Mad Greek

2466 Fairmount Blvd
Cleveland Heights, OH 44106
(216) 421-3333

by Beau Cadiyo

I know a lot of bathrooms.

Lola’s sinks are a work of art. Lolita’s remind me, aesthetically, of Portland, Oregon. Slyman’s bathroom is tidy – shipshape, really. Hot Sauce Williams’ requires a key. Freddie’s Southern Style Rib House doubles as a cleaning closet, and a filthy one at that. The door on Sokolowski’s mens’ room is awkward to operate. As far as I could tell, there was no men's room at Johnnie's Deli - only a women's room. The Mad Greek’s reminded me that I’d been there before at some point in the past, slightly more buzzed.

This shouldn’t have been a surprise: the Mad Greek felt familiar, like a good neighborhood bar should. The bartender has a broad New York accent and talks to you in a way that makes you feel like you can confide in him – he gives away a small weakness or character trait in himself and you feel obligated to do the same. Soon he knows that you feel estranged from your mother, or that you hooked up with a girl at the other end of the bar who now won’t talk to you. The tables feel like you might have sat in any of them before, and have. The television, tucked away in an awkward corner, forces people close together to watch it and invites you to brush against your neighbor intimately.

The Feta Cheeseburger arrived; I was thick in the crowd of patrons, but the bartender made eye contact and waved me into a seat in front of him. He placed the burger before me as I tried to trade him my credit card; he waved it away, saying, “later.” I wasn’t sure why, but I thought that perhaps he wanted to make sure that I liked it before I even considered leaving a tip, a level of honest dealing which I fully respect.

Perhaps he knew that it could only end well for him. The burger was big and juicy; the red onions and tomatoes were fresh and the lettuce only slightly wilted. The pile of feta cheese stayed in place, adding flavor to the meat and a sort of dry, grainy texture – but you know what feta cheese is like. The only mistake, in my mind, was the potatoes – instead of fries, they were cubed and tasted frozen, a major turnoff which I wouldn’t have dared tell him.

The check arrived; $10 and change. I, too, was shocked; not even Lola charges that much for a burger, and theirs are, next to Lolita’s, the best I’ve had in Cleveland. I tipped, though – even though it was just a pretty good burger, The Mad Greek had something extra in it, something pleasant, something friendly, something familiar.

Lolita

900 Literary Rd
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 771-5652

www.lolabistro.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Michael Symon isn’t so good with choosing hostesses. At Lola, they always act as if we might not be seated for lunch if we don’t have a reservation, no matter how empty the restaurant is. At Lolita, the hostess pointedly told us that we couldn’t get our reserved table during happy hour, but she would do us the immense favor of not making us wait six minutes for our reservation and, instead, seat us immediately. Like, whatever.
The patrons are different from those at Lola. While many were in their 30s and 40s, and had the same appearance of trying to be hip, they generally did not seem desperate. They were, instead, at Lolita to eat good food and drink good alcohol. The eclectic decorations – from candles jutting out of the walls to a large, festooned pig to shower curtains and a wall reminiscent of Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors – mixed together well, the notable exception being the flat-screen television above the bar. It looked out of place, an inelegant distraction from the beauty of the remainder. The bathroom is sparse and clean. The open kitchen is dark yet vibrant, a great place to watch masters at work. For the third time in five days, Ed mentioned a dinner where the chef had disparaged Michael Symon, saying that prep boys in France knew more about food than Symon did. However, the chef apparently did not explain why Symon was supposed to be so bad, nor did Ed explain why he was telling me about it repeatedly. Judging by the reaction of everyone at the meal, this chef was likely just jealous and bitter.
The $5 Lolita Burger is the only sandwich on the menu. It is only served during happy hour and is almost identical to the Lola burger: an English muffin, meat, cheese and onions. The only difference is that the Lolita burger has a fried egg and has more, crispier bacon. Ed opined that the beef was of a slightly lower quality than that of Lola, but we agreed that the Lolita burger tasted more flavorful, more succulent, more mouthwatering (literally, my salivary glands open up whenever I re-read this sentence). We could have ordered them for the entire meal had happy hour not ended; it is hands-down the best burger I have had in Cleveland.
With only one sandwich, we moved on. The spicy chicken wings were tender, the olives warm and juicy, the big board of meats distinct and flavorful, the duck prosciutto pizza a marked disappointment (the crust was mediocre), the Swiss Chard slightly crunchy and the desserts utterly magnificent. The vanilla bean sorbet was my personal favorite, followed by the lemon semifreddo; while the chocolate pot de crème was distinct and salty, Lola does it better. All of it mixed well with the wine, beer and scotch.
Total, to comfortably fill four bellies, the meal came to $140 including a well-deserved 20% tip. I’m planning on going back at least twice in the next two weeks – the first time to bring my old boss and a special lady friend, the second to bring my best friend on a double-blind date the day after he gets married. Yes: the day after he gets married I’m going to try to set him up with another girl. That’s what friends are for.

