Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Argh
We have something like three reviews in the pipeline, but they're still in the pipeline. Until then, this is important.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Michael's Diner at Shaker Square
13051 Shaker Blvd
Cleveland, OH 44120
(216) 752-0052
by Scarlet Pumpernickel
That place in the Rapid stop. That's what I always ended up saying. I would always try the name first, Michael's Dinner, then the location second, in Shaker Square. Even my friends who lived in the apartments surrounding Shaker Square would give me blank looks. Then I would mention the Rapid stop. Everyone in Cleveland seems to get it then. Yes, the 24 hour diner in the Rapid stop at Shaker Square.
No one had ever been there, but they all knew of the place. I was really surprised that being in the Rapid stop was somehow the defining characteristic of the place. In most people's minds that was everything you needed to know about the place; it summed up the location, ambiance, and food in one nice little thought.
Except I never understood what that thought was. The first thing I noticed about Michael's was its neon signs. At that point, they had me. Neon signs are only used by two kinds of establishments these days, very fancy restaurants that can pay for expensive custom neon built into their exterior décor and diners.
I think the neons and the location are carryovers from a bygone era. Before cars took over America, a dinner in a train stop would not have seemed so strange. Before the household refrigerator and microwave, where did young single men eat on their way to and from work? Locating a diner right at a public transit hub made perfect sense. Maybe with the resurgence of public transit we'll see more establishments like Michael's and then a diner in a Rapid stop won't seem so strange anymore.
The main reason I wanted to go to Michael's was because it was open 24 hours. Eating food after midnight has special rules, and after reviewing a few 6pm burgers, I was eager to review a 3am burger. I was hoping for an especially surreal experience, so I decided to go on Halloween night.
I put together a group of friends to go with me. My friend Frank insisted on wearing a trench coat and fedora. Alcohol was consumed. We were ready to go. Which is why, in a way, the experience was a little disappointing. Michael's is just a diner. It was filled with normal people having a bite to eat at 2 in the morning.
We ordered our food and settled in at the corner booth. We chatted as we waited for our food, and I was having a good time, but something was off. The food came out and we dug in. I enjoyed my burger immensely (my drinking earlier in the evening may have been a factor); the beef was fine, and the lettuce, onion, and tomato were nice and crisp, but something about the experience was still off. It wasn't Michael's. What was wrong was us. We were all so tired, holding on to eat this meal before we went to bed.
Back in college in California, there were many 24 hour establishments to eat at, which was good because my friends and I seemed to be up at all hours 3 or 4 nights a week. We would weep if it was too late for delivery Thai food (2am) and argue burgers or burritos at 3. It isn't just the food that makes late night dinning so special, it the people and the nervous unfocused energy that you can have at that hour.
Michael's has it right: basic, easy comfort food a little on the greasy side, a non-assuming atmosphere, and a nice staff. But that scene's so unusual to me now. I get up early to go to work; I don't have the energy to stay up anymore. I had to try three consecutive weeks before I was able to stay up late enough on a Friday to do the review.
Putting a diner in a Rapid stop makes as much sense today as it ever did, and eating dinner there in the wee hours of the morning is the same as it always was. We're the ones who changed, driving cars to work and going to eat somewhere based on the logo on the side of the building rather than the flashy neons in the windows and having that meal at 6pm and being in bed by 11.
Cleveland, OH 44120
(216) 752-0052
by Scarlet Pumpernickel
That place in the Rapid stop. That's what I always ended up saying. I would always try the name first, Michael's Dinner, then the location second, in Shaker Square. Even my friends who lived in the apartments surrounding Shaker Square would give me blank looks. Then I would mention the Rapid stop. Everyone in Cleveland seems to get it then. Yes, the 24 hour diner in the Rapid stop at Shaker Square.
No one had ever been there, but they all knew of the place. I was really surprised that being in the Rapid stop was somehow the defining characteristic of the place. In most people's minds that was everything you needed to know about the place; it summed up the location, ambiance, and food in one nice little thought.
Except I never understood what that thought was. The first thing I noticed about Michael's was its neon signs. At that point, they had me. Neon signs are only used by two kinds of establishments these days, very fancy restaurants that can pay for expensive custom neon built into their exterior décor and diners.
