Subway

SUBWAY
North Idaho Locations:
409 E Best Ave, Coeur d'Alene
3840 N Government Way, Coeur d'Alene
1500 Northwest Blvd # 100, Coeur d'Alene
9170 N Hess St, Hayden Lake
4082 E Primrose Ln, Post Falls
3050 E Mullan Ave, Post Falls
1603 E Seltice Way, Post Falls
4000 W Riverbend Ave, Post Falls
1636 N Highway 41, Rathdrum
476534 Highway 95 # A, Sandpoint
6453 Main St, Bonners Ferry
745 W Cameron Ave, Kellogg


I felt a slight twinge of betrayal when I discovered the amount of calories lurking in a Subway tuna sandwich. I thought I was being so good, so healthful. So proud of myself for sticking to my diet plan, even sacrificing yummy Monterey Cheddar bread for a sensible 9-Grain Wheat and opting for light mayo. Anyway, I’d always thought of tuna as weight-loss-in-a-can, touted by obsessive bodybuilders as a protein-rich miracle food that can help achieve maximum muscle hypertrophy and give you that fetching Lou Ferrigno glow. At least it felt like a step in the right direction away from the Baconator blues.

Au contraire, for my research reveals that a juicy Wendy’s Baconator burger weighs in lightly at a mere 830 calories, with 51 grams of fat. A foot-long Subway tuna with cheese and all the fixings and extra banana peppers waddles in at 1060 calories, with a fat count of 62 grams. 62 grams of fat sounds like a heck of a lot to me, especially when I think of it in raw form, jiggling away like flan on a silver tray in the liposuctionist’s office.

Alas, for there’s something especially divine and lustful about Subway tuna salad. They swear there’s no secret ingredient, no magic way, just ordinary chunk light tuna and mayo. Maybe they use a particularly fine vintage of fish or maybe it’s the long hours spent in the chill of the walk-in cooler before it finally hits the ice-cream scoop on its way to sandwich glory. Whatever it is, there’s something naggingly addictive about it and it was a guilt-free pleasure, or so I’d once thought.

The Subway Corporation have been promoting their sandwiches as some kind of weight-loss trick at least since 2000 when “Subway Guy” Jared Fogle waved his great big pair of pants around on TV after allegedly losing hundreds of pounds by stuffing his face twice daily with turkey subs and walking around a lot. His fame as a company mascot inexplicably endures to this day, lingering like a case of onion breath.

I used to think it was pretty funny when I’d hear someone refer to Subway sandwiches as health food. When I was younger, a trip to Subway used to mean one thing and one thing only: fatty Meatball Marinara subs with extra cheese. Tangy, hearty and messy, these delicious gut bombs were once my favorite thing on Earth, but at some point I got burnt out and switched over to the Spicy Italian on Parmesan bread. Both options out-scored even my beloved tuna in the weight watch wars. The sassy Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub is surely the bulging Queen of Subway Overindulgence at 1500 hot, glistening calories. Shoot, might as well throw in a bag of Jalapeno Cheetos and an extra large Dr.Pepper. Oh, and yeah, some of those excellent fresh-baked white chocolate macadamia nut cookies and…

“Next!” The teenaged “sandwich artist” snapped me out of fantasy mode as I stood at the counter of the brand spanking new Subway outlet on the corner of 4th and Best in Coeur d’Alene. “Six-inch Veggie Delite on wheat with just a little mayonnaise, hold the cheese and pickles and add lettuce, cucumbers, olives, onions, tomatoes and extra banana peppers please,” I sighed with slight defeat. Admittedly, this 230 calorie, 3 fat-gram sandwich is quite satisfying, very kind to the waistline and fairly tasty, at least for something with no meat or frosting. I decided to eat in, so I could check out the new digs for a few minutes. I pulled up to one of the shiny new faux-oak tables and unwrapped my plain vegetable sub. I chewed slowly, staring dreamily out the window at Davis Donuts across the street as I ate.

It had been quite a few years since I felt comfortable dining in this Subway’s former location down the street. With so many newer Subways having popped up in the area in the last ten or so years, the original 4th and Hattie location was referred to by many as the “Ghetto Subway.” In other words, it was truly time for an upgrade. I noticed the classic “vintage transit map’ wallpaper motif has returned in a slightly modernized form, and the new-look Subway has a much more relaxed atmosphere, the subdued earth tones much easier on the eyes and soul than the over lit, screaming yellow store of yesteryear.

