Bob’s Big Boy

12920 Brookpark Road
Cleveland, Ohio 44130
216-433-4660
www.bigboy.com
by Beau Cadiyo

We’d just gotten out of a go-karting session and there was a giddiness present of otherwise entirely responsible people who had just played hooky for the first time in months. Youth, we were learning, really is wasted on the young. We are apparently in the beginning stages of trying to hold on to it.

As if to drive the point home, Noreen, the 45-ish smiling waitress, arrived with old sailor tattoos on both forearms. The smeared ink implied that she’d gotten them when she was an immortal 17-year-old. I silently wondered if the girls and Asim were already using wrinkle creams.

First, the coleslaw arrived independently as an appetizer. Asim said, “That’s stupid,” and he was correct. It was mayonnaise-heavy and the cabbage was too finely shredded –more confetti than tickertape.

The bread on my tuna melt was well buttered, but the rye was almost entirely masked by salt from an unidentifiable source. The tuna was lightly mayonnaised, with celery flecks here and there, and they used two different types of cheese. However, the cheese was pre-packaged and had not been exposed to enough heat to alter the indentations of the plastic wrapping. The wilted pickle slices, crinkle-cut, lazed on the plate; the “Famous” onion rings may have been famous, but it wasn’t for being exceptional. The highlight was the elbow straw provided for my Wild Cherry Pepsi, with the pleasant service coming in a close second.

Asim, Shelly and Emily enjoyed their Big Boys, although Shelly’s didn’t come with special sauce ON the burger whereas Asim’s did. She made a little bit of a fuss out of it, then backed off; I realized that it was the second time I got the distinct impression that she, a black woman, received inferior service to someone else in the party. The immediate tendency was to blame racism, but Asim is Muslim, and in this America I’d expect him to be treated even more poorly. Brandy’s chicken sandwich arrived, and really was “Beyond the Bun.” The gimmick was a clever idea, but perhaps a bit impractical for eating with one’s hands. It did, however, draw attention away from the earlier problem.

In the beginning, it felt extremely teenage, all six of us packed around the table, with toddler’s mazes, coloring pictures and cheap crayons cheerfully provided by the hostess (and Sharpie markers found in Emily’s purse). In the end, when we stood up, we were six more law students with reasonably certain, bright futures, leaving behind pictures carefully colored, shaded even, mazes completed, bills paid.

Dunkin’ Donuts

17801 Bagley Rd
Middleburg Heights, OH 44130
440-243-8787
www.dunkindonuts.com

Bite: for cheese like plastic, you can't beat Dunkin'.

by Beau Cadiyo

Mike called Brett his girlfriend, but said she was a player and didn’t want to commit to any concrete description of their relationship. They’d jointly planned the trip and booked the hotel room that eight of us crowded into. We got ice and started drinking there, and then we went to the Irish festival. By midnight Brett and Mike weren’t talking, Georgette had picked up a musician and I’d picked up nothing, even though there were plenty of pretty, belligerently drunk girls around. At 12:30 a.m. Brett and I were sitting on the curb outside the hotel. She was crying, and Mike was standing thirty yards away with everyone else, waiting for her to go inside so he could walk with them to a bar. I half expected him to find some Englishmen to festa.

Brett, Bill and I all ended up at Dunkin Donuts the next morning. The blueberry bagel with egg and cheese wasn’t as good as at Lucky’s, but it had a plastic-chemical quality that I liked – it wasn’t good, but it was satisfying in a way that might be admired only in America. The egg portion was thin and flecked with pepper (I think); the cheese was fake, but melted well, squeezing up through the bagel hole and solidifying uncomfortably on my right forefinger. When I peeled it off it left a thin, greasy layer which mostly wiped off on my sock, but a bit lingered in the crack between my nail and skin. For a moment I thought that I should lick my finger to get it off, but that would have been a little too desperate, so I left it. The bagel itself smelled (and tasted) so strongly of blueberries that Brett asked about it from the front seat. My hazelnut coffee was well-flavored but a bit too sweet, and a lot too hot. I ended up dumping it out two hours later.

We listened to a live CD made by one of the “Irish” bands we’d seen the night before and laughed at the jokes they apparently told every show. When Brett dropped us off she was clearly disturbed again. They were both wonderful people. We all could have had such a good time together. It was pretty to think so, anyway.

