Lure Bistro

38040 3rd St
Willoughby, OH 44094
(440) 951-8862

By Beau Cadiyo

The relationships that people have with restaurants mirror human sexuality. Most restaurants that one might enter are like one-night stands – you may remember them, you may know how to get in touch, but you don’t plan on going back unless absolutely necessary. Here, either you’re extremely adventurous, eating things you normally wouldn’t, or you are exceptionally conservative, sticking with what you know. Others are like long-term marriages; you know the restaurant repeatedly and intimately, and you generally stick with one or, at most two, comfortable dishes. That’s a shame: the fun of casual dating, of the learning curve, of the playfulness of exploration and discovery and not knowing what you’re going to get, is lost as soon as you settle down into a rhythm. Restaurant relationships are boring and routine and predictable; you’ve lost the fun, the excitement, the spark. However, sometimes you get a taste of something new and exciting – that’s when you owe it to yourself to explore more, to dive in, to push your own limits. It’s uncomfortable, though, and difficult. It’s difficult to go to a restaurant that keeps you excited and interested and a little bit confused. It’s difficult to walk into a place and not know what to expect. You may be disappointed, you may wish you hadn’t tried at all, you may be scared. But in the end, it’s those moments where you have to close your eyes and remember what is happening and take the risk that it might be incredible.

Lure is a restaurant to date right now. It was just taken over by a new chef and his general manager, and it is evolving and changing and exciting. We would have reviewed it back when it was UrbanSpoon’s number one ranked restaurant in Cleveland, but we thought it was solely sushi and didn’t have sandwiches.

The lighting at first reminded me of a warm dinner party. The entire patio vibe, really, was like that; the only thing missing was a good host to talk to people, introduce them, share them around and mix and match the tables appropriately. Think of the function of a restaurant host. Now replace them with a good dinner party host who ensures that nobody is left alone, nobody feels out of place, and people with common interests, be it the law or architecture or food documentaries or voice-distorting megaphones are made aware of their commonalities and, therefore, brought that much closer. In some places, such a social catalyst would be out of place – the Velvet Dog, for example. At Lure, it felt uncomfortable not to be introduced to the two girls sitting just one table over, and uncomfortable not to know anything about the large dinner party under the outdoor chandelier.

Such a function was partially served when the manager, Jonathan, stopped by and introduced himself around the table. A tall, lean man with a shaved head, a massive watch and intricate tattoos up his arms, he was eager to talk about the restaurant and his plans for the menu – the new dishes he wanted to serve (I want to return to sample the bison and the crocodile), the features to renovate, etc. I got the impression that this was something special, something more than an ordinary restaurant. For him, Lure isn’t a business – it is a passion. It was exciting.

The grouper sandwich arrived and he excused himself. We fell upon the homemade chips, hot with oil, thinly cut and simultaneously crispy and chewy. The waiter absent-mindedly suggested a remoulade, wandering away and returning with a small cup, the contents of which I spread thinly on the bread.

It was simply incredible. The grouper fell apart in my mouth, flaking away, not too moist, not too dry. Frank Hoxha, who doesn’t like fish, actually used her fork to collect some of the bits that fell out. The tomato slice oozed juice and seeds and the bread was crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside. The remoulade was nice, but it was an unnecessary addition. It was like adding a single leaf or snowflake to a Hokusai print – it adds an element, sure, but it was not necessary and may have actually detracted from the rest.

Yet something seemed slightly off, and we all noticed it. Perhaps it was first-night jitters on the part of the staff, or fear and uncertainty on the part of the long-time patrons. We sat around talking as the patio and bar emptied out. When the bill came, we asked that it be split 75/25; the waiter mixed up the cards, so we settled it in cash. Things aren’t perfect at Lure, but there’s potential for something if a few of the kinks are worked out. There’s going to be a second date in the very near future.

The Perfect Article

This is one of the best articles I've ever read. Short story short: a woman's dog ate her brother's sandwich. He threatened the dog; when she tried to protect the dog, he pushed her down. Nobody was hurt, no charges were pressed. What makes the article for me is that

a) This was published in the middle of Tropical Storm Fay in Florida;
b) The man thought that a sandwich was worth fighting over;
c) The economy of prose is just amazing. There is no attempt to insert quotes or relate it to some sort of broader social themes or get any of the extra, unnecessary crap from witnesses that CNN.com or Fox might do. Wendy Victora, the author, seems to have pared it down to the bare essentials. As she wrote in an email, "Those stories really tell themselves." I really, really, really like her style (and if I was to imitate her, I would have cut those three "reallys" out).