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Addendum, June 14, 2008: Symon apparently DOES know how to pick hostesses after all. Last night Kathleen was celebrating her first week of work - truly a nice, sweet girl, with the ability to turn rude people away politely and maintain a positive, sunny outlook. She was also eager to introduce us to the manager, who spent a good 10 minutes talking to us about the restaurant before being called away to his professional duties. I was thoroughly impressed by the personal touch we received - but just make sure you book ahead of time, and don't give them a hard time when there isn't any room!

Johnnie’s Deli

1840 Euclid Ave.
Cleveland, Ohio
216-241-1818

by Beau Cadiyo

It has been a while. I apologize for that. First, both Ed and D. John have moved out of Cleveland. Second, we all finished law school, and now I’m preparing for the bar. Third, though, is the kicker – I’ve had tons of sandwiches over the last few months. Tons. I’ve just been uninspired. Whenever I sit down to write a review I turn up blank. I’ll keep at them, and turn something out, but I’ve just been disappointed in most of the sandwiches I’ve eaten over the last two months.
Until today.
At the lunch hour, Frank Khan and I made our way to a café we’d stopped in a couple of weeks earlier. I hadn’t gotten a good look at it before, but I remembered that the breakfast waitress was friendly in a gruff way, and promised a breakfast in two minutes, a burger in “maybe five.” Frank stayed and ordered and I went around the corner.
This time, the waiter was a short middle-eastern man. He was friendly, too, in a business-like way – it was refreshing to have him treat us as normal people rather than try to kiss our asses for tips. The menu was plain, but in this day and age that made it extraordinary: regular sandwiches, fried sandwiches, sides, breakfast until 11 a.m. Turkey, Pastrami, Tuna, Chicken. The specials were on a small white board which, from many parts of the restaurant, was inaccessible without standing up and walking around; he made no effort to tell us what was on it, another endearing factor.
There were four other bar students around the counter, along with a man in a short-sleeve shirt and tie who looked haggard. I imagined his life as a tired, spent public defender who made his living defending petty criminals and getting beaten up by the prosecutors. He still found the heart to joke with our host, and I liked him for it.
My tuna melt came, along with the curly fries. Note this: there are no frills on these sandwiches. Two pieces of rye, two slices of American cheese, and between them two massive, generous, ice-cream-scoops of tuna and egg salad. No tomato. No lettuce. No special sauce. These things cost extra, and while it was annoying, I was in a good mood and liked it all. I marveled at the sandwich, ate the pickle and then bit in, squeezing more than half of the tuna out as I did so. The bread was well-fried and not too soft, the cheese was barely noticeable, the tuna/egg combination divine in its middle-American blandness. Here was a sandwich which did not have to put on airs, did not have to dress up for company, was not competing with anyone else for awards, and so, Taoist, excelled and defeated them all. The curly fries were well-seasoned, crisp on the outside and doughy on the inside, perfect with the off-brand ketchup in the red bottles. Hot sauce would have been appreciated, but I suspected it may have cost extra.
They had just gotten a credit card machine the day before and he did not know how to use it. When I returned to my seat after paying, our host had filled my water glass, anticipating that I would stick around and talk for a while. I did, and in so doing discovered that I wanted to write again - first and foremost about Johnnie’s, one of the great delis in Cleveland. We’ll see if I’m inspired to get into the others.

