Broken Egg Cafe

Broken Egg Cafe
3650 N Government Way
Coeur d'Alene, ID
(208) 966-4399
Broken Egg Cafe on Facebook

The jumbo yellow sun was shining on our puffy little faces more dramatically than it had so far the entire year, sweeter than the sticky yolk of a Cadbury Creme Egg. Yes, it was Easter Sunday, and despite being up the night before later than may actually be legal in the grand old state of Idaho, my house mate and I were up at 8 am with full-on borborygmi happening in our tummies.

It was early enough to beat the post-worship Easter Bonnet crowd to pretty much anywhere we wanted to eat, so I threw a hat onto my Hurricane Helen bed hair, and with bleary, hungry eyes we pointed the car north and rambled up an eerily vacated Government Way to the Broken Egg Cafe. As I had hoped, only ten or so vehicles lined the front of the building, and with an ample amount of tables and a long diner counter, we knew we wouldn't have any trouble at all getting seated pronto.

Last August, the Broken Egg blossomed like a stylish young butterfly from the dusty old cocoon of the former Rockin' Robin' restaurant, and it has become on of our go-to breakfast spots ever since. Not sure what happened to the good old RR, but according to chatter on the street, the story was a time-honored tragedy: owner decides to sell it, kitchen employee decides to take the risk and buy it, and the whole thing slowly crumbles due to a lack of experience and funds.

Last time had eaten at the Rockin' Robin, it had become the Grunge Central of the Northside and half the menu items were crossed out with a sharpie (Aw, c'mon. No waffles, really!?) . I knew they didn't have much vital spark left in them, and they didn't. I felt zero shock when I drove by the place not much longer after that to see the sign out front replaced and something new formulating. The Broken Egg Cafe seemed like a reasonable enough name, but I was still nervous. Unless they were to get a hazmat crew in to do a scrub down and fully purge the building of it's crusty-fusty faux 1950's rock-n-roll accoutrements, the Broken Egg was doomed.

Happily, the first time I stopped into the new place after it opened, I was pleased to see that it was cleaned up to the point of being nearly unrecognizable and that the decor style had been brought up to at least the late 90's/early 2000's era. Opposite walls are painted various bold earthy colors (pale green/rust orange/autumn red) and the decorative features adorning them remind me of what would happen if Target decided to open a chain of discount restaurant decor stores. That's not a complaint - the artsy, frameless black-and-white prints of enlarged eating utensils, and mirrors with retro-space age satellite frames are a thousand times better than the nicotine-stained Elvises and scratched-up vinyl 45s of the Rockin' Robin.

Then there's the food. Although the Broken Egg has kept the menu nearly identical, the quality of the meals they put out make anything that came before seem like a creepy distant memory. In my half-dozen or so drop-ins so far, I've been for the most part impressed - the food is classic and tasty American breakfast and lunch fare with no fruity hipster complications whatsoever (I love you Garnet Cafe, but yes I'm looking at you). Unfortunately, the Broken Egg's lack of adventurousness ultimately knocks a couple of points off their tally. I'd have loved to see them completely toss out the old menu out with the rest of the clean-up trash and start from scratch with some items that would serve to give the place an all-new culinary personality of its very own.

Still, it's like I said, what they do put out out in front of their many hungry customers is perfectly acceptable and frequently delicious. Breakfastwise, the menu has all the tried and true standards with a few slightly unusual items that stand out: a Taco Omelet with seasoned beef, a Breakfast Hamburger (patty, bacon, egg, swiss cheese on a bun). Lunch is served from 11 til 2, and is just as fine as their morning fare. The menu has a bundle of basic burgers; a stack of sandwiches, hot and cold; a salon of salads; and a flock of fried finger foods.

Prior visits, I've hit their pancakes hard, several times. The one GIANT pancake they serve that keeps absorbing all the butter and syrup like an especially bitchy thirsty sponge that keeps demanding you to apply more, more, more. Another very memorable Broken Egg highlight for me was their Cheddar Jalapeno burger, which I ordered at random one late morning when I was feeling way over breakfast. It surprised me by turning out to be the tastiest, juciest, fieriest, cheesiest Jalapeno Cheddar burger I ever put down my gullet. Served with an epic mound of fries, it was a fully awesome come-up for only $7.25.

This most recent Easter morning trip to the Broken Egg, it was definitely still the breakfast hour, so I went for the Kitchen Sink omelet, which like it sounds, has nearly everything but... Well, in trifling amounts at least. It's mostly ham, cut into cubelets so tiny and wee that they're nearly impossible to tackle and manipulate with a fork. Similarly, everything else scantily sprinkled through this omelet (green and red peppers, mushrooms, bacon, red onion, tomatoes) is chopped up into such bitsy pieces, that when you attempt to bring a bite of omelet to your quivering lips, various ingredients cascade down back onto the plate and onto your dirty shirt, leaving you with a bite of nothing but eggs and eggs.

Once I finally twas able to teach myself a few clever tricks on how to successfully eat the thing (scrape and scoop, fast!), it was pretty good. Sadly, my giant hash brown patty was nice and crispy on the very outer layer, but mushy and extremely bland inside. It was Easter, so I had to thank Jesus for green Tabasco and sprinkle it heavily across my great white plateau of boring potatoes. Much better, amen.

The Broken Egg's prices are easy on the debit card and the service is always super duper. The waitresses here are caffeinated and chatty and fun and shine bright like the Easter morning sunshine even on the rainiest day in April (don't let the gorgeous weather fool you, you know it's coming soon). For the first time in years, there's an aura of positivity and breakfasty joy that surrounds this utilitarian old concrete building on Government Way, and I'd definitely recommend basking in it. 

Safeway Chicken Tandoori Samosas

Rolling in to Safeway on my way to work today, I had a case of the frail hungries but I had no idea what I wanted to munch upon. I've never found the Safeway Deli zone, at least the one on 4th Street in downtown CdA, to be particularly thrilling. I won't get into details now (you can read my write up about the subject from a few years back here), but barring their fresh-made-on-the-spot sandwich situation (think Subway knock-off), I've found their selections to be blasé, overly corporate, and unappealing.

Still, when I'm hungry enough I have a look-see anyway, and today I found something there that threw me for a lit of a loop: "Nana's Kitchen Chicken Tandoori Samosas". I'd heard of the term Samosa before, but frankly, I had no idea exactly what I was looking at. (I later educated myself here). I asked the Deli Queen on duty if they were best eaten hot or cold and she gave me a blank stare for a moment before replying "uhh...both I guess". $4.99 was a bit of a high price point for grocery deli action, but I was feeling experimental and starvacious, so I threw it in my hand basket, filed through the check out line and headed for work.

I put the nuclear orangey-brown triangle up to my mouth and took a ginger little nip on the corner, not exactly sure what to expect. Wow, surprises are a kick, and this little odd pocket was substantially brimming with flavor right away. I'm putting it out there right now that this is the best Safeway deli item I've subjected myself to, miles beyond their dry bread/soggy tomato grab-and-go sandwiches or their bland-ass slimy-skin chicken parts.

I didn't exactly get the taste of tandoori chicken specifically, but a mish-mash of Indian cuisine flavors comes through in a way that's not overwhelming or uber spicy, but mellow, delicious, and kind of refreshing. Attempting to read the microscopic list of ingredients on the carton's sticker did me no good whatsoever. Honestly, it's never a good idea to get too deep into those things because even a plain Jane Safeway turkey-and-bread deli sandwich will list things like Pyrodoxine Hydrocloride among the ingredients, and that just ain't appetizing at all.

So I'm just guessing at ingredients a bit here, but along with a commendably tasty blend of curry and Indian spices, there are bits of chicken, potatoes, rice, peas, carrots, and some kind of vegetable protein filler (which works better here than that notion may suggest). The other lovely factor in this, my first Samosa experience, was the pleasingly oily and toothsome outer wrap itself.

I didn't know it until I bit in, but these babies got to be that weird color because they were deep fried! Hurray for for deep fried foods, right?  I'm still eating my second Samosa as I type this, and I'm going to have to attack my laptop keyboard with Formula 409 when I'm done to get all the grease off the keys.

I could have popped them in the microwave I suppose, and I have a feeling they would be totally delish that way as well, but I found them to be perfectly fabulous right out of the deli cooler on a hundred degree August day such as today. My cold peach was a genius stroke if I do say so myself, such a great sweet accompaniment for the mild spice of the Safeway Samosas. It was like Peaches & Herb performing "Reunited" right there on my very willing tongue. 