As of this posting there were 23 comments. Only a few related to the fact that this might not actually be newsworthy; the rest, by and large, related to the sandwich, the dog and the motivation for the dog to eat the sandwich. Some of my favorite comments:

	tinkerbell2 wrote: I am so glad the dog ate his sandwich.
	drake1 wrote: In the dog's defense I bet it was a tasty sandwich. I mean come on, who amongst us dog or human can resist a tasty sandwhich?

candl45 wrote:

Throw em all in the slammer! And that sammich stealin dog too! My dog steals my sammiches and eats the middles out leaving me the crust! Bad dog no cookie

dwbinfwb wrote:

"The mother, who had witnessed the incident, refused to talk to the deputy. The sister then became uncooperative."

So, who called the cops, the dog?

plucked4lyfe wrote:

Who said there's no such thing as a free lunch?

mk1954 wrote:

Why didn't they tase the dog or the sister?

What does this say about America, when 23 people come together in the middle of a life-threatening tropical storm and discuss dogs, sandwiches and Tasers? I don't know, but I like it. I like it a lot.

Bronte inside Joseph Beth Booksellers

Legacy Village
24519 Cedar Road
Lyndhurst, OH 44124
(216) 691-7000

by Beau Cadiyo

I’d never anticipated eating here. First, it’s a theoretically independent café in a theoretically independent bookstore located in Legacy Village. I realize that there is a role for these places in our economy, but I have much more respect for giant businesses which run on economies of scale – McDonald’s, Wal-Mart, Starbucks. To me, these are the greatest businesses because they’ve figured out how to deliver massive quantities of goods to consumers with stunning, incredible efficiency. Independence, while purportedly American, is inefficient; I have little tolerance for people who protest efficiency.

However, Frank Hoxha, a Kosovar Albanian architect, was studying there, and invited me to join her. She was intriguing – while I know plenty of people who like(d) Bill Clinton, she was the first who credited him with actually saving her life. That day she was bitter – Bronte charged her for each shot in her quadruple-shot cappuccino, which offended some Balkan sensibility of hers. (She had ended up at Joseph Beth’s because Starbucks cools its store to about 45 degrees, and at Joseph Beth’s it was actually reasonably temperatured. This was the tradeoff: pay extra for each shot or freeze.)

I ordered. Even though we were clearly reclined on the sofa, and couldn’t have appeared imminently mobile, they brought my tuna melt to me in a Styrofoam carton wrapped in a plastic bag. This was the low point of the meal; who would expect an independent bookstore which prides itself on independence, located in Beachwood, to serve a meal which was to be eaten in the bookstore in such ecologically unfriendly materials? The environment-killing clamshell contained one Tuna Melt, one small cup of either quinoa or couscous salad (I get the two mixed up), a small cup of coleslaw and a pickle. I hadn’t eaten all day – I was unemployed and had simply forgotten – but hunger couldn’t account for these spices. The (either quinoa or couscous) salad was chilled, with fresh bits of vegetables and a vinegary tang; the coleslaw was sweet and crunchy. The pickle was limp, but not offensive. But the sandwich.

Good tuna melts are a special breed. Tuna melts require simplicity of ingredients; packing them full of heretofore unheard of vegetables and modified sauces ruins their inherent integrity. Michael Symon could make one, but he wouldn’t be able to really alter the core ingredients too much and still have an acceptable tuna melt. (Dear sir – you may consider the gauntlet laid.) Simple tuna melts can be absolutely mediocre but still be passable, too; tuna, cheese, bread, grill.

Bronte did the only thing I can think of to make a superb tuna melt: it used superb ingredients and cooked them superbly. The filling was warm, well-seasoned and most importantly moist. The cheese melted into the tuna, but wasn’t so heavy that it overwhelmed the taste. The bread was crisp on the outside, but chewy just below the surface. Altogether, the balance was sublime.

By the time I finished the four women playing Mahjong had packed up and the Russian girls sitting near us had left. Frank asked me about palmistry, and, looking it up on a website, we compared destinies. She has very, very wrinkly hands; beyond that, I can’t remember much. Frank Pratt and his wife, Frank, stopped by and said hello. Then, at some early hour, Joseph Beth and Bronte closed. Leave it to the independent stores to kick freeloading students out.