I think the neons and the location are carryovers from a bygone era. Before cars took over America, a dinner in a train stop would not have seemed so strange. Before the household refrigerator and microwave, where did young single men eat on their way to and from work? Locating a diner right at a public transit hub made perfect sense. Maybe with the resurgence of public transit we'll see more establishments like Michael's and then a diner in a Rapid stop won't seem so strange anymore.
The main reason I wanted to go to Michael's was because it was open 24 hours. Eating food after midnight has special rules, and after reviewing a few 6pm burgers, I was eager to review a 3am burger. I was hoping for an especially surreal experience, so I decided to go on Halloween night.
I put together a group of friends to go with me. My friend Frank insisted on wearing a trench coat and fedora. Alcohol was consumed. We were ready to go. Which is why, in a way, the experience was a little disappointing. Michael's is just a diner. It was filled with normal people having a bite to eat at 2 in the morning.
We ordered our food and settled in at the corner booth. We chatted as we waited for our food, and I was having a good time, but something was off. The food came out and we dug in. I enjoyed my burger immensely (my drinking earlier in the evening may have been a factor); the beef was fine, and the lettuce, onion, and tomato were nice and crisp, but something about the experience was still off. It wasn't Michael's. What was wrong was us. We were all so tired, holding on to eat this meal before we went to bed.
Back in college in California, there were many 24 hour establishments to eat at, which was good because my friends and I seemed to be up at all hours 3 or 4 nights a week. We would weep if it was too late for delivery Thai food (2am) and argue burgers or burritos at 3. It isn't just the food that makes late night dinning so special, it the people and the nervous unfocused energy that you can have at that hour.
Michael's has it right: basic, easy comfort food a little on the greasy side, a non-assuming atmosphere, and a nice staff. But that scene's so unusual to me now. I get up early to go to work; I don't have the energy to stay up anymore. I had to try three consecutive weeks before I was able to stay up late enough on a Friday to do the review.
Putting a diner in a Rapid stop makes as much sense today as it ever did, and eating dinner there in the wee hours of the morning is the same as it always was. We're the ones who changed, driving cars to work and going to eat somewhere based on the logo on the side of the building rather than the flashy neons in the windows and having that meal at 6pm and being in bed by 11.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Mojo’s Cafe
600 Dover Center Road
Bay Village, OH 44140
440-892-4040
by Beau Cadiyo
I start with these precepts:
1) Being rich or wealthy is having money - not spending it.
2) It is easier to save money when you are not forced to spend it on necessities like shelter and food (Bread).
3) It is easier to save money in a place where it is otherwise inexpensive to live and have fun (Circuses).
People are often surprised that I want to stay in Cleveland. It’s a city many people love to hate. I was born here, but I’ve lived in various parts of the world, from a childhood spent in San Diego to a young adulthood in Los Angeles, Oregon, DC, Wales and Spain. With this background, choosing to stay indefinitely in the Midwest often baffles my friends and colleagues. They see Cleveland as dying, if not already dead. It doesn't shock me anymore, but I still don't understand what they're talking about. Cleveland is full of opportunities, from arts and culture (Playhouse Square, the University Circle museums, Little Italy's or Tremont's galleries and amazing music venues from the Agora to the Grog Shop to the Beachland Ballroom) to the emerging and amazing culinary establishments (like these). I read in 2006 that Cleveland was one of the nation's entrepreneurial hotspots, and the number of major international corporations based in Northeast Ohio is impressive. In either 2005 or 2006, the Economist listed Cleveland as the top US city for standard of living. Yet people still claim that Cleveland is boring, that it's on the decline, that they want to live somewhere - anywhere - else. These people remind me of a recent New Yorker cartoon where a child and his parents are at a carnival, the tents, rides, roller coaster and lights all soaring and shining in the background, and the kid says, “I’m bored.” This is precisely the attitude many people take. It is these people who will never be truly happy.
In Cleveland, we have the opportunity to build, to create, to do new things. We also have the freedom to do so. I sometimes compare it to Los Angeles, a city which fosters cutthroat competitiveness that makes for compelling television and movies but, as is well-documented, dead lives. Having lived there and been intimately familiar with it, I think I can say that LA is one of the most desperate places in the world – there are millions of people so close to massive international fame, and so many people move there for a shot at that fame, yet it is completely out of reach for all but a few. It’s full, and if you want to try to squeeze in you'll just be another cog in the machine. Cleveland, on the other hand, has opportunities aplenty for people who want to act and have an impact on their community, who want to do something with their lives.