I hope the Powers That Be at the 4th Street Safeway Deli allow Nana's kitchen's Samosas to carry on being available forever and ever and ever. Because I'm hooked and the likelihood of another Samosa Spot popping up in this two-horse town anytime soon is pretty slim. I will not settle for Samoas or Mimosas or Samoans. Well, maybe a Mimosa or two would be okay...

Downtown CdA Food Truck Donut Burger

Last night, for the first time in moons, I was visited by the Divine and Holy Burger Angels of Bliss. Well, that might have possibly been a hallucination brought on by the tequila shots that were working their mystical magic on my mind and mouth, but still. Bartenders often get hungry and clued-in bar customers know this fact. They may arrive at the bar with cartons of delicious food stuffs in hopes of getting a maximally delicious drink, and as a bartender, I can honestly say: it usually works.

Another trick that certain bar patrons know is to wait until the day bartender is off his shift and then pour shots of tasty booze down his throat until you’re his BFF forever and ever. Several folks tested this idea out on me last night and I can honestly say: it also works.

Anyway, I had already been done with my shift for an hour or so and was getting just a skosh tipsy wipsy and extremely tummy-rumbly.  Suddenly, a figure emerged at me from out of the smoky darkness of the bar, carrying an armload of white Styrofoam to-go boxes.  It was one of my most beloved regulars. “Hungry? You’ll never guess what I found at this food truck down on Sherman.”

I cracked open one of the boxes, not totally sure what to expect, and there it was, something I’d only ever heard of as a gluttonous internet food meme, something I was terrified of and delighted by simultaneously at the same time, something enough to make Paula Deen’s boobs bounce excitedly at the possibility of adding new calories to their bodacious bounty. It gleamed in front of me, reflecting the colored lights of the dance floor like a golden, sugary disco ball.

Behold: the Glazed Donut Burger.

If you’re afraid to experiment with new or unusual foods, just make arrangements for getting neatly intoxicated first and your anxieties will drift away like stream off the hot grill. “Where on earth did you find these little babies?” was the first question that fell from my now-salivating lips. “I don’t think it has a name. It’s just a plain white truck in that little parking lot across from Crickets by the big buffalo.” Oh, you big buffalo you, it’s all your fault.  

Picking up the burger, it wasn’t as much of a heavy, sticky mess as I was expecting, and once I had my grubby mitt on it, I didn’t put it down at all, I just let it disappear deep into my mouth hole in fast fashion. Heck, I was starving and that poor little thing didn’t ever stand a chance at longevity, but I did pause briefly to make mental notes about the flavor combination and ultimate vibe of the wacky Donut Burger experience.

Basically, it was a lot like a really, really fantastic breakfast sandwich. Anyone who’s ever indulged in a McDonalds Sausage McGriddle sandwich will understand that the combo of a sweet “bun” with melty cheese and meat products is a conceptually odd but surprisingly winning flavor marriage. It's a maple love kind of feeling.

Similarities end there. The Food Truck Donut Burger is a thousand times more delicious than any kind of fast food garbage, and it would be appropriate to serve for breakfast, lunch, dinner, brunch, linner, funch, midnight snack, daylight snack, or last supper.

The glazed Krispy Kreme bun (I am pretty sure it was the real deal) was toothsome and sweet. The beef patty was grilled to a nice char on the outside but was meaty-rich and greasy-hot inside. Smoky crisp bacon strips and a slice of tangy cheddar finished out the cast of players in the Donut Burger Show, and no condiments were involved, obviously. Only a loon would ruin this perfect (and perfectly fattening) collision of sweet vs. umami flavors with ketchup.

Yes, folks it’s a good ‘un and I promise it’ll be worth the effort to seek and find this late night food truck with no name. Word on the street is that if it’s not set up in the parking lot next to Art Spirit where my pal stumbled across it last night, it can be found in it's origianl home at in the parking lot of Hogfish Bar on East Sherman. Trust me, o fearful and retiring ones, the Donut Burger is worth staying up past the end of Matlock and fighting the rowdy drunk young’uns for.

There’s a lesson here (aka a hint): bring your bartender (me) amazing late night street food and you will become his number one favorite customer – he will make your cocktails extra luscious and you’ll always get served first before the unbathed homelss nutballs and collagen-lipped, peroxided bimbettes that never tip.  As a very wise man (me) once said: a well-fed bartender is a happy bartender.

Grandma Zula's Kitchen

Grandma Zula's Kitchen
306 Spokane St., Post Falls.
(208) 457-0228 -- facebook

A hunkering solid iron Victorian era wood stove looms near the door. Then there's this montage of objects on a display shelf behind the counter: St. Vincent du Paul dish room cookie jars; dust encrusted straw fruit basket from probably Shopko; Country Living magazine September 1987 she-scarecrow rag doll; a framed photo of a beaming cute baby in a little chef's outfit surrounded by vegetables. A clothes iron without a power cord or vertical steam surge or even a demineralizer.

Plastic tablecloths in retro avocado, mustard, and rust colors, patterned with pleasingly tacky acid flashback coffee mugs. Real-deal sugar shakers and syrup spouts. Double-wide chic stained ceiling tiles, bright overhead fluorescent lighting, and the spirit aura of wood paneling. Faded framed-and-matted-in-mauve-and-salmon floral prints. Forlorn country and western music drifting through behind the kitchen clang and clamor (cue Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain") 

So yeah, this place is basically all grandma'd out all to heck, but don't have fits of disappointment about the fact that you ain't ever gonna run into dear Grandma Zula herself around here. She's, uh...gone to a better place. But owner Kari Turnbough is Zula's granddaughter and the decor and home cooking she's been dishing up in her cozy Post Falls strip-mall diner since late last year are rooted in her fond childhood memories of, well, Grandma Zula's Kitchen. 

Turnbough was quoted in the CDA Press last November as saying "I want people to walk in feeling like they're in grandma's kitchen." Well girl, mission accomplished. You are serving us up some serious grandma realness. In fact, if some big time marketing and design team was handed only the general concept of "grandma realness" to work with, it would have been impossible for them to come up with a plan to beat what's happening at this place.

Food as comforting as Nana's big pillowy bosoms is the mainstay on Zula's menu. Oatmeal is oatmeal, but I have a hunch it becomes something a little more dynamic and authentic than Quaker Instant here, with the addition of brown sugar, raisins, and milk ($4.95). I've literally received ecstatic text messages from two different friends, mid-orgasm, after diving into Zula's Chicken Fried Steak Two-Egg Breakfast ($8.75), and they're not the types to fake it.

There are four Benedict style plates of offer, including Salmon with cream cheese, tomato and their own dreamy hollandaise sauce ($9.95). Zula's does the lunch thing as well, and items worth investigation include the Pepper Jack Burger on Sourdough ($8.49), the Tuna Melt ("did somebody say tooooonahhh?" ~ my cat) ($6.95), the Buffalo Chicken Wrap (served with an unexpectedly healthful fresh fruit plate) ($8.25), and a "lighter menu". Since when is homemade mac-n-cheese ($3.95) considered light? Give me two orders then, I guess.  

Naturally, upon opening up the menu, the very first grouping of words that caused my eyeballs to pop was "Original Monte Cristo". A cult resurgence has brought the Monte Cristo (battered and deep fried ham, turkey and cheese sandwich served with berry jam) slightly back into fashion, but it's still quite a rare thing to see on the menus of local eateries.

A deeper dive into the menu and my salivary glands were suddenly all pumped up about the possibility of Johnny Apple Cakes (unrelated to the porn star of the same name). This carbo-loaded breakfast dessert is two buttermilk pancakes folded with red applesauce  and topped with honey cream cheese. Amazing, right? Not according to the waitress, who recommended "Zula's Fried Apple Pancakes" as a better option if I was truly interested in the apple scene. Okay, I'm easy. I ordered them as an upgrade of the "Hot Cake Breakfast" - two of the fancy apple cakes along with œufs brouillés and bacon.

My roommate likes an extra gassy breakfast mess, so he ordered all up on the chili-cheese omelet with a side of sour cream, hash browns, and biscuits and gravy. Mercifully for me, he was headed for work after our meal, so I didn't have to suffer the flatulatory consequences of this decision myself.

Our waitress and her co-workers fit right into the blood-relative homespun vibe of the place. In fact, I mentioned to my roommate that it was sort of like actually visiting your grandmother's kitchen and running into a handful of jolly favorite cousins all running about and being a little goofy while getting dinner out on the table while grandma naps. (Going to be a looong nap for Miss Zula - apologies, couldn't resit it). In other words, the service was well friendly and warm as a hot, fluffy biscuit.