Since the first franchise opened in Connecticut in the mid 60’s, Subway restaurants have become nearly as ubiquitous around the world as houses of worship or Verizon phone stores. A town knows it has finally earned its bold font on the map when Subway shows up and slides that first Cold Cut Combo into production. Unlike other fast food chains, Subway does not change its line-up according to local custom or culture; in fact the menu is invariably the same in each of the 30,476 franchised units in 87 countries that are known to exist as of January 2009.

The store right down the street in your hometown is identical to the one in Zagreb, Croatia. If you suddenly happen to find yourself in one of the 30 Subway outlets in sunny Iraq, you won’t find Sabich, Baba Ghanoush, or Weapons of Mass Destruction. However, you will find a foot long Turkey and Ham on Honey Oat bread. Have a chance rendezvous with a stranger at a Subway in Shizuoka, Japan and you’ll find yourself ordering a Subway Club rather than sushi or soba noodles, although delightfully, they do serve Sapporo and sake. Of course, drinking is such a popular pastime in Japan that they even serve booze in cute vending machines right on the street.

I’ve been to Subways in dozens of towns, and I’ve had varying degrees of luck with service and general cleanliness, but I will say that overall I’ve always remained impressed with the freshness of ingredients and the consistent quality of product. In Rathdrum or in Romania, a Subway is a Subway, surprises are very few. There’s something oddly comforting in that fact, the notion that no matter where fate may lead me, I’ll always know that Tuna Heaven is just around the corner.

Bread Crumbs: Random Bits & Mail Bag: January

I asked the checkstand girl at Petersons (former IGA) the other morning if she'd heard any dirt on what was going on across Sherman Ave., in the remains of the old China Gate Restaurant, which was badly damaged in a fire last year that killed the 1210 Tavern and the Gamer's Haven. A crew has rebuilt the exterior to resemble a triple-wide mobile home in drab beige and it's fugly as hell, zero personality. She told me she heard it was going to be a "sports bar" and that it would take the entire building. I can't imagine it, since the place seriously looks more like Aunt Edna's Retirement Home than a hip place to hang out. What gives? More importantly, what is the fate of the wonderful old dragon-shaped neon sign that has hung so proudly there for so many aeons? Surely, it deserves to be preserved in a museum.

---

I've been getting my first reports back about the new MacKenzie River Pizza joint in the old failed Cheesecake place on US95 and word is that it's pretty gosh darn cool. One of Stephanie's house cleaning clients said that "The Athenian" was actually some of the most intense pizza she had encountered in ages, and that the service was good to the point of being over the top cheesy. That's fine, as long as the pizza's over the top cheesy as well. Stephanie and I plan on conducting a thorough investigation as soon as we can get a large enough party together to be able to try several different menu items. She's already got a clutch of her other house cleaning clients on board, so it should be kind of a trip. I'm going to hang up my health plan for the night for this place, and I cannot wait. This boy needs some hot pepperoni. It's been many moons since I was able to indulge in a hot pizza pie and my eyes are moist with dreaminess just thinking about it.

---

Let's take a dip into the Get Out! mailbag, shall we?

I am a karaoke singer, also. I enjoyed your article on Mik-N-Mack especially about the weirdo lady. What you may not know, is that the hot spot for karaoke is Rusty's in Hayden. Centered between Gov't Way and Hwy 95, and tucked in just next to the new Holiday Inn Express, is a movin' joint. Karaoke is on Wednesday nights 7:00 pm to 11:00 pm. It usually is packed on Wednesdays. If you give me a heads up as to when you will be there, I'll show up as well. Kim Gittel, an old friend owns the place. He has established many neighborhood markets in the area and has become rather wealthy at this.

Herb

Could be fun, actually. Bayview Herb and I could sing a duet or two, maybe shoot some Slippery Nipples. He could be the George Jones to my Tammy Wynette. The Paul McCartney to my John Lennon. The Cher to my Sonny. As for the Gittels, they are a fine family and certainly I've contributed to their mighty fortune with my once-frequent purchases of the fantastic and filling 3 for $1.39 hot dog special at their "biggest little store in town". It was 3 for $1.19 not long ago, actually. Inflation, bah!