Cleveland is also a place where you can get rich. There was a speech called “Acres of Diamonds” which was, at one point, the most delivered speech in history. It was built upon an easy story: a man learns of diamonds and how valuable they are. He leaves his home, his wife and children, and goes searching for diamonds to bring back for his family. After long years and constant travels, he dies, and his farm is taken over. His successor finds a glimmering rock in a stream on the property. One day, a neighbor comes by to say hello, and sees a giant glinting rock on the mantle; picking it up, he exclaims, “How fortunate! He found his diamonds!” The new owner says says, “No, he didn’t – that is just a rock that we found out back.” “Nonsense!” says the neighbor. “This is a massive diamond!” They take it to be tested and, sure enough, it’s a diamond. The man’s very back yard turns out to be full of the diamonds he died trying to find.
The moral of the story is that if you’re looking to get rich, don't look elsewhere - try looking in your own back yard.* Most of the major fortunes were not made by people who moved to big cities and got jobs there hoping to get big. Standard Oil was founded in Cleveland, where Rockefeller grew up. Bill Gates started Microsoft in Seattle, where he was born in 1955. Sam Walton started Wal-Mart in his home town in Arkansas. Nike is based in a suburb of Portland, Oregon, where Phil Knight was born in 1938.
It’s been said that the best way to get rich is to not spend your money; those who spend don’t have, and those who have don’t spend. Cleveland has a VERY low cost of living, yet, on average, people in Northeast Ohio make more than the national average. Thus, it’s easy to make money here and then not spend as much as you might in, say, Los Angeles or Miami. Actually, I had a professor here who was from Los Angeles. His friends from home used to ask him why he was in Cleveland, and would go off on the familiar litany of the area’s woes: it’s cold, it’s cold, there’s nothing to do, it's a cultural wasteland, it’s cold. His response: Yes, there is winter. Otherwise, his commute was less than theirs (LA traffic really is that bad) and with the spread of franchises across the nation there is little, other than particular items in individual specialty shops, that you can’t get here. Plus, we have our own individual specialty shops here which include things you can’t get in LA or New York. As for culture, most people's culture consists of television, movies, magazines and books, which are no different here than in San Francisco or Miami. Cleveland competes with any other city for musical acts, we have a world-famous symphony, museums with collections and power that no other museums in America can rival, and amazing theaters and acts. One might wonder why people would choose other cities.**
This includes a growing arts and crafts movement being built. I was first introduced to it by Kathy Smash and went to see a show she was co-hosting at Mojo’s Café. Mojo’s was filled with tables and people, all fawning over the handmade things that were relatively unnecessary ("in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word") but also interesting, creative and often beautiful.
Kathy Smash is eager to create, to do new things, to experiment. We discussed the Dangerous Book for Boys and the Daring Book for Girls, canning, soap-making and how poorly people would fare if water, electricity or gas were taken away from us. “It’s almost like we need a survival school without all the racism and weirdness,” she said.
After milling and buying (woven coffee cup hand protector, earrings, hot chocolate…I can’t remember what else), I ordered half of a Chicken Salad sandwich and half of a Tuna salad sandwich, both on croissants. The croissants themselves were simultaneously airy and butter-rich; the tomato was juicy and the lettuce crispy. I thought that the chicken salad had potato salad mixed in, which would have been a great idea; instead, it was all-white chicken, and had garlic mixed in. My coffee was strong – very strong. It made me excited all over again.
I love Cleveland. I love what it offers, the freedom and ideas, the opportunities to really create that are absent in other, bigger places, or where these opportunities are more difficult and commercialized without being better. I love the opportunity that we have here to be part of the resurgence of a city, to be pioneers in doing something – who was it that said he came not to help the healthy but to heal the sick? – and to create new movements and participate in this new, constantly-changing city.
Now if we could just fix the bridge.
*I realize the irony of saying this after having moved so much myself, but in my defense, I did not move here looking for wealth that I couldn't find in San Diego.