Speaking of which, the only mild complaint was related to my roomate's biscuits and gravy, which arrived quite a few minutes after the main part of his breakfast, and when they did, he took several bites and poo-poo'd them as "just not all that". Of course, my roommate is also a picky bitch, and instead of taking his word for it, I dug in and tried them and thought they were tasty in a old-timey kind of way, but yes, they could have used a little extra pizzazz. He did say his Chili Cheese omelet was "so extra cheesy good" and that his hash browns had a "crispety crunch", so two out of three isn't bad.

My Fried Apple cakes were each as big as a three wolf moon and stuffed with humongous fried-in-butter red apple chunks. There was no way I could finish all of this hypnotically delicious pile of dough, pats of real butter, syrup, and thunder glory apple goodness, and I didn't. The bacon was perfectly bacony and the scrambled eggs were scrambled eggy, and I did manage to kill both of those, even though my Pyloric valve was about ready to call in sick and take an early leave for the July 4th holiday.

Stuffed and awestruck, we bid Kari and crew adieu and flopped our way back to the car like two overstuffed pink animatronic beanbag chairs waving happy little roly-poly marsupial arms.

The Hunt for the Elusive Egg Salad Sandwich

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The above video clip is from Woody Allen's film debut, 1966's "What's Up Tiger Lily?", in which entirely unrelated, seriously silly dialog is dubbed over the top of some random campy Japanese spy film. The plot of the Allen-scripted version revolves around the search for the "world's best recipe" for egg salad, and it is so coveted that hearts are broken and secret agent men are shot up like Swiss cheese in the process of finding this elusive recipe.

It may seem a bit over the top, but even 46 years later, there is a kernel of truth to the concept. A good egg salad sandwich is as hard to find these days as a hardcore LaToya Jackson fan.

The situation kind of came into focus for me a few weeks ago when a slightly grizzled, new-to-town random guy bellied up to my bar, ordered a jack and Coke and at one point in our conversation he blurted out "there's only one thing wrong with this town. You can't find a god damned decent egg salad sandwich!".

I thought about it for a few minutes. "Yeah. This guy is on to something." I was drawing a complete blank on how to solve this guy's egg salad dilemma. You can most likely find some kind of pre-packaged, sad sack egg salad blandness between two slices of ghetto bread in every gas station deli cooler and call center vending machine in town, but that doesn't even count.

But where would a cat head for an honest-to-goodness, fresh made, fluffy and flavorful egg salad sandwich? Naturally, I had to figure it out. My research was entirely online, so there are probably several more eateries that serve them, but here are a few to at least get us started in the right direction. If you are aware of additions, please feel free to email me and let me know and I will tack them on here.


Herbie's Deli Stop
(4055 N Government Way, Coeur d'Alene) Facebook

"I had the egg salad sandwich, and it was excellent.  Served on thick nine-grain bread, everything about it was fresh,  Probably the best egg salad sandwich I've ever had." ~ Kurt S., Yelp!
I do love Herbie's deli, it's kind of a local foodie insider secret, located in a semi-obscure strip mall across from the fairgrounds. Every time I've dined at Herbie's it's just fantastic, down-to-earth and understated but impactful and affordable. however, I've never gotten around to sampling their magic egg salad. I'm going to take Kurt S.'s advice above and assume it's yum yummy and put a note on my mental refrigerator door to get in there and give the idea some mouth time. (half egg sandwich $5.25)

Starbucks(Various Locations)

You always say you simply loathe the place. Their corporate ubiquitous, their tendency toward eco-cutesiness and blah blah blah. But you will inevitably end up at Starbucks anyway and you will secretly enjoy the experience. Next time you're sneaking in to grab your Britney Spears sized latte, maybe you will experience a hunger pang. And when that happens, you should be comforted to know that Starbucks offers a "classic" egg salad sandwich with dill, mustard, celery and lettuce on whole-wheat bread. I haven't tried one myself since I avoid Starbucks completely because it's terribly pedestrian and oh so passé. Of course, I lie - I'll meet you there tomorrow at noon.


High Nooner
3510 North Government Way  Coeur d'Alene

The "High Nooner" is apparently the one that started it all for the High Nooner. Or was it the other way around? Ironically, this is kind of a chicken or egg which came first kind of story. Described on the menu as Egg Salad, Cream Cheese, Bacon, Lettuce, Mayo, Tomato, 12 Grain Bread ($6.55), I ordered mine with no tomato (oh, hell no), and didn't notice until I got it home that I should have asked them to put mustard up in there mustard. I mean, what? No mustard (just a little) in your egg salad is like no whiskey in your water. It just ain't right.

So this sandwich was a bit on the bland side, but the addition of the bacon helped since bacon is clearly something that helps everything it touches. The cream cheese was barely detectable, but the egg salad itself was at least fluffy and fresh. Their baked-on-site bread is always a hit, the free cookie is a sweet bonus, and the High Nooner's friendly service always results in a warm fuzzy or two. Approved!

Pilgrims Market
1316 North 4th Street  Coeur d'Alene

I'm not entirely sure how exactly Pilgrims puts together the egg salad sandwiches that live on the top shelf in the cooler case across from the deli counter, but they are definitely a bit different than the classic and familiar model.

The main noticeable difference is that they seem like they might actually treat your body right and not clog your arterial passageways with globs of mayonnaise-y cholesterol. There must be some version of mayo here holding things together, but it's probably some other suggestively named pseudo-mayo product such as Organic Vegenaise®. There is only the vaguest hint of mustard flavor, Perhaps some onion, celery maybe, definitely some fresh dill.

It's a pretty simple recipe and the time I had one of these sandwiches it was rather bland and the excessively dry wheat bread was spongy and crumbly the way hippies like it. If nothing else, you could pick up one of these, scrape off the egg salad into a bowl, add plentiful amounts of fatty Best Foods mayo and a squeeze of tangy French's mustard, as well as a good shake of  Lawry's seasoned salt, slap that action between two slices of fresh Wonder bread and you are totally good to go.

Actually, these aren't bad at all and the addition of plentiful veggies (cukes, sprouts, tomato, red onion, lettuce leaves) might actually do something positive for you and push an actual vitamin or two into your fat and booze soaked body system. So, in other words, I'll give it a maybe.

Fu-Ki Japanese Steak House & Sushi Bar

Fu-Ki Japanese Steak House & Sushi Bar
1500 E. Seltice Way, Post Falls
(208) 457-7077

Ha! Just noticed that Get Out North Idaho received this comment on the last (not so) recent post: "Anonymous said... Is this blog dead? Did the writer kick the bucket or what??" Well, anonymous, the answer is, for better or for worse, no. As I mentioned on the forever-ago review of Lakers Inn, I have been sold into a life of educational slavery, having made the decision last years to return to the University of Idaho for another round of good times. Now suddenly, summer is upon us, and like April fog lifting away into May blue skies, spring semester is officially over and I'm again able to spend more time on blathering out some new reviews and what not.

So, no. I haven't shuffled off this mortal coil quite yet, but earlier today I had an experience that had me nearly convinced that I had croaked and had, surprisingly, made it to the good place everyone is trying to go after they follow the white light through that soft-focus tunnel that leads toward the afterlife. A place where all of the heavy earthly weight lifts and decay and despair are nothing more than distant memories. A place where time and space mean nothing and existence is experienced on highly transcendent levels. Naturally, that spectral, ecstatic place I'm referring to is Post Falls.   

Wait, that last bit doesn't sound quite right, does it. Specifically, my brief tryst with paradise occurred at the brand new Fu-Ki Japanese Streak House & Sushi Bar on Seltice Way in the bustling River City. Local foodies have been excited about this one for a stretch now, and details have been rather mysterious and slow coming, especially since Fu-Ki seems to have spilled no ink or pixels on advertising or web presence at all thus far (my darlings, do you need me to help you set up a we page or at least a Facebook account? E-mail me!) As my dear friend Kami Jo would say, I'm not. gonna. lie. It was damn well worth the wait. Today's lunch time visit to Fu-Ki has me so thrilled about the place that I'm not even going make light of the dirty word potential of mispronouncing their name.

I'd read that the restaurant was finally flinging open their doors this week, but never got the confirmation memo so I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to check the place out when I decided to make the jaunt over to Post Falls. When I pulled into the lot there weren't a lot of cars, but there were a couple of people hovering out front so I yelled at them, "are they open?" "Eleven thirty!" they yelled back. I used the ten minute wait to categorize the different grumbles and squeaks my tummy makes when it's starving and angry.

Walking in , I wasn't sure what to expect since I knew the building was converted from a former Arby's/Taco Time, but rest assured, any and all evidence of fast food frivolities has been gutted out and replaced with an entirely new layout and decor. I'm thinking at this point, with Fu-Ki still in soft-opening mode, not all the decor and furnishings are complete and finalized. The place seemed a little bare, but the warm reds and browns and Japanese tapestries  were exactly what one would expect to see in such a place. Yes, it's a little generic at this point, but that's likely to change with time.

