If you ever find yourself humming “Home on the Range” while waiting for a table, you’ve probably stepped inside Tucson’s own slice of the Old West: Pinnacle Peak Steakhouse.
Since 1962, the clink of silverware has been the soundtrack to a place where cowboy hats meet crystal chandeliers, and the steak‑knives are as sharp as a six‑shooter’s aim.
I still remember my first visit. My dad dragged me across town, insisting I “taste the real Arizona.” When the first bite of their rib‑eye hit my palate, the world seemed to tilt a little slower, as if the desert wind itself was urging us to savor every juicy, smoky moment…