Seven Roses

6301 Fleet Ave
Cleveland, OH 44105
(216) 641-5789

by Beau Cadiyo

In Alex Garland’s “The Beach,” one of the key themes is the idea that, as humans, we’re always looking for virginity. It isn’t in the sexual sense, though – after all, who really wants to sleep with a virgin? It’s meant more in the sense that we’re always looking to be the first to find something new, to be the gentrifiers in a new area (even though we resist that classification) or to listen to a new band before they get popular, or to travel to the ends of the earth to “discover” a place not yet corrupted by tourists.
That’s the Seven Roses. The building was dark from the outside, seemingly built for strength rather than aesthetics. Inside, people buzzed about, children and adults alike coveting the pastries behind the glass display cases, all speaking Polish. A giant vat of fresh pickles marinated in the refrigerator; dark wood shelves, ornate and sturdy, lined the walls, displaying an incredible display of products unknown and magazines incomprehensible to us. Everyone was dressed up, even the children; it was Sunday, and after church, and everyone still maintained their old-world customs. It was incredibly bright inside, and I realized that more than anything it felt prosperous.
I followed Frank in ordering the Bratwurst sandwich with sauerkraut, adding potato pancakes. The waitress brought out water, sans ice, and some sort of flavored bread – I thought rye, Frank thought otherwise. We talked – girls, business, politics, everything you can be ambitious about. The food came and we were still talking. Babies played dangerously close to glass bottles, pulling them off of the shelves, the parents unfazed. Another waitress walked by with two large, steaming bowls; what is that? Umm…how do you say…cabbage soup. One, please – we’ll split it. Separate bowls? That would be wonderful, jinkooya. Surprise, and almost a curtsey as she walked back. Two bowls were delivered, and then our sandwiches.
It was incredible. The sausage was crisp, and I had a little bit of the tie-off at the end – where the outside binding was tied off and you could see it cut, crisped, delicious. One UrbanSpoon review said that the sausage was made in the basement by a Polish butcher, and the reviewer complained; we both thought it was fantastic. Why would you want sausage made in a factory in Canada when you could have it fresh from downstairs? The sauerkraut was sour, and lovely with the sandwich; the bread firm, a little toasty, but yielding delicately to the teeth. The potato pancakes were a little flaccid, the only weak point of the meal. The soup was incredibly flavorful – strong, thick, hearty.
The waitress came out; would we like coffee? Yes, and do you have a dessert menu? Then, another waitress came out with two slices of cheesecake. “Free,” she said, refusing to meet our eyes or statements of surprise, and the other waitress shrugged. “Free,” she said, and brought us coffee. We paid up at the front, looking around as open-eyed as the children had been an hour previously. The man behind me laughed; “it’s our first time here,” I said. “It’s obvious,” he said, in a thick accent. Jinkooya, jinkooya, and we left.

Café Ah Roma

2230 Euclid Ave
Cleveland, OH 44115
(216) 771-8700
www.cafeah-roma.com

by Beau Cadiyo

1. The increase in ATM fees in this city has reached absurd proportions. Both US Bank and National City near the West Side Market charge $3 for people to use their ATMs; the US Bank ATM INSIDE the West Side Market is only $2. I guess they need to make money somehow - their management certainly isn't doing a great job of it. A teller at the US Bank suggested I go to the dollar store down the street and get cash back; they let me buy an Arizona Iced Tea but then didn’t let me get cash. I was half-tempted to pour the tea on an ATM, but thought better of it.

2. I hate it when people say something is the “best X ever,” or “worst Y ever,” or any combination where the implication is that they’ve sampled all of the golf balls, or hair stylists, or Thai food in the world and have an objective opinion to offer which puts the issue of who/what IS the best to rest. I also hate it when non-English people say “cheers” instead of thanks, or end their emails with it, and when non-Italians say “Ciao” – Frank Cranney excluded.

3. The church was like any European church – towering, ornate, detailed, beautiful. A giant cast eagle in the front made us think of Frank Mott, whose ex-girlfriend commissioned a large, framed portrait of herself, naked, reclined on an American flag with an eagle on top and a cigarette dangling between her legs. She then thought it prudent to mail it to Frank’s mother’s house. We went back out through the lobby looking for the café promised on the sign outside, and only after a few hallways did we find it. Inside, we found normal café furniture, a nerd on a PowerBook, people studying and/or watching YouTube while surrounded by books and the obligatory alternative staff, one intricately and beautifully tattooed, the rest looking like they were trying to make it through another hellish day of food service.

4. The “Famous Chicken Salad” sandwich was texturally satisfying, but almost flavorless. The homemade honey whole wheat bread was soft and chewy, with an almost non-existent crust which melted into the bread itself – any kid would love it. The chicken salad itself was composed of unusually large, firm chunks of bland chicken in a white sauce I would hesitate to call mayonnaise, simply because it didn’t taste of anything. The lettuce was crunchy; I don’t remember a slice of the promised tomato, although I’m sure it was on there. The pickle was, sadly, the most flavorful part.

5. Three bites in, I realized it needed mustard; Frank agreed. It was distributed in small Solo cups. The yellow was completely average, but the honey mustard added more liquid than taste.