I chose a seat right up at the bar, and was greeted immediately by the sushi chef, whose name I would later learn was Jackie. Jackie's English leaned toward the broken side, but he seemed like someone who had been making sushi since Mothra was just a pupa. There was an enthusiastic and charming glint in his eye as he walked me through the menu, excitedly pointing out highlights and specialties.

I wanted to catch a sample of this and that, so I told him I was looking at getting a bento box. I love bento boxes anyway because I have a bizarre fetish for eating out of a self-contained unit with neat little compartments. I'm not one of those weirdos who freaks out if their foods touch, but if you are, a bento just the thing for you. Their bentos come with soup and a garden salad and three selections from a list of entrees, sushi rolls, appetizers and sides ($13.95). I chose the Sesame Chicken, the Sushi Assortment, and the Spicy Tuna Roll.

I placed my order and asked to hang onto the menu so I could give it a deep investigation while a waited for my bento box to appear. Unique appetizers in the fully illustrated tome include Calamari Tempura ($6),  Mango Ceviche ($11), and something called Dynamite (an assortment of seafood baked in a creamy sauce) ($9). I crave edamame like crack (no mom, I don't really crave crack), so I made a mental note to order up a plate of the salty steamed soybeans.

Sushi boats are like little wooden ships filled with multicolored edible happiness, and Fu-Ki has four to choose from, with the top-tier choice being their namesake boat at $88.95. That may sound steep to some, but there are enough nigiri, sashimi and specialty rolls included to feed several dozen Shibuya district fashion models (or an American party of four or five folks). For a party of two, or a party of one who doesn't mind the occasional feeling of a severely distended colon, they offer the "Love Boat", which is still enough sushi to make even Captain Stubing throw in the anchor ($50.95)

The number of specialty rolls Fu-Ki offers is multitudinous, and on the menu, they all are actually like little gorgeous Japanese supermodels, shimmering, airbrushed posing in the perfect lighting and with slightly tropical feeling garnishes. Some familiar faces appear in this layout: Las Vegas Roll ($10). Spicy Rainbow Roll ($12). A massive, fire breathing Dragon Roll ($14). However, it's some of Fu-Ki's unique one-offs that win the modelling contract: the Snowcom is lightly baked with crabmeat, baked salmon, and avocado inside and albacore, lobster, and a special sauce on top ($14). The insane Popcorn Lobster pairs deep fried lobster with jalapenos atop a California roll and is drizzled with a spicy sauce ($13). And since I'm a little fruity sometimes, I like the idea of the Paradise Roll, which is mango and avocado layered daintily atop a spicy tuna roll with special sauce ($10.50).

I was eating edamame, sipping on the basic-but-tasty, beef-brothy soup, and watching the live telecast of President Obama getting off the plane in Seattle on his way to a Dave Matthews concert (such a historic moment to witness), when my lunch arrived. The wait was only about ten minutes, not bad at all considering that the place was really starting to fill up fast with people and that it was only their third day open. Visually, my bento situation didn't really have as much flare as some of the other sushi places I've been to over the years (I still miss you, Takara), but once I broke out the chopsticks and started digging in, by eyes quit caring about anything and handed the whole show over to my hungry mouth.

These poor fishies must have still been doing the flip-flop inside an ice chest when they showed up at Fu-Ki or something. All four pieces of my nigiri assortment were mouth-meltingly tender, with a smooth buttery texture and richly fresh flavor that would be enough to convert even the folks who live in fear of the idea of consuming raw fish. Dip those babies in a soy sauce and wasabi bath and let heaven commence. Similarly, the spicy tuna roll was stellar, even the nori holding the bright pink fish and vegetables inside was tender and tasty (there's nothing worse than sushi rolls with stale, chewy nori - ugh).

The green salad was fresh as the morning sun and the orange dressing that topped it off was tangy and bright. Although everything in my bento was truly fab, I really fell head over heels for Yu-Ki's sesame chicken. It's simple really, just smaller sized bites of chicken breast covered in a glaze and sprinkled with sesame seeds. But there was something about the glaze that lifted it above and beyond addiction and substance abuse territory. It was delicate in its sweetness but there was an after bang of spiciness that took awhile for my tastebuds to catch onto, but once they did, this was their conversation: Sesame Chicken - "party on Wayne!". My tastebuds - "party on, Garth!" They became best bros and they cannot wait to get together and kick it again sometime soon.

I focused my attention solely on the sushi bar scene of Fu-Ki for my lunch visit today, but obviously a huge part of the eatery's appeal is the Teppanyaki aspect. Teppanyaki is  is a style of Japanese cuisine that uses an iron griddle to cook the meat, and was popularized back in the beehive hairdo era by Benihana. Fu-Ki has six seating areas with stainless steel grill hoods in the center that include plenty of space for chefs to act like showmen with the percussive twirling of spatulas and the dramatic sizzling flame-up tricks. If you've been to Spokane's Shogun restaurant, you know the deal.

There was one table full of lunching ladies being dazzled by one of Fu-Ki's Teppanyaki masters, but I didn't catch much of the show, so I do plan on returning for a second round some evening to experience it first hand (Teppanyaki just seems like a night time thing to me). I did mosey briefly through the separate grill menu and items range from teriyaki beef ($9.50) and chicken ($8.00), to swankier prospects like filet mignon ($15) and everything comes with soup, hibachi vegetables, and fried rice). The spatula show is free.      

I was treated so warmly by Mr. Jackie and the rest of the ever-smiling staff that it was hard for me to uproot my bloated and sushi-ed up self from my bar stool and move out into the afternoon. The Fu-Ki employees were abundant and diverse, but what they all had in common was an attitude that they were there to have fun, but the fun wasn't phony or forced onto patrons like some of the gaudier restaurant chains. The staff weren't like training-brainwashed zombies serving insincere joy, but were allowed to be down to earth and let their own genuineness come through. It lends the place an aura of comfort which combines with the top-notch cuisine, ought to put Fu-Ki neck and neck with the White House Grill as the number one reason for foodies to pull of I-90 in Post Falls.

March Cavalcade of Food Porn

Syringa Japanese Cafe, Coeur d'Alene
Sashimi Assortment
via CdA Night Out

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1313 Club, Wallace
Bacon Cheese Burger and Beer Battered Fries
by "hoppygirl_nw" via TripAdvisor

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Cafe Carambola, Coeur d'Alene
El Argentino Torta
by BellinghamLass via TripAdvisor

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Country Boy Cafe, Athol

Sausage Skillet, Chicken Fried Steak, and Sidesby gcleff11 via TripAdvisor

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Beverly's, Coeur d'Alene
Godiva Chocolate Souffle
by Nancy D. Brown via Uptake

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The Moon Time, Coeur d'Alene
Anasazi Bean Burger
via Food & Ink

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Scratch, Coeur d'Alene
Picatta Steak
via Free to Feast

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Jalapenos Mexican Restaurant, Sandpoint
Grilled Shrimp Tacos with Spanish Rice and Black Beansvia Jalapenos on Facebook

The Lakers Inn

The Lakers Inn
407 North 2nd Street 
Coeur d'Alene, ID
(208) 667-9806

Golly, folks! Somehow a whole damn month slipped into the miasma since my last post. The truth is, I'm bring all student-y and stuff  lately. I'm back at the University of Idaho (Cd'A campus, natch) finishing up my BA in Psychology, and when you're caught up that kind of brain-zapping adventure, time can just slip out from underneath you like a cheap Big Lots bathmat. Plus, being student-y and all, I haven't had a lot of extra fun ticket$ and the typical dining out experience for me lately has been Chinese Gardens takeout delivered swiftly and hot while I'm working the opening bartending shift at my job one block north. I've been kind of a busy beaver.

Despite the chaos, there is one place I've managed to sleaze into a few times recently, a happy rediscovery of sorts. Maybe it's my reentry into the realm of the loose-living collegiate world, but sometimes nothing sounds better than a cold, juicy pitcher of that quintessential American classic: Pabst Blur Ribbon beer. Alas, my main class is on Monday nights and Monday night is our restful sabbath at our bar (we're closed), so for lack of better options (not true), we've been darkening the doorway of one of Coeur d'Alene's oldest and most beloved dives, the Lakers Inn.