The Oberlin Market

22 Carpenter Court
440-774-8401

Bite: Like the 1960s: so much promise, so much disappointment.

by Beau Cadiyo

Prevented from ordering sandwiches at the Feve, which doesn’t serve weekend lunch until 3 p.m., Lara talked us through a graceful exit and we continued down the street. A small sign caught our eye, and we followed it between two buildings and out into an oppressively hot parking lot, bearing right. Through the “market,” which was shelves of carefully arranged products, and over a sneeze-guarded fridge, a youngish woman took our orders, armpit hair sprouting proudly. She was very pleasant, wanting to make sure that she knew where we were sitting so she could find us.
Outside, we found the picnic table too hot to sit at. Inside, we found Zen Blocks, a non-competitive game from the 1960s, which proved too difficult to play casually. The waitress brought our drinks as we were playing backgammon. My iced chai came in a mason jar, which pleased me. I generally approve of this brand of utilitarianism. Then, when she brought my water, it was in a mason jar with a drinking handle, which set my jaw. Something about it struck me as inherently poseur-ish. It was an “authentic” touch, a tromp de l’oeil, a façade of hippiness that middle-aged suburban women who had no intention of giving up their SUVs but wanted to “experience” Oberlin would approve of excitedly while they misremembered the glory of the past. My lips thinned in indignation. Then, Lara realized that she lost her phone somewhere when we were taking pictures and couldn’t concentrate.
The sandwiches arrived fifteen minutes after I asked after them – they took so long that Lara suggested they might be making fresh cheese. Idea: pesto grilled cheese with veggies, Lara’s with chips, mine with salad. Reality: small slices of bread, slightly stuffed with pesto, cheese, tomato, and cucumber, and apparently lightly grilled, although the bottoms of both of our sandwiches seemed soaked through with some unidentifiable oily liquid. My salad was outstanding – sunflower seeds, greens and house vinaigrette. After waiting so long, hunger was a good spice, but eating at the back of our minds was that we waited so long for so little.
I paid up and we went from the market into the parking lot, then back through Oberlin to look for Lara’s phone. Something felt oppressively, unpleasantly unsatisfying, but we wanted to be positive about the experience. In the end, like the 1960s, there was much promise and so, so much disappointment.

Big Dogs ‘N’ More

Wade Park Oval
Wade Park Wednesdays
Cleveland

11609 Corlett Ave
Cleveland, OH 44105

(216) 491-3647

Bite: get ready to bend over and take it.

by Beau Cadiyo

We stepped over the yellow chain barrier and seized an empty table in the back corner of the beer garden, which gave the impression of being more adult than the surrounding area. It seemed like a small version of one of Gatsby’s early parties, with groups of people intricately connected to each other in ways we couldn’t know. Ed had just broken up with his girlfriend, so we talked about that as we ogled three girls in spring skirts, aloof and confident, at the next table over. Two people asked to sit with us, and then their three friends joined them. Like vultures, they hovered over us, waiting for us to leave, spreading themselves around the table. When Emily, Kyle, Laura and Mike arrived and agreed to hold our chairs, Ed and I got up to get food.

Ed’s text – and I quote – had promised “live music lots of sandwiches and Sarah Duffy.” It was 33% wrong. Only two “sandwiches” were available from the same stand: a $7 Turkey Croissant and a $6 Hamburger. Inexplicably Croissant-less, they offered bread instead. The sandwich came with chips and soda; Lou asked if he could trade the chips for a brownie, but was denied by the old woman; a brownie was an extra $1.25. The man under the tent, dreadlocks held back by a bandana, energetically put my sandwich and Lou’s hamburger in cardboard boats, made sure we got our small Snyder’s of Berlin chips, let us choose either cans of Strawberry/Cherry or Orange Cotton Club soda and asked for $13. In parting, he asked about the Cavs; I said that perhaps they should just bend over and take it.

Which is what we did. The sandwich had overwhelming tones of Giant Eagle Wheat Bread and mayonnaise, generously scooped from Ziploc Tupperware. The two slices of processed turkey and crunchy tomato were subtle complementary notes. The chips were thin slivers, heavily salted and oiled, with little flavor to speak of, and the soda tasted like Hi-C, heavily diluted with over-carbonated water.

However, most of the vultures had left, and we were firmly in control of the table. A pug ran over and wanted to play; little children were chastised for ripping up grass and throwing it in each others’ hair. The reggae band played for what must have been three hours. When I left, the scene had the “fade to black” quality of an old movie; people would always be drawn to East Egg and West Egg, but my directions were to move on.

