by Beau Cadiyo
I have, with great respect and admiration, followed the work of my classmate, colleague, confidante and close friend Andrew Samtoy during his quest to spread Cash Mobs around the world. His struggles, triumphs and willingness to do the right thing, whatever the cost, in expanding localism and communities has touched many and, while he is far too modest to say it, it was only by his immense capacity for hard work, Herculean efforts, natural leadership ability, roguish charm, silver tongue, stellar character and dashing good looks that Cash Mobs has spread so far, so quickly.
Thus, when I learned Freddie's was closing again, I called him immediately.
I'll give you a moment to process that. Yes. Freddie's is closing. Again.
The importance of Freddie's to Cleveland cannot be understated. Besides being a long-time pillar of our barbecue community, Freddie's serves a Polish Boy that Esquire Magazine called one of the top sandwiches in America, and it received this accolade back when Cleveland's blossoming food scene was still merely a bud. It closed before; the fact that it is closing - again - means that one of the real, true Cleveland restaurants is going away for good.
In addition, the Polish Boy is critical to our city's heritage and history, as it is one of the few places in the country where such a beautiful beast could have emerged. The kielbasa comes from the Eastern Europeans; the French Fries from the Western Europeans; coleslaw was enjoyed by the rich industrialists in the early 20th century; and the barbecue sauce from the Great Migration. It is difficult to explain how unlikely this combination actually is from an historical perspective. The Polish Boy is the one true Cleveland food, and the fact that Freddie's is closing means that one of the best in the city will soon be no more.
Therefore I, Beau Jesus Cadiyo, am announcing a Cash Mob. Andrew has graciously agreed to assist me in organizing this venture. It will be on Saturday, June 23, 2012 from 2-10 p.m.
We harbor no illusions about our ability to save Freddie's; by 1 July it will be no more. There is no "reverse" gear, no path back from the precipice; the ship has launched, the trigger has been pulled. This Cash Mob is not about "saving" Freddie's from destruction. It is, however, about being exposed to one of the greatest sandwiches in these United States, and thus the world. It is about making sure that we imprint on our memories what Freddie's tasted like, and, when we taste other Polish Boys, reminding ourselves and each other what excellence actually tastes like. It is also about being able to tell your children that you were there, and then telling them that they don't really know what real excellence is, because back in my day.
Get a large Polish Boy next Saturday. Get two. Eat it. Then tweet me and tell me it's not the most amazing thing you've ever had so I can call you a liar and challenge you to a cage fight.
I suppose I do wish Freddie's was staying open, but I know what Andrew would tell me if he heard me casually mention it over a campfire:
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Cadiyo? No, my fair cousin;
If it is mark’d to close, we are enow
To our community's loss; and if to live,
The fewer sandwiches, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one month more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for bread,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my turkey eat;
Such poultry things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet Polish Boys,
I am the most offending soul alive.
Rather proclaim it, Cadiyo, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this mob,
Let him depart; his passport to W. 25th shall be made,
And tokens for convoy put into his purse;
We would not eat in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to eat with us.
This day will be call’d the feast of Freddie's.
He that eats this day, and goes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Freddie's.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Freddie's.”
Then will he strip his shirt and show his barbecue stains,
And say “These stains I had on Freddie's day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What things he ate that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Andre the Wheeler, Samtoy and Cadiyo-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Freddie Freddie shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that eats his Polish Boy with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in Cleveland now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That ate with us upon Saint Freddie's day.
Yes, that is what he would say, and I would be chagrined.
I will see you next Saturday.
Love,
Beau
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
The Harp
(216) 939-0200
It’s hard to just get a burger these days. I mean, it seems like every burger in
town has a pretty predictable set of ingredients:
- Grass-fed beef;
- Aged, locally-sourced cheddar cheese;
- Smoked applewood bacon;
- Some variety of cured onions;
- Heirloom tomatoes and organic lettuce;
- Artisinal roll.
Seriously, go into any “foodie” place, the kind of
restaurant where bloggers take pictures of their food with DSLR cameras that
they leave on Auto, and see how many of these you can tick off. It’s likely that the menu will mention
each of these items, and the waiter will, if well-trained, emphasize them in
his sales speech. We’re in a sort
of Cold War-style burger race now, and the only advantages to be gained are in incremental
variations – organic poppyseed rolls, or specialty onions, or restaurant-grown
produce, or if the chef brought the cow to your table before slaughtering it
and grinding up its meat, perhaps leaving the ear on your table as a
trophy.
So it’s nice to see a place ignore these Burger Wars and
just grill beef, put it together, and trust that it will be fine. The operative word there is
“grill.” The burger at the Harp was
fine – it was disassembled so I could add all of the produce and condiments I
desired. Actually, come to think
of it, that’s the first time in a while where the restaurant didn’t assume that
they knew best how to make the most delicious burger and that I would love whatever
they put together. It was a good
burger – the bread soaked up beef juices, the produce was fresh, the cheese was
tasty. What set it apart, though,
was the last few bites: on one of the ends of the clearly hand-formed patty was
a charred bit, still touched with flame.
And that’s what restaurants have forgotten. In their quest to make the most special
burger with the most special tastes, they lost the idea that a burger starts
out with flame applied to flesh, and that this alchemy still matters to
consumers. The Harp hasn’t
forgotten, though, and that’s why their burgers, prepared in the traditional
manner, are suddenly special and have suddenly won the Burger Wars.
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