This user review I Googled up from the MojoPages website by "Gareth", an obvious regular Lakers regular,  sums up the story rather well:

So many things I have seen at this bar, drinks are cheap, the smell is horrendous, but if you want to see everybody in cda you will find them here eventually....avoid Sunday nights with Baird for he truly only has a job because they keep him around out of pity or something; cant mix a drink for shit. Doug and his hotty girl, Judy, are the best presence @ the bar for the nights of popularity. Jody works the days for them old folks, and does a damn fine job. And then there's Jody's sister Terry, the loose cannon. Quite a girl, just do not ask for more than one perfectly mixed bloody Mary or she will get pissy. Last is the owner, Dwight, ex-drill sergeant or something, only there during the days...this guy is so retired he doesn't remember what it is to "go after it", and that is why Lakers is an almost destination. Good drinking, no fighting, and best of all...you can actually be part of the Lakers family so that you don't have to be part of yours. WE ALL LOVE LAKERS‎

He's right about Judy, for she is a fabulous creature and has been slinging drinks over that crusty old counter since 1978 or something incredible like that. As a bartender, she's effortless and her candid, engaging personality is mixed with just enough raw sass to make the night entertaining, even without the benefit of the only-sometimes music of the jukebox.

I can't really speak on Gareth's blunt (rude?) thoughts about the other bartenders, each time I've visited recently, it's been either Miss Judy behind the bar or it's been the "rookie", Miss Jai, who is also a most excellent hostess. Don't I know it, but it takes a certain type of mental constitution to remain cool, gathered and projecting a positive vibe in a job where one has to tend to a parade of drunk chainsmokers, babblers, loudmouths, pukers, liars, and freaks. I've never witnessed Jai have a code-orange meltdown or anything even close to it, and meanwhile, she's serving up some of the stiffest, cheapest booze bevs in the panhandle with not a drop of sweat.

You probably wouldn't expect the Lakers Inn to be such a trendy name in the world of fashion, but it seems nearly every regular face here is sporting some kind of Lakers logo gear, sweat shits and t-shirts galore, including the specimen you see below.

 

Funny, yes. But let's break this down a bit shall we? No food? Technically, yes, but the Lakers Inn does have one of the more impressive arrays of bar snacks I've ever seen. Packets of peanuts, Beer Nuts and regular or BBQ Corn Nuts. Bags of chips in a vast variety of flavors. Snickers bars and Reece's Peanut Butter Cups. All kinds of stuff. You don't really want to eat a salad or whatever in a place that's so intensely smokey anyway, eh?

Which brings us to our next point. The newly installed Smoke-eeter above the main room doesn't stand a fighting chance against the hardest of hardcore cig puffers that occupy these bar stools from nine o'clock in the morning until two o'clock at night, seven days a week. Warm beer? I've never had it there. In fact the draft PBR is always refreshing and crisp. Strong Drinks? Yes indeed, no-one's going to dispute that. I witnessed one certain twenty-something girl realize this the hard way the other night when I was hanging out.

All I saw was a disgruntled boyfriend basically carrying this poor girl out of the ladies room and dashing out of the place with the words no bartender ever wants to hear, "Uh, you kinda got a mess to deal with in there." Judy was suddenly gone for 15 minutes and she returned looking like she'd seen the holocaust, and for a seasoned vomit mopper like her to have been fazed, you now it had to be traumatically ugly. Lousy service and grouchy bartenders? Like I said, not as far as I can tell, but there is a certain snarliness and snarkiness to the vibe of the place that runs deep in the place's DNA.

The Lakers was converted from an old Health and Welfare office (irony?) into the Lakers Inn in around 1968 by Alice and Floyd Roselund, who were actually my paternal Great Aunt and Uncle. Was it somehow a normal thing for parents to bring their toddlers into a smoky beer bar in the 1970's or was it just a quirk my family ran with? Regardless, I recall spending more than a few hours there during my early childhood, playing in the corner while my parents, uh, socialized. The memories are pretty vague, save for the unbleachable image of lurid red-orange floor-to-mid-wall shag carpeting (in a bar? what were they thinking?). Still, I am quite sure that everything but that godawful carpet (it has since been covered over with equally-as-taste-questionable wood panels) has remained at least 90% unchanged.

That's not at all a complaint, either. In a town with increasingly fancy-pants drinking spots (Seasons, Splash et al), it's comforting that the only things resembling mod-cons at the Lakers are the televisions and the ATM. They don't have the equipment to accept credit cards and the CD jukebox is comprised of almost entirely tunes one might have expected to hear on the old Wolfman Jack radio show on KVNI back when the bar originally opened. The liquor selection is extremely limited and you won't find anything remotely resembling a microbrew anywhere on premise.

The random and bizarre collection of bric-a-brac behind the bar is worth the trip alone: a can of "bullshit repellent", a pink velour flocked plastic statue of Jesus Christ, a rubber great white shark, dozens of rather rude but tongue in cheek plastic signs. The bar stools are a bit rickety but have been made very comfortable from decades worth of asses working on them until they're just so. I can't describe the ladies room, but the men's loo is like a weird trip back in time to it's Health and Welfare days decades ago - they still have one of those old roll-up cloth towel rigs to dry your hands on. Uh, no. I'll wipe them on my jeans, thanks.


One thing I remember about the Lakers when my relatives owned it was the preeminence of the "Bud Bunch". I'm not sure exactly what the modus operandi of this group was, but from what I can gather, it was simply a group of bar regulars getting together as often as possible and drinking Budweiser beer until they were as sloppily blotto as possible. Yes, this is my family heritage, and how could I not be proud of such a sparkling legacy? In fact, I'm told the Bud bunch still exists in some form, but I have a feeling that these days, the gatherings are small, early in the day, and involve shots of Ensure and Metamucil in between beers.

The day crowd at the Lakers does primarily consist of very, uh, seasoned  barflys and regulars that have been haunting the place for 40 years or more. However, once the senior citizens clear out in the afternoon, the place transforms into Hipster Central. (Some people seem to have no idea what I mean when I use the word 'hipster' so let's turn to Urban Dictionary so I know we are on the same page: "Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.") 

Okay, maybe that's making the Lakers night crowd sound a little more urbane than they really are, but basically they're young folks who like chunky glasses, beards, and flannel who are looking for an unpretentious place to drink booze, shoot pool, and exchange ideas without having to deal with the rich-bitch trendy twenty somethings that haunt places like Splash or the hip-hop rowdies at Baja or the cover-band cheesers at the Iron Horse. In other words, this vintage hole in the wall is my kinda place.

Unpretentious is really the key word when it comes to describing the Lakers Inn - it is what it is, take it or leave it, up yours if you don't like the smoke or the attitude or the lack of entertainment or whatever else. It's one of the last of its kind in our fair berg, and we should treasure its contribution to the fabric of our local culture and cling to the hope of its longevity.




 

Wendy's

Wendy's
202 East Appleway Avenue
Coeur d'Alene, ID
(208) 676-8699
(and many other locations)

In the beginning there was nothing and God said 'Let there be light', and there was still nothing but everybody could see it. ~  Dave Thomas

You know I have a general rule forbidding myself from doing write ups on national fast-food chains, but little rules are for little minds and today I was a) in the mood to write a blog entry and b) just too damn lazy to get out of the car and check out a real, actual restaurant. So. This combination of circumstances caused me to trek through the drive up window of a place I consider to at least be one of the more tolerable burger chains on Junk Food Way, Wendy's.

As a young girl, Melinda Lou "Wendy" Thomas rocked kind of a broke down Pippi Longstocking look. She had nearly an identical hair and fashion sense as Miss Pip, but with a blank smile instead of a mean scowl. To be honest, I prefer Pippi's cruel spunk over Wendy's innocuous grin, but the latter's caricature has become inescapable, appearing on every Wendy's sign, cup, napkin, and advertisement nearly everywhere, from Toledo to Trinidad and Tobago.

Wendy's father, the late fast food folk-hero Dave Thomas, christened his first restaurant in 1969 in Columbus, Ohio, after his daughter's nickname and fashioned their infamous logo after an especially creepy photo of the poor girl in bright red pigtails and a fugly church rummage sale blouse. Here in Coeur d'Alene, her freckled face has loomed over Appleway since some point in the late 70's early 80's (I can't recall exactly when it appeared), and was one of the very first fast food joints to appear on that stretch not long after Ronald McDonald rode into town on Grimace's big purple ass.

When I was growing up, the Coeur d'Alene Wendy's was a pretty hot place to go eat. My parents liked it because it was one of the only, if not the only fast-foot joint that had a lush, well-stocked salad bar (now long gone) and also a groovy baked potato situation. I remember thinking it was so totally oddball that their burger patties were square and the bun was round, it nearly blew my mind. Like trying to push a square peg into a round hole, only upside down and reversed and much more delicious.

