Prosperity Social Club

1109 Starkweather Ave
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 937-1938
http://www.prosperitysocialclub.com

By Beau Cadiyo

It was the Oyster Po’ Boy that got me. It got Scarlet, too, who talks at least once a day about her time spent working in a seafood restaurant, and who distrusts Po’ Boys with sausages. And it was the Oyster Po’ Boy that lured Frank Fu from her fourth-year medical school studies to the Prosperity Social Club on a Monday night.

Thus, when they did not have Oysters, there was a general murmur of discontent around the table. The waitress, sensing mutiny, decided to go elsewhere and return while we settled on a new dish. Comparatively, none of the other sandwiches attracted; Scarlet got the Fried Fish Sandwich and Frank got a Reuben. I settled for a Killer Gouda Burger, described thus: “Black Angus beef, smoked Gouda, bacon, lettuce, tomato. Topped with two homemade onion rings and spicy soy-mayo sauce on toasted ciabatta bread and hand cut french fries.”

With orders out of the way, we were able to look around. The Prosperity Social Club is, admittedly, beautiful in a dilapidated way. The bar itself is ancient and dark, with old signs and knick-knacks lining the shelves, and an mid-20th Century bowling game in the back. At the same time, it’s in the middle of Tremont, and seems designed to attract the thin young men in skinny jeans and wider young women with tattoos and black hair who sat at the bar. It’s like a 40-year-old beauty queen, just past her prime, luring in a younger man who gives her a jolt of excitement.

My burger was long in arriving – they served in three stages, and I was at the end. I would re-christen this the Napoleon burger. It was ambitious – while the volume of the description indicated something massive, the reality was the opposite – the ciabatta bread were scarcely larger than croutons, and everything else was apportioned accordingly. When it and the fresh-cut fries – admittedly, not bad – were done, I was left searching for other sustenance. I had some of Scarlet’s fish sandwich, which was disappointingly average, and then a cut of the Reuben. Corned beef and sauerkraut were placed between two potato pancakes. The beef was good, as was the sauerkraut, but the pancakes were more grease than potato. It was simply repulsive. Frank got through perhaps 1/3 before pushing her plate away; after the first bite, I don’t think anyone else wanted to try it.

We got the bill and divided it up. To me, it seemed absurdly expensive for what we got – I ended up paying $20 or so for a burger and a share of appetizers that were, frankly, not very good. I sensed a general unease around the table, and the waitress seemed to, also, ducking in and taking payment quickly. I’ll likely go back at some point, for a drink or a round of mini-bowling, but even the promise of an Oyster Po’ Boy will not lure me back for the food.

The Hickory Lake Inn

14592 Stone Rd
Newbury, OH 44065
(440) 564-9735

by Beau Cadiyo

I’d last seen the Hick after Frank Khan and I had met a girl, Frank Brennan, at Punderson, and she brought us there. We were definitely out of place – two young, highly educated males with all of our teeth and no prison records drinking with a bunch of people who were none of those things. (I’m not joking: none of the men we sat with had any degrees nor all their teeth, and they all had prison stories and accused each other of being bottoms.) They were eager to talk to us, though, and extremely warm and welcoming.

I returned, almost by accident, with Frank James, an old college friend. The Hick hadn’t changed – it was still run down and the clientele still looked a little worse for wear. On second view, though, I found it more open and bright than I remembered, and it was clean and orderly. The clientele, while perhaps only remembering better days, were warm, welcoming and friendly to both each other and to us newcomers. It was a community, the kind I’d be hard-pressed to find in any city.

We sat down and ordered two Dortmunder Golds, and Frank went outside. The bartender said “three-fifty,” so I took Frank’s five dollar bill and my five-dollar bill and gave them to the bartender. He came back with six dollars and fifty sense. “Excuse me, sir?” I said, “I think you gave me back too much.” He looked and said, “No I didn’t. It’s three-fifty.”

$1.75 per beer. We weren’t in Cleveland anymore.

Reasoning that I had some cash for food, I ordered a fried fish sandwich. The barman offered regular fries or sweet potato fries. Normally, this might not raise eyebrows, but context is everything: at the Hick, I didn’t expect the relatively posh luxury of sweet potato fries, just like I wouldn’t fly coach on Southwest and expect the choice between peanuts and Beluga caviar for a snack before takeoff. I’d choose salted peanuts over caviar any day of the week, and regular fries over sweet potato, too.