Beachland Ballroom

15711 Waterloo Rd,
Cleveland, OH 44110
http://www.beachlandballroom.com/
By Edward Sandwichhands

The Beachland Ballroom is an old Croatian social club. It smells like a Phish concert, but you know it isn’t because everyone is way too well dressed. My jeans are never tight enough, my shirt is never cool enough, and when I am there for a show I just don’t think I’ll ever be pretty again.

At the bar you have your choice of grilled cheese, a hamburger, and a deep friend peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Deep fried sandwiches are actually the reason my family decided to come to this country. Genetically, I can’t pass up an opportunity to have a complete stranger needlessly deep fry food for my consumption. The sandwich complimented my Pabst tall boy well, but would have been better suited as a dessert. It was very rich and similar to a fried donut. They used crunchy peanut butter, which added a unique texture to the deep-fried mass of oil and bread staring me in the thighs. Just kidding. I don’t care what my thighs look like – that’d be ridiculous.

After the sandwiches we saw “The National.” It was an amazing show. Unlike most other shows at the Beachland, we were able to get up to the stage. After the show I ran into an old neighbor named Vinny. Last I had heard Vinny had gone insane and had to move back in with his parents. I guess he pulled himself together enough to make the show. That’s why the Beachland is so great. We drown our sorrows in music, beer, and comfort food trying to pretend that we aren’t crazy as shit.

McDonald’s

4500 Mayfield Road
South Euclid, OH 44121-4017
www.mcdonalds.com
by Beau Cadiyo

When I was four I was sitting in my dad’s new office. My whole family worked for him – I stuffed envelopes for a penny per. My mom asked him about dinner plans; he said, “What about M-C-D-” and I shouted, “Yeah!” He was surprised; it turned out “McDonald’s” was the first word I knew how to spell. I got a hamburger as a reward.

My parents were proud; 23 years later, most would be appalled. The obesity epidemic has destroyed one of the great American experiences: fast food. A halcyon romanticization of the past, perhaps, but I bet that at one time Americans considered McDonald’s a luxury to be taken in moderation. Now, many see only Morgan Spurlock’s excess and react with disgust at how unhealthy the country is. For me, the golden arches remind me of an Anaheim McDonald’s where, holding my 16-year-old hand, Catherine Grace Bell ordered a cheeseburger without the meat and I instantly became a vegetarian. Well, pesco.

Mayfield McDonald’s is wonderfully well-windowed; the view compels consideration of the car-centric culture which grew up with drive-thrus. The lighting is not overwhelmingly bright, and the plants, piped music and uniformed staff add nostalgia. The menu is different from what I remember – the salad options almost made me feel more guilty for being there, not happy that their menu now reflects society’s healthy desires.

My fish sandwich was just like I remembered them, if slightly fishier. My pessimism returned and made me think their chemists overcompensated. The small fries were crisp, the big ones almost soggy, the barbecue and sweet and sour sauce recipes apparently unchanged. The chocolate shake may have been engineered to balance the saltiness perfectly, and to make me burp.

Granted, the patrons next to me were massively overweight. However, watching them laugh made me think that while perhaps fat people should watch what they eat, at least they still understand the magic of a happy meal. Or four in one sitting, as the case may be.

Coventry Panini's Grill

1825 Coventry Rd
Cleveland, OH 44118
(216) 321-6444
By Edward Sandwichhands

Loneliness is a dish best served on two pieces of bread – with a pickle. Panini’s on Coventry is possibly the worst place I’ve ever been. Every time I go there I die – and I am reborn in a puddle of vomit. This time it was different and it was personal. I was there to get sandwiches.

I just can’t go inside Panini’s on Coventry. I think of Panini’s patio as a safe-haven - the last vestige of hope in an otherwise Shitville-Ohio-Yuppie-Frat-Boy-Pull-the-Fucking-Trigger-Already-Bar. So we ate on the patio, despite the protests of a Carol Rubin and a mid-summer chill in the air.

My original plan was to get the cheapest sandwich on the menu because I’m poor as hell. I mean I have some money, but seriously – I’m poor as hell. I went with the patty melt. Rye bread, beef, onions, butter, and Swiss cheese. That’s how I do. The sandwich was great. I always eat the fries first. I thought they were fine. The other people I was with complained that they were cold and undercooked. What the fuck are fries anyhow? Filler. Needless Filler. That’s kind of what Panini’s is all about.

A patty melt is basically a hamburger on bread. If Panini’s had screwed it up I probably would have punched the bartender in the face. However, the sandwich was fine. About 4 hours later I picked a rye seed out of a molar in the upper-left part of my mouth. It reminded me of a satisfying dinner and a bar that makes me think it might be cool to start hanging out at home.