New American Restaurants in Ogallala, NE

“In the wild, pulsating heart of this neon-drenched nowhere, where the asphalt hums with the ghosts of forgotten road trips, I stumbled into The Driftwood—a beacon of raw, unfiltered Americana, slinging salvation in the form of ice-cold elixirs and burgers that could make a grown man weep. The air was thick with the scent of freedom: grilled beef, fryer grease, and the faint tang of rebellion. This wasn’t just a bar—it was a cathedral of excess, a fever dream of flavor and chaos, and I was ready to worship.

Sierra, oh Sierra, the high priestess of this culinary Valhalla, presided over the bar with a grin that could cut glass and a swagger that said she’d seen it all—twice. Her hands moved like a gunslinger’s, pouring drinks with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. She wasn’t just serving; she was conducting a goddamn symphony of spirits, each cocktail a cold, crisp middle finger to the mundane. The Driftwood’s drink menu? A kaleidoscope of liquid courage—frosty IPAs that bite like a rattlesnake, mojitos that dance on your tongue like Cuban jazz, and some unholy concoction called the “Desert Fire” that left me seeing visions of Kerouac scribbling in the corner booth.

The burgers, sweet Jesus, the burgers. These weren’t mere sandwiches; they were monuments to decadence, dripping with juice, stacked high with reckless abandon. Each bite was a journey—grease-slicked, smoky, and unapologetic, like biting into the soul of Route 66 itself. I ordered the “Driftwood Deluxe,” a half-pound behemoth crowned with bacon and a fried egg that oozed like a sunrise over the Mojave. It wasn’t food; it was a religious experience, a sacrament of beef and bun that left me questioning my life choices.

And the boneless wings? Good God, man, these weren’t wings—they were napalm-dusted morsels of pure hedonism. Tossed in a sauce that was equal parts sweet, spicy, and sinister, they hit the table like a Molotov cocktail of flavor. I devoured them in a haze, my fingers sticky, my soul ablaze, while Sierra slid another drink my way, her eyes glinting like she knew exactly what kind of madness she was enabling.

Five stars? Hell, give The Driftwood a constellation. This is no mere pitstop; it’s a portal to the American Dream, where Sierra reigns supreme, the drinks flow like rivers of ice, and the burgers and wings are a love letter to excess written in grease and glory. I left that place a changed man, my heart pounding, my stomach full, and my mind spinning like a slot machine in the desert night. Fear and loathing? Nah, just love and gluttony, served up hot and fresh at The Driftwood.“

“First time ever to a Runza. The food was hot and came up in an appropriate amount of time. However, the restaurant was not well kept. The building looked new but it was dirty and in need of cleaning. Dirty tables, trash overflowing, and the drink area was a mess.“