It was a good choice: the fries were crisp yet tender in the middle. The fish was hot, crisp and had little breading – it was not the best I’ve ever had but it was far, far better than I would have ever expected. The bun was soft, and the lettuce and tomato was fresh; the tartar sauce, served on the side, was average but seemed somehow excellent.

When tipping, Frank started berating me for leaving change. She argued that it was rude to leave change, and that only bills are acceptable tips. First, I didn’t care, and second, it doesn’t make sense to me that anyone would object to receiving more money in tips in metal form than paper. She sulked out, angry, while I finished my beer. Then, we got in the car and rode back to the city in silence.

Five Guys Burgers

1237 S.O.M. Center Rd.

Mayfield Heights, OH 44124

www.fiveguys.com

by Scarlet Pumpernickel

When I first went to a 5 Guys many years ago, I was disappointed that they didn’t have the option for a double cheeseburger on their menu. Little did I realize that the double patty burger is the default at 5 Guys. I was delighted: finally, a place that realizes a fast food burger is vastly improved by doubling up on the meat and which relegates the single patty burgers to the kid’s menu. Now, a few years on, eating at 5 Guys my perspective has changed - not on the double patty issue, I still believe a two patty fast food burger is just better, but on what the acceptance of the double burger really means.

While we were there, I mentioned to Beau the fact that the Big Mac was called the Big Mac because when it was introduced, it was big. The “standard” burger from 5 Guys was somewhat larger than a Big Mac, which is just not that big anymore. Over the decades, the perception of how large a normal meal should be has steadily increased. When I said it, it was just idle speculation on my part, but I started to wonder: what if it was true? What if we really have a different perception of meal size than earlier generations did?

I was shocked to read an article the other day that shows that were are eating more than we used to. Actually, the fact that we are eating more is just a minor point in the article on the way to explaining why America is so fat. The Department of Agriculture keeps track of how much food is consumed in the US (from which we can figure out per capita calorie consumption), and this per capita calorie consumption has steadily increased over the past 30 years. The study indicates that Americans are not obese because we don’t exercise, it’s that we eat too damn much.

So the solution is to eat less. It seems simple, but it isn’t. It isn’t because I know that a two patty fast food burger is more delicious than a one-patty fast food burger. It would be like someone trying to use their BlackBerry as just a phone and not checking it every thirty seconds to see who emailed/texted/IMed them. We all know that on some abstract metaphysical level it would be better, but we simply can’t help ourselves. The only realistic thing I’ve seen BlackBerry users do when they actually want to get away from all the interruptions is leave the thing at home. Technology has become such a burden that we need to take a vacation from it.

Perhaps what we must do with our food is to take a vacation from the excess. It is certainly possible to do - plan out a week of healthy, satisfying meals. Really, the funny part is that we aren’t taking a vacation to a world of culinary excess, but from it, because we live in the world of excess. Then again, when I eat a 5 Guys cheeseburger and an order of the hand cut fries, I know deep down that it’s home.

Argh

We have something like three reviews in the pipeline, but they're still in the pipeline. Until then, this is important.

Fatburger

1431 SOM Center Rd.
Mayfield Heights, Ohio 44124
440.995.5020
www.fatburger.com

by Beau Cadiyo

The first time I saw Fatburger it was in San Diego, at the corner of Garnet and Mission in Pacific Beach, sometime around 2003. This was long before I heard Biggie advise that “If (you) wanna squirt her, take her to Fatburger,” and I never went, nor took a date there, which probably hindered my early-20s dating. Last Halloween in Chicago, I heard Kanye was trying to bring one to the city, and Chicago’s free paper waxed about Fatburger’s glorious reputation. Then, three weeks ago, I was driving down SOM Center Road and saw it. I did a double-take, thinking it must be a mistake, or some trademark infringement, but no – it was Fatburger, solidly in the middle of middle-class middle-America. I immediately called Scarlet.