---

It's no secret that I have great disdain for anything and everything to do with Jimmy Buffett. Bully to the parrots, the beachy latitudes, and the cloying light rock sounds! Karaoke versions of "Margaritaville" have been known to turn me into a violent ashtray-thrower. I'd sooner eat Dung Beetle Supreme than dine at one of his hoaky burger joints. There's something so smug about the cliquey gatherings of aging fans who don painfully tacky hawaiian shirts and jerk arrythmically to Jimmy Buffett tribute acts on the tragic dancefloors of cruise boats and casino lounges. CDA Press columnist and local negative nelly Mary Souza has reprtedly been spotted getting all dance-funky at several of these types of events and the very thought of her doing it, her flaxen hair bobbing to and fro, her tight lips in an upturned grimace, makes my brain burn all dull and hot. If this is your kind of scene, you knock-kneed old yuppie you, you're in luck.

January 31 brings Parrot Fest at Silver Mountain with Rum & Margarita specials, Hawaiian themed food, Hawaiian attire, and of course some anonymous Jimmy Buffett cover band. It'd take a case of rancid Boone's Farm Blue Hawaiian to get me to even think about showing up for that hot mess.

---

It's understating it a bit to say it's not often that experimental, post-punk, weird and cool acts make appearances in our neck of the woods, especially not in a place like Kellogg, and especially not in a place like Dirty Ernie's bar. Yet, it's actually happening January 31 when Idaho art-rockers Finn Riggins make an appearance there for the post USCSA collegiate ski races party. This band have a neatly original indie-bop sound that's loose and stiff at the same time, like Eno-era Talking Heads with a kicker of Pixies. Instrumentation is thick and unconventional, with angular guitars playing off steel drum riffs, atmospheric synths and gauzy female vocals on tracks like "Pankakes"; "Hraka" rides a rockier, Sonic Youth influenced tsunami of sound.

The trio have been garnering glowing notices recently in national music press and websites such as Impose Magazine who wrote about their performance at the CMJ festival in New York, "the best band of the day was Hailey, Idaho-based Finn Riggins, a guitar, synth and drum combo that plays pulsating, anxious post-punk that has an arrestingly ramshackle quality to it." Show starts at 8 p.m., catch them now so someday you can say you saw them at Dirty Ernie's back before they were huge. To listen and befriend, visit their MySpace page or check out the video for "Glove Compartment" below:

---

A few more quick notes from the Get Out! inbox:

Dear Get Out!
I enjoy reading about all the places you go to and eat. I unfortunately don't get out to eat much. But there are lots of places I would like to try, thanks to you.

Regarding your last article saying goodbye to burgers, I just wanted to let you know that we raise Tibetan yak and sell our meat at local farmers markets but you can also sample our burgers at Diluna's downtown in Sandpoint or at Pucci's Bar and Grill up on Schweitzer. Yak meat is 95-97% lean, low in saturated fats, high in iron, protein and omega 3's. It is described as beef like but sweeter, not as dry as buffalo, and never gamey tasting.
When you get to Sandpoint I hope you will try one out.

Christine Stoneham
Pack River Yaks
www.packriveryaks.com

Thanks, Christine. Now that I know it's okay for my diet, I'll have to stock up on some yak next time I happen to find myself in Pack River. I'm actually quite curious to give it a taste. And DiLuna's is on my short list to review anyway, so I'll be sure to give the yak burger a whirl. Thanks for the odd but very useful tip.

And finally, I totally LOLed when I got this succinct message from my doctor after I mentioned him in Get Out! a few weeks back...

Re: Goodbye Cheeseburgers

What exactly is it that you like more about the Office Burger than my office? I hope next time we can make your visit here almost as good as it is!

Alan Mayer, MD

Coeur d'Alene Health Care Center

Golden Dragon Restaurant

Golden Dragon Restaurant
106 W. Seltice Way,
Post Falls,
457-0137

Before her untimely death a few years ago, Jimmy Woo’s was the Bette Davis of Seattle Chinese restaurants. She was sagging but legendary, tipsy and chain smoking, beloved equally by great-great uncles, drag queens and those into noir. Their tiny Jade Pagoda Lounge was home one of the most unusual jukeboxes on Capitol Hill, filled with obscure disco hits, noisy local punk, and vintage country. Red bulbs were plugged in every light fixture, making for a dark, surreal atmosphere that, after a few hours, created a form of eyestrain that would cause vampiric howls upon return to normal daylight.