**I have a friend, Bianca, in Chicago who wanted to see Mickey Avalon on his last tour. The show in Chicago, however, was sold out, so she couldn't get tickets. We not only got tickets in Cleveland, at the Grog Shop, but we were stage-side the entire night, were sprayed by his sweat, danced onstage during Jane Fonda and she kissed him at the end of the night while he was leaving the stage.
Bay Village, OH 44140
440-892-4040
by Beau Cadiyo
I start with these precepts:
1) Being rich or wealthy is having money - not spending it.
2) It is easier to save money when you are not forced to spend it on necessities like shelter and food (Bread).
3) It is easier to save money in a place where it is otherwise inexpensive to live and have fun (Circuses).
People are often surprised that I want to stay in Cleveland. It’s a city many people love to hate. I was born here, but I’ve lived in various parts of the world, from a childhood spent in San Diego to a young adulthood in Los Angeles, Oregon, DC, Wales and Spain. With this background, choosing to stay indefinitely in the Midwest often baffles my friends and colleagues. They see Cleveland as dying, if not already dead. It doesn't shock me anymore, but I still don't understand what they're talking about. Cleveland is full of opportunities, from arts and culture (Playhouse Square, the University Circle museums, Little Italy's or Tremont's galleries and amazing music venues from the Agora to the Grog Shop to the Beachland Ballroom) to the emerging and amazing culinary establishments (like these). I read in 2006 that Cleveland was one of the nation's entrepreneurial hotspots, and the number of major international corporations based in Northeast Ohio is impressive. In either 2005 or 2006, the Economist listed Cleveland as the top US city for standard of living. Yet people still claim that Cleveland is boring, that it's on the decline, that they want to live somewhere - anywhere - else. These people remind me of a recent New Yorker cartoon where a child and his parents are at a carnival, the tents, rides, roller coaster and lights all soaring and shining in the background, and the kid says, “I’m bored.” This is precisely the attitude many people take. It is these people who will never be truly happy.
In Cleveland, we have the opportunity to build, to create, to do new things. We also have the freedom to do so. I sometimes compare it to Los Angeles, a city which fosters cutthroat competitiveness that makes for compelling television and movies but, as is well-documented, dead lives. Having lived there and been intimately familiar with it, I think I can say that LA is one of the most desperate places in the world – there are millions of people so close to massive international fame, and so many people move there for a shot at that fame, yet it is completely out of reach for all but a few. It’s full, and if you want to try to squeeze in you'll just be another cog in the machine. Cleveland, on the other hand, has opportunities aplenty for people who want to act and have an impact on their community, who want to do something with their lives.
Cleveland is also a place where you can get rich. There was a speech called “Acres of Diamonds” which was, at one point, the most delivered speech in history. It was built upon an easy story: a man learns of diamonds and how valuable they are. He leaves his home, his wife and children, and goes searching for diamonds to bring back for his family. After long years and constant travels, he dies, and his farm is taken over. His successor finds a glimmering rock in a stream on the property. One day, a neighbor comes by to say hello, and sees a giant glinting rock on the mantle; picking it up, he exclaims, “How fortunate! He found his diamonds!” The new owner says says, “No, he didn’t – that is just a rock that we found out back.” “Nonsense!” says the neighbor. “This is a massive diamond!” They take it to be tested and, sure enough, it’s a diamond. The man’s very back yard turns out to be full of the diamonds he died trying to find.
The moral of the story is that if you’re looking to get rich, don't look elsewhere - try looking in your own back yard.* Most of the major fortunes were not made by people who moved to big cities and got jobs there hoping to get big. Standard Oil was founded in Cleveland, where Rockefeller grew up. Bill Gates started Microsoft in Seattle, where he was born in 1955. Sam Walton started Wal-Mart in his home town in Arkansas. Nike is based in a suburb of Portland, Oregon, where Phil Knight was born in 1938.