The burgers arrived in their respective baskets, half-wrapped in paper. They were big, but not massive – three half-pound patties (pre-cooked weight) stuffed in one large bun with all the trimmings. The beef was crisped on the outside, but not burned, and looked partially breaded. The buns seemed freshly made and had absorbed some of the beef juices; lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, mayo, mustard and pickles all blended harmoniously. The first bite was inviting, delicious, with several textures all mixing in together, and the burned taste endearing the burger to me. The rest of the bites were just as good, sometimes flavored by a surprise pickle chunk or burst of mayo, sometimes almost entirely beef. Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub should take note – the best way to make a large burger is to make several small ones. At the same time, Scarlet and I theorized that the problem was not the size at Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub – it was the ingredients. The ones at Denny’s seemed almost reconstituted, and we doubted they used the same beef for their regular burgers; Fatburger used the same high-quality ingredients they otherwise would.

Frank was the first to finish in about seven minutes; Frank finished in eight, and I was at 9:55. After that, I didn’t pay attention, except to see Scarlet struggling for perhaps a half-hour at the other end of the table. I passed around the Johnnie Walker Black I’d brought and we congratulated ourselves on a job well done. In retrospect, though, I disappointed myself. I ate too fast, not savoring it nearly as much as I could have or should have. I was focused on the destination, not the journey, and I lost out in the end.

I began to silently compare a Fatburger to the burgers at Lola or Lolita, and Fatburger came out on top. Symons’ burgers are gourmet, and it comes through in the tastes, textures and presentation. Fatburger has good ingredients, but not gourmet, and brands itself as a “burger shack.” At the Ls, one gets a fried egg with the yolk ready to be broken; at Fatburger, my yolk was pierced and cooked through. However, the Triple King is easily twice or three times larger and far more accessible, with more options. You can get the Triple King at any time, whereas the Lolita burger is available only during Happy Hours, and, depending on the waitress, might only be available at the bar.

Thus, all things considered, I put Fatburger ahead of both Lola and Lolita. What it lacks in “quality” it makes up for in price, accessibility and size. This truly is the last great burger shack.

###

by Scarlet Pumpernickel

Perhaps the most gratifying part of completing the Triple King challenge was hearing Beau comment that perhaps Fat Burger may have a better burger than Lolita. Of course this comparison is a fallacy. Think of it as the equivalent of comparing Bourbon and Scotch. They may both be whiskeys, but they can’t be paired up next to each other, they’re too different. The key is to learn to appreciate each for what it is, and you discover that ultimately there is no best, only a favorite.

We took a crew of hungry people to Fat Burger to take on the Triple King challenge. They take a standard King burger (with a ½ lb patty) and pile two extra ½ lb patties on top. Of course, that’s pre-cooked weight, so the final burger was probably less than a third the size of what Beau and I took on in Pennsylvania. You can adjust fixings to taste, and there was no time limit. It wasn’t a challenge like the last giant burger, but I don’t think that’s the point.

Normally they have a big challenge day on a Saturday at one of the local Fat Burgers (they made an exception for us because they’re really nice). People eat, certificates and tee-shirts are distributed and a good time is had by all. It’s also a great add for Fat Burger. Since the Triple King is just an expanded normal burger, it tastes just as good as a regular Fat Burger. They hope those contestants will come back to eat a more regular meal in the future.

And they probably will; the burgers are tasty. Best burgers? Well, not quite. Fat Burger is a type of establishment that is quite common in L.A., the upscale burger joint. They don’t have gourmet burgers, but they are a clear step up from your typical fast food place. They make the extreme of what can be done with the base components of a burger. Start with a patty, not to thick, and cook it on a griddle. Top with cheese, nothing fancy, just good American. Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles. Mayo and mustard, with maybe some ketchup. Everything is good and fresh, and they don’t cook it until you order it.

So how does this differ from a standard gourmet burger? The key is in the shape of the patty. It’s very flat. This dramatically changes the ratio of meat to toppings in each bite. In a gourmet burger, the meat is a massive anchor in the center of the sandwich that dominates every bite. You have to use good beef and cook it right, or else the burger is unpleasant. The advantage is that it serves as a base for other strong flavors: sharp cheddar cheese, apple smoked bacon, BBQ sauce, etc. Flavors you learned to appreciate as you grew older and you palette developed.

