett is a foodie and cook from Montana. She is arts editor emeritus at the Bozeman Daily Chronicle and has written for publications such as Food Network Magazine and Montana Quarterly. Rachel is also the host of the Magic Monday Show on KGLT-FM and teaches at Montana State University.