It’s been said that the best way to get rich is to not spend your money; those who spend don’t have, and those who have don’t spend. Cleveland has a VERY low cost of living, yet, on average, people in Northeast Ohio make more than the national average. Thus, it’s easy to make money here and then not spend as much as you might in, say, Los Angeles or Miami. Actually, I had a professor here who was from Los Angeles. His friends from home used to ask him why he was in Cleveland, and would go off on the familiar litany of the area’s woes: it’s cold, it’s cold, there’s nothing to do, it's a cultural wasteland, it’s cold. His response: Yes, there is winter. Otherwise, his commute was less than theirs (LA traffic really is that bad) and with the spread of franchises across the nation there is little, other than particular items in individual specialty shops, that you can’t get here. Plus, we have our own individual specialty shops here which include things you can’t get in LA or New York. As for culture, most people's culture consists of television, movies, magazines and books, which are no different here than in San Francisco or Miami. Cleveland competes with any other city for musical acts, we have a world-famous symphony, museums with collections and power that no other museums in America can rival, and amazing theaters and acts. One might wonder why people would choose other cities.**
This includes a growing arts and crafts movement being built. I was first introduced to it by Kathy Smash and went to see a show she was co-hosting at Mojo’s Café. Mojo’s was filled with tables and people, all fawning over the handmade things that were relatively unnecessary ("in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word") but also interesting, creative and often beautiful.
Kathy Smash is eager to create, to do new things, to experiment. We discussed the Dangerous Book for Boys and the Daring Book for Girls, canning, soap-making and how poorly people would fare if water, electricity or gas were taken away from us. “It’s almost like we need a survival school without all the racism and weirdness,” she said.
After milling and buying (woven coffee cup hand protector, earrings, hot chocolate…I can’t remember what else), I ordered half of a Chicken Salad sandwich and half of a Tuna salad sandwich, both on croissants. The croissants themselves were simultaneously airy and butter-rich; the tomato was juicy and the lettuce crispy. I thought that the chicken salad had potato salad mixed in, which would have been a great idea; instead, it was all-white chicken, and had garlic mixed in. My coffee was strong – very strong. It made me excited all over again.
I love Cleveland. I love what it offers, the freedom and ideas, the opportunities to really create that are absent in other, bigger places, or where these opportunities are more difficult and commercialized without being better. I love the opportunity that we have here to be part of the resurgence of a city, to be pioneers in doing something – who was it that said he came not to help the healthy but to heal the sick? – and to create new movements and participate in this new, constantly-changing city.
Now if we could just fix the bridge.
*I realize the irony of saying this after having moved so much myself, but in my defense, I did not move here looking for wealth that I couldn't find in San Diego.
**I have a friend, Bianca, in Chicago who wanted to see Mickey Avalon on his last tour. The show in Chicago, however, was sold out, so she couldn't get tickets. We not only got tickets in Cleveland, at the Grog Shop, but we were stage-side the entire night, were sprayed by his sweat, danced onstage during Jane Fonda and she kissed him at the end of the night while he was leaving the stage.
Rider’s 1812 Inn and Grill
792 Mentor Ave
Painesville, OH 44077
(440) 354-8200
www.ridersinn.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Following up on Scarlet’s post about burgers:
Heated Barbecue Sauce. A minor luxury.
I expected interesting things from Rider’s 1812 Inn. After all, it was built in 1812 on what used to be a major stagecoach line; upon first walking in, from the pouring rain, the inside could have been filled with men and women who participated in the Revolution. The old wood, careful lighting and low ceilings gave me the feeling that I was in a building frozen in time; the fact that it was completely empty added to the sense that we were trespassing in both place and century.
After a few minutes of wandering, a hostess appeared. Yes, they were serving lunch; yes, we could sit in the old part (as opposed to the new bit, built in the early 1900s; yes, the specials were as advertised on the board. She was new, and had only been there a few days; later, we learned that the cook was brand new, too. Such turnover made us slightly suspicious. We were also suspicious of the “Freedom Fries” on the menu – it was the first time I’d actually seen them called “Freedom Fries,” although I’d sarcastically ordered them before in other restaurants. Frank Becker ordered a burger without the fries simply because she didn’t want anything so absurd.
While we waited, a woman wandered past us, back and forth, muttering to herself. It seemed polite not to mention it.
The food came out in waves, which was quaint and endearing rather than amateurish. My burger, ordered with Pepper Jack cheese, onions, mushrooms and bacon on top, was perfectly done, with well-mixed ingredients, crunchy bacon and tender beef. The herb bread bun made it more exotic than I would have expected considering the post-Colonial setting, but was a welcome and delicious modification. The fries were perfect, and the green beans were cooked with bacon, which kept our Muslim member from eating them but meant I got his share. They were crisp, hot and sweet, with the right balance between bacon and green beanniness that almost prevented identification of the bacon while making it noticeable.