A Fat Burger is a much more visceral experience. Rather than slide between strong, complex flavors or trick the mouth with interesting textures, a Fat Burger takes flavors and textures that appeal to the instinct. These flavors your body knows because you’ve evolved to eat them. Juicy beef, gooey cheese, sweet tomatoes, crisp lettuce; it satisfies on a very deep level. It’s what you eat when you’re damn hungry and you don’t care to savor each bite. You savor the act of eating the burger because you feel it in your whole body, not just your mouth. Then, later, you’ll crave it, in a way you can never really crave a gourmet burger.

The good news for both types of burgers is that they each have a place in the world. We’re the ones who confuse things by trying to lump them together. Some days you want the more sophisticated burger and some days you want a Fat Burger. Ultimately, understanding the differences between them makes them both more enjoyable.

Beachland Ballroom and Tavern

15711 Waterloo Rd
Cleveland, OH 44110
(216) 383-1124
www.beachlandballroom.com

by Beau Cadiyo

I went to college with a kid named Frank Long. He was a product of a military high school; he’d never experimented with drugs or drinking, barely saw girls and, as told to me by his freshman-year roommate, ironed his underwear. When he asked me to be his roommate sophomore year, it may have been one of the biggest moments of his life. I don’t think he had ever asked anyone for anything before, and he was as nervous as most guys would have been asking for a prom date. He gave me a picture he’d made of Bill Clinton and then popped the question. I said yes(!). Later, he said that he had a vision of a barbecue where “slabs” of tofu would be slathered in barbecue sauce and grilled, and he said he thought I was the person who would make it happen. That summer, I went to work in Santa Barbara and Frank returned to New Mexico. He started smoking weed, and at one time either smoked so much, or did some other drug, that a leprechaun came and sat on his bed at night, right near his feet, and told him what was going to happen the next day. He was institutionalized and, as far as I know, never returned to college. ’

I never made the barbecue tofu a reality; I’ve only ever barbecued meat and veggies. The Beachland Ballroom, however, has a barbecue tofu sandwich, which I felt compelled to order. It is served on a cut section of baguette which has the consistency of common American French bread and is thus disappointing. The tofu, fried with onions, is slathered in sauce and is perfectly spicy, with a vinegar edge that I only recognized two days later after careful reflection. Together, the tastes and textures were a delight, but the sandwich is incredibly small – it MAY have measured 4.5” across and 6” long. Three times larger, it would have been a deal, and with the price of tofu at Trader Joe’s I’m positive they could still turn a profit.

Luckily, I was able to just turn my barstool 90 degress to the right and indulge in something not nearly as overpriced: the vegan cupcakes sold at the show by Mama Coffees. The consistency was denser than a regular cupcake, but the taste and texture were exquisite – chocolatey, moist, and yielding satisfactorily to the teeth. It was, by far, the single best vegan thing I have ever eaten. I had two, and would have had more if I’d had the cash. I finished them both off with my beautifully poured Dewar’s and soda, which, at $5, was an incredible deal.

As it was one of the coldest nights of the year, few people were out for what turned out to be a solid, tight set from one of my favorite bands, The Very Knees. Dave, of TVK, worked the crowd as best he could; the bartenders chatted with everyone. As the show went on, the tastes in my mouth worked themselves over, mixing in several burps – barbecue, tofu, Scotch, chocolate – and I reminisced. I wondered what might have happened had Frank not been committed. That summer, the campus outcast had decided it was a good idea to take Frank’s place in my dorm room since he thought we were friends. After two days his famous smell permeated the suite. My girlfriend at the time, who was studying in France, would call passionately every morning at seven AM. I would jump out of bed completely naked to answer the phone, which was next to his bed, and then order him out of the room so she and I could talk privately. After a week, he decided it wasn’t working and moved out, leaving me with a double room all by myself. While I have lived with people since, I have never had another roommate, and I wonder if it has negatively impacted on my ability to deal with people. I guess I’ll never know.

Lure Bistro

38040 3rd St
Willoughby, OH 44094
(440) 951-8862
www.thelurebistro.com

by Beau Cadiyo

The last time I reviewed Lure, I compared dining to relationships. Some restaurants will eventually know your favorite appetizers; some are one-night stands that you don’t intend to repeat. I forgot about the one-night stands that really aren’t that bad. Maybe you actually have a good time, even if it’s a bit awkward, and the next morning you tell her you’ll call, and you intend to, but you never do. You think about it the next day, frequently, and smile, but there are other things to think about and do, complicated things. As time goes by, you start to make excuses – at 5:30 she’s probably getting off of work, at 8:00 she’s at the gym, and 9:00 is too late so you’ll just call tomorrow. Then you get busy, you forget, and sometimes you think of calling – well, maybe more than sometimes – but there’s always a reason not to, until eventually, you end up having not called for so long that to actually call would be insulting.