The novelty value of the square patty clearly worked well, and I remember always having to spend a lot of time hanging out in the winding labyrinth of pole barriers set up on front of the order counter behind a large crowd of hungry strangers. It was always worth the wait, because even as a young one, I could recognize that there was something different about Wendy's food, something that set it apart from other shady burger chains. Plus, Wendy's has always been home to the inimitable Frosty, sort of a cross between a thick milkshake and a dish of soft-serve ice cream that was a favorite of mine in my pre-lactose-intolerance era (oh age, how you disappoint me).

It would take a huge husky dude or a very hungry butch lesbian to finish of one of Wendy's mondo-sized "Dave's Hot-n-Juicy" 3/4 lb. triple patty cheeseburgers (nearly 1100 calories!). Wendy's patties are already significantly more significant than the other chains, and three of them piled high on a bun with layers of cheese, tomato, lettuce, pickle, onion, whatever, is a huge undertaking that I've never had the tummy to tackle.

When dear old Clara Peller repeatedly commanded the question "where's the beef?" way back when, it was always Wendy's where she found the answer, and to this day Wendy's will serve you a sandwich with enough "100% real North American, fresh, never frozen beef, hot off the grill" to keep you running to Rite Aid for Dulcolax for days.

Wendy's was one of the first fast food operations to cash in on the "I love bacon" trend that's been happening in our culture for several years now (get your bacon toothpaste here), and even though it sounds remotely like a win, there's something intangibly evil about their Baconator® Triple (nearly 1600 calories!), which goes something like this: bun, ketchup, mayo, bacon, cheese, beef, bacon, cheese, beef, bacon, cheese, beef, ketchup, mayo, bun. Can you even imagine?! It's another product I've never had the nerve to try. Although I'm not exactly innocent when it comes to crimes of cholesterol, this one is enough to make even my arteries shudder in fright.

I probably hit Wendy's about once every three months or so, and I usually stick with the basics - a classic double burger, hold the lettuce and pickles and a medium fries. Nothing to make jazz hands about, and certainly not as good as a local place like Roger's or even Zip's, but still a major improvement over a meal from Burger Queen or Jack in the Crotch.

A while back, I ventured out of my comfort zone and ordered a "Cheesy Cheddarburger", and it was cheesy as fark, but not in such a good way. It was a basic cheeseburger, noticeably smaller than what they normally serve, and in addition to their normal faux American (note: not cheddar) cheese, they also pumped on a glop of bland canned cheese sauce (note: also not cheddar) to a messy, quite unappetizing effect - I couldn't even eat more than half the thing. Fortunately, I'd made a healthful decision to choose a side salad over fries, and I was able to feel satisfied with that, even though my intestines momentarily thought my leafy greens digestive enzymes had given up and gone home long ago due to neglect.
 
Today I tried out their 5 Piece Spicy Chicken Nuggets and they were so spicy that every time I took a bite of one I had to sneeze. No joke. There was a peppery burn to them that did something reactive to my delicate sinus tissues, they were rebelling against the pepperiness of the day-glo orange nugget breading. That's okay. It was a rather sneezy meal, but my tongue was telling me they were actually quite tasty, and I had plenty of napkins handy to catch my many aaaaah-choos.

Wendy's nuggets aren't bad and actually seem to resemble actual chicken (I know it isn't real chicken), and also passable was the accompaniment, a Sour Cream and Chive baked potato, which although it came mysteriously without chives, was still fine and filling and less guilt-inducing than a pile of fatty French fries.

Melinda Lou "Wendy" Thomas grew up to become a successful franchise owner of dozens of Wendy's restaurants in the Cleveland area and has appeared in Wendy's ads for the last several years. She looks nothing like the scary pigtail girl of her youth, whereas Pippi Longstocking will have eternal youth. Still, Wendy wins - Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraim's Daughter Longstocking has faded into the great mists of time, and Wendy is raking in the dough selling burgers that aren't quite amazing, but that are fast and edible enough to handle when the forbidden craving strikes.

Scrud's Gourmet Grub

Scrud's Gourmet Grub
206 N. 4th St., Coeur d'Alene, ID
(208) 667-6000
Facebook

As the rushing ravages of times and age wear on, memories of my childhood seem to be getting harder to drudge up from the grey matter. Certain things, however, have managed to not fade away into the mental miasma forever. Pulling the kitchen drawers out so I could climb up onto the counter and mix my own baby bottle of chocolate Qwik milk (age 2). My complete and utterly bizarre obsession with vacuum cleaners (age 5). My mother finally agreeing to buy me my first 45 single (Blondie's "Rapture") at Pay-n-Save drug store (age 7). My very first job as an exotic go-go dancer in a Tokyo-themed leather disco in Munich (age 9).

Okay, maybe that last one is just a case of false memory syndrome, but one thing that did happen for sure was that when I'd walk the two blocks to my grandmothers house from Harding Elementary during lunch recess, she would make the most unbelievably amazing hamburgers for me to eat. In fact, although I've had countless hundreds of burgers over the years since then, from cruddy burgers to bloody burgers to Huddy burgers to fuddy duddy burgers, and while many were fantastic in their own way, I've never been able to find anything that matched her magic recipe.

That is until now, pretty much. The patties served up at Coeur d'Alene's Scrud's Gourmet Burgers would give my grandma a moment of pause and a mildly jaundiced eye. Just like hers, these babies are hand-formed and thick, but not thick enough to have that sense of meatloaf-esque overkill that some places like to do (hi, Nosworthys). Just like hers, they're moist and juicy without being total grease bombs, and there's a certain deep auburn richness to the flavor of a well cooked beef patty that they both have in common.

Naturally, there's somewhat of an unavoidable giggle factor to the name Scrud's. In times of confusion during the internet age, we sometimes turn to the Urban Dictionary for guidance when we encounter a strange or vaguely rude sounding idiom, and that's what I did after first hearing the name.

"Unkept, greasy looking, 20-30 something individuals that take pride loitering in parking lots of convenience stores, coffee shops, 7-Elevens etc. Scruds are most often in groups, congregated around pick-up trucks wearing some sort of Nascar / Ski-Doo paraphernalia. There is really no purpose to their actions."      

"Scrud is a slang term for Cannabis/Marijuana used in the town of Rotherham, UK"

As much as marijuana and delicious burgers will always go together forever like Daryl Hall and John Oates, and as much as greasy 20-something Nascar parking lot loiterers will always love food of any kind period, I thought "uh, that just can't be right, sister". And, of course it isn't - the eatery was named after the owner's teenage nickname. The Scrud's menu tells the whole story and then some:

"When I was about 16, I got up early one morning with my brother to cut firewood. I jumped out of bed, pulled a beanie over my 12 inch mullet, slipped into some insulated coveralls and put on my boots without tyine the laces. I didn't shower, brush my teeth or even brush my hair. I jumped into our pickup and fired it up, looked over at my brother who was staring at me and he said "you're a SCRUD!" and it stuck. We opened our first retaurant in Mountain View, Wyoming in 2009. We decided we wanted a little more city life and moved to the Inland Northwest and reopened our restaurant in the Fall of 2011."

Moving to Coeur d'Alene because you're longing for "a little more city life"? I don't know anything about Mountain View, Wyoming, but it must be a quaint hamlet of the first degree. Anyway, we love any story involving a mullet here at Get Out North Idaho, and both times we've visited Scrud's we were delighted and impressed, no matter what the name might have happened to be (and it's much, much better than these restaurant names).

The building's interior hasn't changed dramatically since it's former occupant, the Kootenai Cafe (or whatever it was last called), gave up on its sadly brief life and passed on. No need, the place had been remodeled within the last year or so anyway. The main noticeable changes include the addition of some baseball-themed stuff and other forms of classic Americana.

They've hung "Wall of Fame" and "Wall of Flame" photo boards for pictures of those few proud souls with duodenums of steel who managed to successfully finish either the 5 pound "Bodalicious Burger Challenge" ($24.49) or the hotter-than-holy-f*@k hot wing "Dig Your Own Grave Challenge" ($14.99). Another fun touch is the graffiti wall around the front door where visitors can take sharpies and sign their names or draw obscene pictures (I didn't, promise).

Before I popped into Scrud's for lunch today, I hopped onto their facebook page and came across this post:

"New burger this week; the Athol. Bacon cheeseburger with provolone, and topped with onion rings and spicy barbecue sauce. Also have the same burger topped with pepper jack and bottlecaps (battered jalapenos) and spicy barbecue sauce. We call that one "My Athol's On Fire"!"

Hm. Sounds pretty tasty but A) I was quite leery about publicly announcing that particular statement and B) I generally prefer my no-no to stay free of too much raging heat. So, when my delightfully friendly server, Miss Sicka, arrived to tell me about the daily special and that they carried bottles of vintage Moxie cola, I avoided the issue completely and asked for a Ghetto Burger ($8.49), which is basically a traditional cheeseburger with all the toppings - crisp romaine lettuce leaf, a thick and cool tomato slice, red onions, hand cut pickle rounds, with an onion, cheese, and garlic infused patty.