When Frank Khan asked for barbecue sauce, it took a while for it to come out. When it did, it was served in miniature tureens. Reason: the barbecue sauce was heated. Until Rider’s, I viewed condiments as mere flavors. Their sauciness, while clearly adding texture and temperature, seems designed to interfere as little as possible in ways besides adding flavor. Liquidity allows them to seep into small pockets of the sandwich or get absorbed by the bread, something cheese, meat and vegetables fail at. Perhaps they even make bites more satisfying by making them more substantial, without the airiness one always associates with onion slices and around the edges of tomatoes.
But temperature modification was something new. Of course, barbecued burgers have hot barbecue sauce, but this was the first time I’d seen it heated it in a restaurant – this practice should be emulated across the land. I began to imagine the possibilities of modifying barbecue sauce, with more spices – peppers, or rosemary. Or, perhaps, barbecue sauce in solid form, as shavings of flavor, sticking to one’s teeth and flavoring every bite beyond just the burger. The possibilities, while not limitless, were exciting nonetheless.
We paid up and walked out into the rain, 1.5 hours after we’d entered. The service, while not fast, and maybe not totally professional, was fun and interesting, and the food was delicious and innovative – something we didn’t expect to find in a place built almost 200 years ago.
Painesville, OH 44077
(440) 354-8200
www.ridersinn.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Following up on Scarlet’s post about burgers:
Heated Barbecue Sauce. A minor luxury.
I expected interesting things from Rider’s 1812 Inn. After all, it was built in 1812 on what used to be a major stagecoach line; upon first walking in, from the pouring rain, the inside could have been filled with men and women who participated in the Revolution. The old wood, careful lighting and low ceilings gave me the feeling that I was in a building frozen in time; the fact that it was completely empty added to the sense that we were trespassing in both place and century.
After a few minutes of wandering, a hostess appeared. Yes, they were serving lunch; yes, we could sit in the old part (as opposed to the new bit, built in the early 1900s; yes, the specials were as advertised on the board. She was new, and had only been there a few days; later, we learned that the cook was brand new, too. Such turnover made us slightly suspicious. We were also suspicious of the “Freedom Fries” on the menu – it was the first time I’d actually seen them called “Freedom Fries,” although I’d sarcastically ordered them before in other restaurants. Frank Becker ordered a burger without the fries simply because she didn’t want anything so absurd.
While we waited, a woman wandered past us, back and forth, muttering to herself. It seemed polite not to mention it.
The food came out in waves, which was quaint and endearing rather than amateurish. My burger, ordered with Pepper Jack cheese, onions, mushrooms and bacon on top, was perfectly done, with well-mixed ingredients, crunchy bacon and tender beef. The herb bread bun made it more exotic than I would have expected considering the post-Colonial setting, but was a welcome and delicious modification. The fries were perfect, and the green beans were cooked with bacon, which kept our Muslim member from eating them but meant I got his share. They were crisp, hot and sweet, with the right balance between bacon and green beanniness that almost prevented identification of the bacon while making it noticeable.
When Frank Khan asked for barbecue sauce, it took a while for it to come out. When it did, it was served in miniature tureens. Reason: the barbecue sauce was heated. Until Rider’s, I viewed condiments as mere flavors. Their sauciness, while clearly adding texture and temperature, seems designed to interfere as little as possible in ways besides adding flavor. Liquidity allows them to seep into small pockets of the sandwich or get absorbed by the bread, something cheese, meat and vegetables fail at. Perhaps they even make bites more satisfying by making them more substantial, without the airiness one always associates with onion slices and around the edges of tomatoes.
But temperature modification was something new. Of course, barbecued burgers have hot barbecue sauce, but this was the first time I’d seen it heated it in a restaurant – this practice should be emulated across the land. I began to imagine the possibilities of modifying barbecue sauce, with more spices – peppers, or rosemary. Or, perhaps, barbecue sauce in solid form, as shavings of flavor, sticking to one’s teeth and flavoring every bite beyond just the burger. The possibilities, while not limitless, were exciting nonetheless.
We paid up and walked out into the rain, 1.5 hours after we’d entered. The service, while not fast, and maybe not totally professional, was fun and interesting, and the food was delicious and innovative – something we didn’t expect to find in a place built almost 200 years ago.
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