But then you see her out somewhere. It could be awkward, except that instead of averting her eyes and making a quiet comment to her friend, she smiles that there are no hurt feelings. Maybe she even waves, and her friends look at you and judge. You walk up to her and hug her and say hi, and soon you’re talking with her and her friends, and eventually they all leave you chatting with her, alone at the bar, and then they tell her that they’re going home and she says ok, twirling some of her hair until they walk out the door without her. This time, you make sure that before you leave her house in the morning, you set up a date – that is, if you don’t spend the whole day together, and the next night. An explanation for your not calling isn’t necessary – in fact, you come to realize that if you HAD called too soon you might have screwed things up, or she may have thought you were too aggressive, or some combination of circumstances would have made your new relationship fizzle. If you bring it up, she silences you and you know all’s well that ends well.

That’s how it was with Lure.

Last time, I had promised to return within a month, but never did. Walking up five months later, I felt guilty, but the first thing I noticed was that the patio and outside bar had been demolished, and in the middle of a strong winter storm, the building itself is beautiful. We got a warm welcome from the manager and the hostess, and were seated against the back wall in front of an interesting sculpture of Buddha’s meditating eyes. Mention of the missing patio and bar spurred a detailed description of the renovations – the new arrangements, the new bar, the new everything that was planned. I instinctively compared it to the Melting Pot. Where the Melting Pot feels claustrophobic and intrusive, with high-backed booths (which nevertheless let all conversations enter), Lure’s open seating pattern and hanging glass balls feel intimate, proving Jordan Baker’s theory that big parties are much more intimate than small ones.

The six sushi rolls arrived startlingly quickly, an impressive feat considering the variety. Whereas last time they fell apart easily and seemed a bit haphazardly made, this time they were tight, holding together through a dunking in soy sauce and wasabi. Whereas before they were unmemorable, mushing together, this time I could feel the different textures between my teeth and on my tongue, the flavors fresh and perfect. We could not figure out what made the Mexican roll Mexican, but it was delicious; the Lure roll was better, and the Philly roll was better still. The Spicy Salmon and Spicy Crab rolls had just the right amount of kick, and the Barbecue Eel was my favorite, despite having never liked eel in sushi before.

The pièce de résistance was the sandwich. When it was brought out and presented, the manager walked over and crouched down at eye level, like he was inspecting the lines on a car, or the details in an architectural model. Luckily he didn’t take a bite – this was the single best fish sandwich I’ve ever had. Period. No comparison.

It was sesame-seared Ahi tuna on a square multigrain ciabatta bun, with cucumber slaw atop the tuna and soy reduction and wasabi mayonnaise dipping sauces in a small bowl on the side. In a larger bowl were white truffle French fries with sea salt and herbs. The bread was outstandingly toasted, and the Ahi was seared for about ¾ of a millimeter before it was bright, vibrant pink. I bit through the various layers with the soy reduction sauce on one corner and thought at first that I hadn’t gotten any fish, because I didn’t feel my teeth going through flesh. Then I chewed: it was soft, tender, light and almost not chewy at all. The second bite was the same, as was the third; only at the end did I taste the sesame. I gladly split it with my dining partner, local intellectual property attorney Harry Hoagie, but in retrospect I resented my generosity for inspiring me to share it.

Now, one day later, I can’t stop thinking about it, not because it’s still on my breath (the slaw’s onions were potent) but because it was such a singularly perfect experience. Lure was welcoming, pleasant, encouraging of good conversation – beautiful inside and out. The thought of that oh-so-tender flesh on my tongue makes me smile, and makes my mouth water in anticipation of its next meeting.
I probably should have returned earlier. I knew how to get there, and I’d tried to go a couple of times, but was foiled for no good reason– I just didn’t go. There’s no sense looking back in anger; what’s done is done. What’s important now is that Lure is there, it’s waiting, and I just made plans to see it again for Valentines Day.