Grandma never infused her burger patties with anything but tender lovin' care, so in a way Scruds is one-upping her a bit on the creative side. And what sends it all over the edge of true culinary euphoria are the incredible, crispy brown had cut fries that make a huge dramatic ruckus that's audible from the open kitchen when they're thrown into the fryer and taste like the reason for the very existence of the Divine and Sacred Gift of Potato. These little lovers are unique to Scrud's and must be enjoyed with copious amounts pink, yummy fry sauce.

A few weeks prior, I'd ordered a "Bo Sox" burger for take out on my way to work and so far, it's my favorite Scrud's burger on offer. As regular readers may know, I'm a sucker for a bleu cheese burger, and this one actually had the pungent fromage stuffed into the burger patty itself along with chopped bacon (bacon!), and came topped with provolone on one of their toasty, buttery buns. I had to mow it down quickly, but it was so great I knew I was in love, and I knew that if the place could survive the terrible curse that seems to cause every business that moves into the place to crumble (and they've all been actually quite fab), they'd become one of my permanent haunts. And I firmly predict they will.

So if you happen to catch me in Rotherdam, UK, and I ask for some Scrud, it means I'm most likely longing for a Bo Sox burger. But if you happen to hand me something else instead, at least I'll be able to smoke my homesick blues away.    

Best Sandwich Shack

Best Sandwich Shack
512 Best Ave., Coeur d'Alene
(208) 625-0629
Facebook

Naturally, people I run into are always telling me about the various places they've dined, talking about how I simply must check out this or that new or semi-obscure eatery. Most of the time, my response is "Eh - been there, done that - you must not follow my blog very well since I reviewed them ages ago, kiddo." But once in a while they tell me about somewhere I've never actually heard of or that I'd never thought was worth locking into my brain. There's limited space up in there, you know.

One such place was the Best Sandwich Shack - I've had more people mention it to me in the last few months than anywhere else I can think of, but perhaps the lack of memory commitment on my part is somewhat of a classic "who's on first" scenario.

Them: "Oh, have you tried that one sandwich place over by the one taco stand over by that one fabric shop, it's the best!"
Me: "No, I don't think so. What is it?"
Them: "It's the Best Sandwich Shack."
Me: "Okay, you already told me that it's the best, what's it called, where is it?"
Them: "It's the Best...on Best."
Me: "Uh, yeah, I kinda figured out it was on Best Avenue, and I can tell you think it's awesome, does it have a name?"
Them: "Uh, yeah, I already told you it's the Best Sandwich Shack."
Me: "Never mind, I'll just have to figure it own on my own I guess. Go kick rocks, chump."

Okay, so that never actually happened, but I can imagine the possibly of it happening at least. Thing is, after having finally visited the Best Sandwich Shack, it wouldn't matter what the name of the street is that it sits on, it is indeed THE best, no doubt.

I drove into the little parking lot adjacent to Lyle's Fabrics where the shack sits, next to the aforementioned taco truck, an espresso stand and who knows what else, and pulled my car right up to the little window. Hint: I sorta learned this the hard way, but in retrospect I'm thinking it's meant to be a walk-up window, not a drive up window. I realized this when another hungry customer pulled into the lot, got out of his rig and knocked on my window: "Hey buddy, you mind if I squeeze in here to get my order?"

Come to think of it, the kind sirs running the shack had given me kind of an odd look when I shimmied my Mercury Mystique directly up next to his building, but how was I to know it was supposed to be a walk-up scenario with no cement parking barriers or anything to pitch a clue at me? Mea culpa, I guess, and fortunately I was handed my food right away after I realized my faux pas and Mr. Window Knocker was able to pick up his order without any trouble.

I drove home with the aroma my foil-wrapped silver torpedo of joy creating such an alarmingly magnificent pong in my car that I was compelled to drive down 7th street 5 miles over the speed limit so I could get home right now and dig in! (I know, I'm such a rebel). I'd ordered the daily special, which was a Pizza Cheese Steak sub, and when I unwrapped my package, my eyes bulged out of my head and my large intestine bulged out of my tummy at the beautiful monstrosity that laid before me on my desk.

And immediately after my first bite of thin-sliced steak, mushrooms, pepperoni, mozzerella and fresh-baked bread, I knew the hype was valid - it was a rich, gooey, and deliciously unique Philly for real. I powered through my sandwich lost in a pleasure zone and although I was as stuffed as a pimento in a cocktail olive, I simply had to treat my mouth right away to the free brownie Best Sandwich Shack hands out with every order. It was homemade, dense and as killer as the main course. Oh golly, I'm not worthy! Needless to say, after plowing through so many love-drenched calories, the napping couch was my afternoon fate.

Shack culinary team "Kip and Dad" (this is how they list it on their Facebook page) aren't kidding when they say they make the best Phillys in Idaho. The "Meat Your Maker" is a bit higher on the cost scale than most sandwiches, but it includes pretty much every form of meat you could possibly dream of, including bacon, and is even listed on the menu with a heart attack warning. They serve a Chicken Philly, a BBQ Beef Philly, a Sweet and Spicy Turkey Philly, as well as links of handmade New York style sausage.

After such a monumental first experience, I had to return to the scene of the pleasure crime a week later for another go. This time I called ahead and WALKED up to the window to pick up my Whiz Cheese Steak and I was treated to some entertaining father and son humor along with my sandwich. When I got home and opened it up, it was a wonderfully sticky mess of melted Cheez Whiz and hot beefy goodness - so scrumptious, and the final evidence needed to declare that yes, yes, yes - Best Sandwich Shack really is the best of its kind in the town, and probably the state, and possibly the entire Northwest.

I'm not the only one with that opinion either. The Shack is listed as the #1 rated restaurant in Coeur d'Alene out of 110 listings on TripAdvisor and the comments there are as gushy as the Trevi Fountain. Highlights among all the customer reviews include:

"Its like a party in my mouth. You are all invited! The people and food are absolutely amazing, and its the best philly-isk experience in town! Cheese-steaks just like Philly! This place is beyond delicious! Hands-down the best sandwich shop I've ever been to! & super great prices for the amazing food! I will definitely be back! & great for grabbing a quick bite for lunch. This is definitely my friends' & I new favorite place! I'm already craving another one! :)"  

"The Best Sandwich Shack is on Best Avenue, so I thought maybe they were trying to fool you with the street name. I was happy to be wrong. These are literally the best sandwiches. In fact, I've lived in different areas of the U.S. and this is actually the best place for sandwiches I've ever been."  

"I am hooked on the Philly with Cheese Whiz....absolutely wonderful. The father/son team who run the restaurant are always fun to talk to and I enjoy their upbeat attitudes. They also have punch cards!! I like free stuff :)"  

"We love The Shack!! They have the best sandwiches in town, they personable and funny too... everything on the menu is awesome, you gotta try them." 

"I no longer live in Coeur d'Alene, but whenever I come through, I have to stop in. It's a little shack, run by a nice family that knows what they're doing. Be sure to try the Philly, it's the best one this side of the Mississippi."

What are you waiting for kids? If you know what's "best" for you, you will point your hunger radar at the best Sandwich Shack and make your way in like now, momentarily, nowadays, on the double, promptly, pronto, right away, right now, soon, straightaway, these days, this day, today.  

Readers Write: Remembering the Rathskeller and the Rock

Old OLD timers might enjoy the below comment that came through recently from Get Out North Idaho reader Gerry on a post I did in 2008, "60's in Cd'A Provided Some Eye Popping Events".

It's interesting to read a little of the history of the Rathskeller. When I was in college, I thought it was a really cool place. It had some Seattle Bands as I remember, and was generally packed when I was there. I never was aware it was family run. 

The Rathskeller and the Rock were the only two reasons I ever came to Idaho. I was 20, so Idaho was heaven. The Rock was an old 2-story schoolhouse with a round rock facade exterior just west of Post Falls that had been converted into a night club appealing to the younger crowd. It was huge, and it routinely had big bands from Seattle like Merilee Rush and the Turnabouts playing there on weekends.
It was where I had drunk my first beer ever. Had to add some tomato juice to it to cut the sharpness of the flavor of the beer. After several times there, I didn't need the tomato juice. 

After drinking in Idaho, my sidekick and I would navigate back in the direction of Spokane hoping not to get stopped by the police. We usually ended up at the Zips on Division at 3 in the morning where my friend worked and his connections got us very well priced hobo steak sandwiches. 