Ballantine

4113 Erie St
Willoughby, OH 44094
www.theballantine.net
(440) 942-5151

by Beau Cadiyo

I walked in and it took my eyes a minute to adjust. The bar was empty, and the barmaid was cleaning as if in anticipation of a crush of people who weren’t there yet. When I walked up to her, she smiled; as soon as I started asking, she said, “Work group? You look like you’re with those people,” and directed me to the very back.

When my eyes adjusted I saw red. Not anger – the whole restaurant was red, red walls, red decorations, red wood, red lights. Frank Fiorelli was even wearing a red top. I’ve only recently started becoming interested in colors and how they can impact the mood of a room, and the red made it feel intimate, like an English club, or a grandparent’s dark living room, or a brothel. We took up four tables at the back.

The barmaid said that the Dirty Burger was their most popular one – a large burger marinated in soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce, with fried cheese and garnishments. I asked about the other options, and she listed them off, but reiterated that the Dirty Burger was the popular one. I ordered it.

The pizza appetizers that one of the partners ordered took the edge off of my hunger, as did the soda water with lime. I normally would have had a beer, but I have Chinese Disease and didn’t want to get all red in front of my workmates. When the burger arrived it was to general oohs and ahs, presented well and surrounded by thin-cut fries. They asked me what I noticed about it, what I thought. It was large, I said, and looked well-put together.

However, presentation is not everything. First, the marinade made the burger taste as if it was covered in black peppercorns and then dipped in salt. In a lesser bun, this would have been overwhelming, but their bun was so massive that it acted to dilute the flavor in bready…I wish I could say bready goodness, but there wasn’t much good about it. The bun was spongy, and bone-dry, soaking up any moisture in your mouth and making the peppery-saltiness all the more unpleasant. The fried cheese did little to improve the situation – it was possible to miss it in the mass. The fries were very, very tasty, but it was a small consolation when the meat of the meal was unimpressive.

Gary was a lightweight and started talking politics, which I tried to steer him clear of. Then everyone else asked me about my burger. I explained what I tasted, and why I was disappointed, and everyone else started chipping in with burger stories of their own – this burger is good, that burger is amazing. Crisis narrowly averted, I paid up and slipped out, leaving them to compare their sandwich stories while I mulled over one of my own.

La Mexicana

170 E. Washington Street
Painesville, OH 44077
440-358-0829

by Beau Cadiyo

“Una Torta” is Mexican for “Sandwich.” “HA!” I hear you saying to yourself, “this uncultured buffoon thinks, like George W. Bush, that Mexican is a language! Tosh!” Well go jump in un lago, amigo – in Spain, y en Español, a sandwich is “un bocadillo.” Without getting into details, I think the differences between languages should be classified as new languages - thus, in Mexican a sandwich is "una torta." Whatever language you speak or make up, though, the meaning is the same: leavened bread with filling.

Of course, you don’t need to resort to linguistic analysis to determine that this is a Mexican restaurant: it’s fricking called “La Mexicana” and is connected to what is, apparently, the largest Mexican grocery store in Ohio. Inside the restaurant bit there is a faux clay-shingled roof, I suppose to make you feel like you are on an outdoor patio. The large, open grill is always busy; the cook jumps around like a worm in a bean and the short girl who takes orders laughs at my mispronunciations in Spanish and then makes her own attempts in English. There are always a few people sitting bar-style around the restaurant, which has one window looking into the street and another looking into the grocery store.

Una torta costs $3. It is small, in a chewy, sauce-soaked bun of some exotic, high-quality ingredients, the taste and texture of which would make any French baker stand up and take notice. The chicken and pepper filling, the same as in their chicken burritos, is stunning – saucy, shredded pollo asada perfectly prepared, sensibly seasoned and carefully cooked. It’s one of several options, the rest of which I have not yet tried. Despite the amazingness of it all, I was a little disappointed. The food is infallibly delicious, but the torta was just so small – about the size of a large hamburger. OK, so maybe it wasn’t small for others, but it certainly was for me. I was expecting something good on the scale of their burritos, which are massive, stuffed affairs with the second most delicious tortillas I’ve ever tasted.