6. Perhaps the special coffee drinks and atmosphere are worth it. For food in the area, though, Johnnie’s is just around the corner and much, much tastier.

Moxie

3355 Richmond Rd
Beachwood, OH 44122
(216) 831-5599
www.moxietherestaurant.com/

I once bought a badge at a thrift store that said “I’ve got MOXIE!” As a teenager in San Diego, it meant nothing to me, but to my mother it was a reminder of the 1950s spent in her mother’s soda shoppe on Staten Island, drinking sodas long forgotten. When we looked up the word, we found that it was synonymous for chutzpa. At the time, it certainly described me.

Twelve or thirteen years and thousands of miles later, I arrived at Moxie thinking of that button, and my mother, who I am probably too hard on, but who isn’t hard on their own mother? Moxie seemed to be in an anonymous office park, but inside was a dark, sensuous lounge. It was too much for me to take in at once; I was self-conscious, feeling as if I was out of place. Frank Berezin greeted me warmly at a table in the back, and with the rest of the restaurant behind me, I suddenly felt that the entire meal was something special, like a private club which I’d just gotten access to by association with him – the restaurant in Paris with Dick Diver, perhaps. Frank described some of the other patrons he knew from practicing law or presiding over charitable boards. It struck me how what people desire most – be it power, wealth, fame or any of the other big goals – is about human connections, nothing more, nothing less. The people in that restaurant seemed powerful because, in some way or another, they were all connected to each other. I’d be willing to gamble that a well-connected group of poor people can accumulate anything they desire within a few short years, while a poorly-connected group of well-off people can lose it all in the same amount of time.

Sunlight streamed in when the back door opened. We talked. The Moxie burgers arrived, both medium, mine with onions. It was good. Very good. Held together by a single long toothpick, the meat was tender, markedly sticking together by sheer force of the seared outer shell and crumbling tenderly in my mouth when bitten. The onion, tomato and lettuce was fresh in a way that made each a distinct flavor and the fries were golden and crispy. I wouldn’t say it’s as good as Lolita – ah, Lolita – but for $10, in Beachwood, at lunch, it was a fine, fine sandwich.

When I walked out, the parking lot was full. It again looked like an office park, with cars on Richmond screaming past. I had a moment where I felt like Harry Potter, realizing that I just had to know to walk through the glass doors to be taken to a special place. Then I put my sunglasses on, got into my car and drove away.

The Cheesecake Factory

Highland Heights/Mayfield Heights
24265 Cedar Rd
Cleveland, OH 44124
www.thecheesecakefactory.com
(216) 691-3387

by Beau Cadiyo

Five bites. One, I can understand. Two is suspicious. At three you start looking between the bun. At four you start laughing and mentioning it to the other diners, whereupon they start speculating as to when you will hit meat. When, at five, you finally get a bite of burger patty, you can’t help but be disappointed.

The Cheesecake Factory is a phenomenon: some lady moved to Los Angeles and started it up, and now it’s an international sensation. I went to one in LA seven years ago for a friend’s birthday party, and would have never gone to the one in Beachwood had Frank Keller not had a gift card. She said she owed me for helping her move; I am not one of those chivalrous gentlemen who would never hear of a lady paying for my meal. She gets her wallet out and I know I can put more money toward buying a Rolex or a Springfield Armory 1911. In short, she pays, I become more of a man.

It was packed, so we waited at the bar. Frank sat in the lone empty seat, next to two cougars who obviously knew the 20-something bartender a little too well. I stood, drinking my beer, while Frank argued with him about the amount of vodka in her martini; for $9, one would think you could taste the alcohol a bit more. We talked to the ladies about television shows. When it came time to be seated, we walked a short distance through faux-Egyptian splendor. Something about it reminded me of New York restaurants in the Roaring 20s, and I'm sure the plastic pharaoh heads will last longer than the pyramids. What will future generations think of our chain-restaurant ruins?

The waitress was surly, not bothering to do more than describe the specials and take our orders. When she next returned, with our food, we were just speculating on how horrible her night must be to be as rude as she was – not blaming her, but circumstances.

Then the five bites. Again, I can understand one bite, two is suspicious, etc. Beyond the five bites, nothing about the burger, or the beer, or the fries, or the atmosphere, or the patrons, or the bathroom, was special. Frank’s Thai chicken lettuce wraps were good, but that was small consolation. Five bites.

Frank got out her gift card; she ended up with 33 cents extra on it and, sans cash, no way to leave a tip. That was fine: neither the waitress nor the Cheesecake Factory deserved any of our money. Or her money, anyway.

Five bites. Five bites.