I've tried over the past few years to find locations of both the Rock and the Rathskeller, but couldn't remember exactly where they were. Now I know to look at 14th and Sherman for the Rathskeller. But the Rock? Don't know if the building is still standing, wouldn't know where to look.

Also, this comment by Candace Conradi from many moons ago on the same article had somehow managed to escape my notice but provides some fascinating and personal information about the Rathskeller. A belated thanks to you, candace, for this neat insight:

Funny how things come back to the surface. I just read this post from January 2008. I am one of the co-owners daughters and I am very proud of what the Rathskeller did for the community. It gave a place for young people to gather. It was, yes, a tavern. There was beer that flowed and yes, sometimes people abused that right. Things have not changed as far as I can tell. Beer is still consumed and abused today. To call our business anything other than a business is like saying that grocery stores cause obesity. 

The Rathskeller hosted live entertainment for 20 years, offering top acts that drew literally thousands (if not tens of thousands) into its welcoming space over its life. It pulled visitors from Canada, Washington, Montana, Oregon and brought tourism to our humble little town; it provided and paid taxes for the citizens. It was one of the best "fast food" places and probably the most popular pizza place in town. There were many naysayers at the time, but I can honestly say that many of them were closet fans, enjoying a beer, pizza or hamburger in the shadows. Our business was run by my Grandmother Anne, affectionately known as "Annie," my mother Jackie and my Aunt Lolly who were beloved by many. They were all single mothers who created a powerfully influential business that served the community. Far ahead of their time, by their example their children all went into the world, strong and confident that they could do anything. 

This past Tuesday evening we watched Glee, our favorite program on television. Its theme happened to be "Rumors." While all thing in life are imperfect, the other side of that coin is that they are also good in many ways. Often what is seen with our eyes (or through the eyes of our parents) is perceived only in part and not in whole and thus inaccurately. We choose to place our judgment and opinions rather casually, with little thought of how they land. The Rathskeller was a place that colored the history of our little town. That cannot be changed. 

Coeur d'Alene has grown up into a very sophisticated luxury vacation destination. The Rathskeller only a distant memory. But it still holds the imprint of those earlier days, when life was more simple. We had more fun then, and in some ways, and I miss some of those simpler times. I am proud to be the offshoot of such amazing women, a part of the history that colored our fare city. I cannot change anyone's point of view or perspective but I can offer the possibility of change. Every decade has its own imperfections and Coeur d'Alene was touched by the massive movement of the 60's like every other place on earth. 

But the Rathskeller, well it was just a place to go, dance, socialize and have some fun. I loved the imprint it and my family made. I am forever grateful for their courage, their strength and their example. Years have softened me to their hardships, their struggles, and their own challenges. What has remained unchanged for me is their example, an amazing gift I passed onto my children. To be strong, a leader, and striving for my best self was and remains today my greatest gift.  

2011 in Review Part Two: Great Cupcake Wars and Other Tales.

Battle: Frosted vs. Sweet B.
Like sweaty ultimate fighters standing in opposite corners of the ring ready to kick some serious fluffy baked booty, Frosted and Sweet B. cupcake shops both opened in mid 2011 pretty much kiddy corner from each other at 5th and Sherman in downtown Cd'A. Immediately, the competition was deliciously bitchy. I'm acquainted with people who know both shops' owners (they come into my bar and blab), and they were constantly updating me on drama queen vibes from both contingencies.

On the internet side, the Yelp! flame wars started right away. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that "Ashley J." is an associate of the Sweet B. girls - she logged in and wrote this about Frosted...

"The store claims they bake them themselves but they are really shipped in from an outside bakery and jacked up in price. You would have a better experience at one of the MANY other cupcake bakeries in town. The store is small and cramped and down in a basement no where to sit and enjoy your over priced cupcake." 

...then she hopped over to the Sweet B. Yelp! page to write this:

"They have a darling store to sit in and enjoy a cupcake and bottle of milk. Just perfect for an afternoon snack with a friend or the kids. I actually found myself surprised that I enjoyed their store so much seeing as how I, honestly, am not a big fan of cupcakes...You can't chew on the undissolved sugar like you can at Frosted.. but hey, maybe you like that sort of thing. Sweet B bakes everything from scratch daily, as opposed to their competition who brings it all in from a local bakery and then calls it their own."

You go, Ashley J. And from what I've gathered, it's that last point of contention that was the coup de gras for Sweet B. Theirs were baked on site, whereas Frosted had them shipped in naked at the crack of dawn from some undisclosed location and then just broke out the frosting vats and sprinkles. And it is true, but this is actually okay with me, because they taste el yummo regardless. I've matched cupcakes from both shops against each other several times (too many!) and I'm willing to declare it a draw.

Both are creative with flavor varieties, both shops are welcoming and cordial, and I mean really, how could anyone complain about the one-two punch of a fresh, innocent Red Velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting arriving rapidly at your lips, no matter what the source? Can't we all just get along, fat, happy, and full of cake?


Closing: The Dive
Early in 2011, I found myself in Sandpoint for one reason or another (must have either been glass bong shopping or finding that perfect pair of used Birkenstocks), and came across The Dive. It was rather hard to miss. The exterior was a nice shade of traffic cone orange and the whoops and hollers from the mechanical bull riders inside the barn-like interior were echoing out into the afternoon streets. We decided to brave it and venture on in and we were pleasantly surprised by a fantastic, huge bacon cheeseburger and cheap, ever flowing pitchers of Laughing Dog Ale, as well as an incredibly convivial treatment from the guy working the bar where we decided to sit. Lots of people were in there, it seemed to be popular, thriving, and fun - especially on the weekends when a progressive dance type DJ took control.

Later that day, I "liked" The Dive on Facebook, like I always do with pretty much everything these days, and the online breakdown and drama that ensued on their page which fell in line with the place's sudden demise was both amusing and embarrassing. On September 19th, the owner posted simply "no more dive", but the before and aftermath included such peppery gems as this (hide your eyes when you read this, grandma):

Thank you to all the people in Sandpoint that said "fuck you" to the bigot racist, self-centered, assholes and biggest idiots I have ever met. This place went down hill because you can't do business, any business, in any town by serving shitty food, watered down drinks, and horrible service. You can't find quality employees buy fucking them over and paying shit wages. Fuck you, Lex Sparks and fuck you Jake Hatfield. You are the reason this business went to hell, and your better then everyone attitude is the reason everyone hates you.

Well, then. No idea what the reality of that high octane situation really is, but at least I'll always have the photo I took of a certain friend (you know who you are) drunkenly straddling the mechanical bull - possibly a lucrative future blackmail opportunity.


Opening: Fire Artisan Pizza
This year chain-store cardboard delivery service Domino's Pizza introduced a line of non-appetizing "Artisan" pizzas (sorry, but the idea of a "Tuscan Salami & Roasted Veggie" pizza pie makes my gag reflex go all giddy). Naturally, these were no different than a regular Domino's specimen, except for the fact that the dough was rolled in a rectangle and the toppings were *ahem* gourmet. Like any major American food chain, Domino's was acting response to a national trend. Wood oven fired old-old-school pizzerias have been torching up the nation like an Italian cigarette for a few years now, and the hotness finally hit Coeur d'Alene this year with the opening of Fire Artisan Pizza, next to the Christmas by the Lake shop on Sherman Ave. downtown.

The pizza pies that Fire puts out make the Domino's version seem truly patheti-sad indeed (and I did actually try the Domino's version when a customer at my bar ordered one and FORCED me to try it - it was pretty meh). Fire is a real deal hit - in fact out of all the restaurants that have opened this year, I get the impression that people are more jazzed about Fire than any of them. Because who doesn't love a delicious, oven-fresh pizza made with heart using exclusively local ingredients (when possible). Personally, I'm a cheese lover so for me, the Parma (prosciutto, gorgonzola, pecorino, mozzarella and provolone cheeses, finished with truffle oil) is like heaven on a crust.  

Closing: Ciao Mambo "Glacier Restaurant Group spokeswoman Erica Coffman, based in Whitefish, Mont., said the company regretted closing the North Idaho location." This blip from a short SR article that ran earlier this month was basically the only tidbit I could find on the closure of Hayden's Ciao Mambo Italian restaurant. In other words, no nitty gritty gossip or real explanation on the situation.

I posted something about it on the Get Out North Idaho Facebook page and someone commented that they'd heard the owner of the plaza it was located in decided to double the rent on them, and they basically told him to go eat a crunchy biscotti and got the heck out of there. Apparently, the owners are taking the money to their Spokane location, where they plan on installing a full bar of booze, something we here at Get Out north Idaho can always stand behind. Hayden -1, Spokane +2.