Having grown up a few miles from the US-Mexico border, and having eaten epic amounts of Mexican food throughout my life, La Mexicana is easily the best I’ve had in Ohio and beats, handily, many places in Southern California, Northern California, Oregon, Virginia, Maryland, Wales and Spain. It easily justifies the trip to Painesville, but – y tengo un dolor en mi corazón – skip the torta and go for a burrito. Other non-professional eaters have been unable to finish it in a single sitting; it’s well worth the extra $2.

Captain Tony’s Pizza and Pasta Emporium

Worldwide Pizza Franchise
13208 Shaker Square
Cleveland, OH 44120
216-561-8669

By Edward Sandwichhands

Captain Tony’s is a quaint take out place located in Shaker Square with five accommodating tables, a large menu, and the type of witty banter you can expect from any fine establishment in Cleveland. I wouldn’t recommend going to Captain Tony’s to pick up women, but if you are looking to pick up balding, overweight, thirty-something men and a case of indigestion – Captain Tony’s is the spot.

For $28 we managed to fill our entire table with two orders of toto-fries, an order of cheese breadsticks, a side salad, two eggplant parmesan sandwiches and a gyro. The order was absurd; we clearly had no idea what we were doing. Captain Tony told us we wouldn’t finish everything. I hate being told that I can’t do something, but he was right: we ordered way too much.

The fries and breadsticks were better than I’d expect from a worldwide pizza franchise. Unfortunately, the eggplant parmesan just didn’t do it for me: the roll was burdened with eggplant to the point that the sandwich was sloppy and difficult to eat. (I’d describe it as a ship about to capsize) When I order eggplant parmesan I like a firm balance of eggplant, cheese and sauce. It’s not like they have to live together in perfect harmony; I just feel they need to be reasonably well proportioned. My sandwich was loaded with eggplant but lacking the necessary amounts of sauce and cheese. I don’t need my sandwich “smothered” like old D.John, but there are rules to the sandwich game:

Rule 1) All sandwiches must be delicious.
Rule 2) All sandwiches must be made with fresh ingredients.
Rule 3) All sandwiches must be well presented.
Rule 4) All sandwiches must have proper form
Rule 5) All sandwiches must have well proportioned ingredients.

These are the cardinal rules of sandwiches. To break one of these rules is, in my eyes, a sin against God and country. Any sandwich that fails to comply with the above list of rules should be reported to the Cleveland Sandwich Board immediately. If you venture to Captain Tony’s, I’d stick to the pizza and the salads. If you want a sandwich, go somewhere that knows the rules of the game.

McNulty's Pub

1765 Coventry Rd.
Cleveland Heights, Ohio 44118
216.932.9996

By Edward Sandwichhands

Where does Cleveland go to get sandwiches after midnight on Sunday? If you happen to be stuck on Coventry saucing with your comrades, the answer is simple: McNulty’s Pub. The conventional choice of most Coventry-goers is Guy’s pizza, but if you need faster and greasier late-night eats, McNulty’s is your forum - particularly if you are looking for a sandwich.

McNulty’s is not very crowded on Sunday nights because all the cool kids go to the B-Side for indie rock night. The place was nearly empty and we were the only ones there to eat. I immediately knew that I needed the beef brisket Philly. It felt like a steal for $5, and the sandwich was ready almost immediately. The sandwich was large, steaming, covered in provolone and Swiss cheese, adorned with mushrooms and onions, and drowning in its own liquids. I was pretty hungry so I wolfed it down. In the process of doing so I created a sizable grease puddle capable of heating a small village in some hypothetical country. After I discarded my final crust I saw Frank Elkins take it and dip it in the grease pile for a late night munch. After being confronted, Frank readily admitted that it wasn’t a good idea and that the discarded bread crust and grease were pretty disgusting.

When the sandwich was over, I felt like a genuine McNulty’s patron: drunk, bloated and unsatisfied with life. The sandwich was pretty decent except for being entirely too greasy. But you must always know your place. If you go to a bar after midnight on a Sunday and the sandwich you get isn’t greasy, there’s probably something wrong.

What is your favorite late night spot to grab a sandwich, Cleveland?