Saint Ignace — You’re in the Upper Peninsula, and you’re hungry. You’ve been driving for hours. You’re looking for something familiar, but you can’t find anything you recognize. You see old signs for something you’ve never heard of. Pasties. What are pasties? Yooper food. 

Pasties came to the U.P. from Cornwall, England. Beef, potatoes, onions, carrots, rutabaga. Hearty food for the miners and the lumberjacks. They became ubiquitous, enmeshed in the culture. You can’t come here and not have one. That would be like going to France and not eating a croissant or visiting Italy and not eating pasta. Sacrilege. In the U.P., you eat pasties. 

They are hearty and utilitarian. Fitting for a place that seems to be freezing more often than not. Simple and plain. A bit like a pot pie, but drier. There is a standard formula: A thick brown crust wrapped around a hearty jumble of warm vegetables and meat. While the ingredients may be all wrapped up tight in this tasty cocoon, they don’t blend together like a stew. You can still taste each ingredient. 

While there are variations, it’s not the taste that makes a pasty special. It’s the people and the place that makes it. Each shop has its own story and its own distinct vibe. 

Way up here, you end up driving a long time without seeing anywhere to stop and eat. The pasties of US-2 are your lifeline. They are your first pit stop in this northern land. You will need them. I visited four pasty shops, all less than 30 minutes from the Mackinac Bridge. These are the pasties that will sustain you on your long drive through the wilderness. 

Taste of the Upper Peninsula 

Just minutes from the bridge, I pull off to the right. I’m here. The owners are behind the counter. Daryl and Penny. Daryl tells me that he bought the place from his brother who started it 40 years ago. Their dad owned the party store next door. Penny tells me that she made 350 pounds of fudge yesterday. She gives me an extremely generous sample. They crank out several hundred pasties a day in this kitchen.

Daryl and Penny do something special with their pasties. They don’t do ground beef. They marinate a USDA top round and then roast it. It’s an arduous three-day process. It’s worth it. No small ground beef here. Only large chunks of savory meat marinated to perfection. A stronger variation on the classic theme. Daryl says they are the only ones to do it this way.

They also offer mini pasties. A new and glorious creation. On the eighth day, Daryl created mini pasties. They call them sliders and are about the size of a White Castle burger. They fit three to a plate. I order a pasty and a root beer. I take a booth by the window overlooking the parking lot. I grab my fork and tear a first hole in the side of the heavenly crust. Fragrant steam rises from the pasty’s delicious core. The owners tell me to use ketchup because “that’s what a Yooper does.”

Lehto’s Pasties

Lehto’s is down the road and surrounded by deep woods. A tiny building appears on the left. I lay on the brake and barrel into the parking lot. Motorcycles just outside the door. Trucks and trailers on gravel. Old picnic benches on a patch of grass. People quietly eating their pasties in a meditative state of grace. Inside, there is only enough room for a few poor starving souls. They wait patiently for their portion. A fridge with pop in the corner. One lone worker mans the counter. A kitchen in the back carefully preparing these northern delights. 

Lehto’s has been here since 1947. Same small building, same family. The owner tells me that her uncle worked on the ferries before the bridge was built. Her aunt would make him pasties. All the other workers were envious. Soon, she started selling them. That was the beginning. They are still making them in the same place 75 years later.

Lehto’s boasts a strong folded crust that almost reminds me of a biscuit. Tightly packed with finely chopped potatoes, onions, rutabaga, and ground beef. Easy to manhandle and dip into gravy. No fork necessary. Don’t be ashamed. It’s okay. You can eat with your hands. They won’t judge you here.

Dune Shores Resort

Beachgoers lying and frying on the northern shore of Lake Michigan just across the street. Cars sparsely parked along the road. A Finnish flag whips in the wind, barely holding on for dear life. A small hand-painted sign advertises pasties. A painted ice cream cone. Baby blue font against dark brown wood. Minimal. All caps. DUNE SHORES. 

The scene belongs in a quaint little Wes Anderson film. That’s the vibe. Inside, it feels like nothing has changed in decades. Dark wood walls. Old school keys for the cabins hang behind the register. They don’t take cards. It feels like they might not even have electricity. It’s quiet inside. A museum. It’s only me and one worker. The lights are off. Afternoon light shines through a bank of windows. 

Dune Shores Resort has recently enlisted a new foot soldier in the great pasty battle. An apple pasty. It’s delicious. You don’t eat this pasty for lunch. You have it for dessert. Every bite is succulent. There are picnic tables out front on the sandy grounds. A cottage next door with clothes drying on the line. The occasional car speeds by. I can hear the waves across the street. A sweet pasty with a divine view. Yooper heaven.

Wildwood Pasties

I crack open the door and hear classical music on the radio. The sound of a string orchestra playing Pachabel’s Canon reverberates through this hallowed hall. A few kids running around the store. Brandon is working behind the register. He’s from downstate, but lives here all year. He loves it, even in the depression-inducing winter. He tells me they only have beef hot today. They have other options frozen. Some days they have veggie, beef, and bison hot. But today is Wednesday. It’s slow. He says that Wednesday is the quietest day of the week. Tourists are still trickling home on Tuesday, and people come up for vacation on Thursday. 

He takes a tray out and shows me lines of pasties ready for consumption. Like lambs to the slaughter, they too will meet their end in some Yooper’s stomach. A woman comes in to order a few. She takes them frozen. She’s from Canada and stops here every time on her way through the U.P.. This is common. Everyone has their beloved pasty place. It’s the place they always stop. Slowly, the ritual becomes almost as important as the pasty itself. 

They strike up a conversation. They are talking with each other about how the pasties farther north in the peninsula don’t have rutabaga like they do down here. Wildwood serves up a unique breakfast pasty. It departs from the pasty routine in a dramatic way. Warm eggs, sausage, melted cheese, potato, green pepper, and onion. That’s how you start the day. Their breakfast pasty is essentially an omelette wrapped in dough. Can you make anything into a pasty? Wildwood seems to think so.

There are no new pasty shops. The signs are vintage and retro. The businesses are family-owned, or the legacy is carried on by a respectful buyer. The people are warm. They will talk your ear off and tell you everything you want to know. The customers are loyal. They know the shop they love. They will tell you that’s where they go, year after year. It’s not just the pasty. It’s the ritual. You can find pasties all across the U.P., but these places are your first introduction. The pasties of US-2 welcome you when you arrive.

O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X @NecktieSalvage.