When I lived over in Soggy Town, we made it our default place to meet before concerts, art happenings, Tupperware parties, whatever was on our agenda for the night. The beverages were ridiculously cheap and stiff, mixed hatefully by the bitter guy who seemed to be always working the bar. He was often blatantly rude and insulting, even to the regulars who got used to having half their drink sploshed out on the counter in angry fits of delivery. Eventually, his crankiness became sort of endearing and we realized the best way to deal with him was to just hurl the cruel insults right back. “Your sour face looks like a cat’s behind, you tragic old coot.” He seemed to like this; we were on his level, our courage rewarded by a silent smirk and fully intact Cranberry-Vodkas.

There were definitely better places to eat in the neighborhood. I’d hung out at Jimmy Woo’s Jade Pagoda off and on for at least a year before I even though to actually order some food. When I finally did it was a letdown, not really what I’d expected given the ultra vivid glamour of the lounge. Merely regulation, fried and greasy, MSG-rich generica with nothing to distinguish it from tens of thousands of other joints dotting the landscape, coast to coast. It was the kind of mainstream Chinese-American chow that we’ll still eat and enjoy, but we probably won’t be sending text messages to Aunt Ethel about how simply marvelous it is. It’s the kind of merely satisfactory but not unpleasant fare served for the last ten years at the Golden Dragon on Seltice Way in Post Falls.

Nevertheless, the place clearly has a lot of local fans and I blame this mainly on the high level of customer service. When I met one of my old Jade Pagoda Seattle friends there recently for dinner, the warmly inviting wait staff seemed to know every face, and people were making themselves at home, that is if their home were a rowdy old episode of "Roseanne".

The place was full of large, talkative families who added aggressively to the overall din along with the emphatic Chinese discourse emerging from the kitchen, the cheerful gossip of the waitresses, and the syrupy Asian pop music which emanated from somewhere underneath it all. We nearly had to yell right in each other’s cochlear implants as we discussed the massive framed watercolor that hung right above us, a painting of wild horses splashing along the beach at sunset signed with Chinese characters that probably translate to something like “Under pink sky /the color of spicy shrimp/you rude/belch too loud/make wild horses run away.”

Walnut Tofu? Greenshell Mussels? Mushroom Delight with Oyster Sauce? I rolled my eyes at the thought. With my visiting pal as the lame excuse, I opted to forget my health kick for the night and order the Number 7 Combo Dinner, consisting of such Nutrisystem no-no’s as Lemon Chicken, BBQ Pork, Fried Prawns, and Pork Chow Mein. To further the debauchery, I threw in an appetizer of Fried Won Tons. “There’s no filling in those, they’re like potato chips” our waitress explained. “That’s fine,” I sighed. “Just make sure they’re as greasy as possible”. Why not make them the proper way and wrap that darned won ton around a lonely hunk of pork before its divine hot oil transformation?

And greasy they were, crisp and delicious, especially when dunked in the accompanying bowl of brown sweet and sour glaze. Our fingers were so sticky from it we had to go rinse our hands afterwards. I’ve always thought it to be tragic when Chinese places choose to render foul otherwise fine Egg Flower Soup by including overcooked mixed vegetable parts. The lima bean, it hurts deep in my spleen. The little cubed carrot, come near me I dare it. The frozen corn, I greet it with scorn. I say it’s best to just keep it simple with only some green onions to let the rich chicken flavor of the broth shine.

My Fried Prawns were little golden clouds of joy, the hands-down highlight of the whole thing. Cheers to the cook for using fresh fryer oil, which allowed the batter to puff up to pancakey perfection and create a heavenly crisp outside layer. A dab of tangy red cocktail sauce adds insult to injury, as if these poor, steamy prawns didn’t already have enough to worry about.

The BBQ pork was four wafer-thin slices that were a tease, made memorable only by dipping in the mega-hot Chinese mustard that provided a few moments of sadistic delight, making our brains sizzle and tears gush forth. The Pork Chow Mein was passable, but a bit of a yawner, nothing in its monochrome pale greenness and bland dry noodles to really dazzle the tongue. Also uninspiring was the lemon chicken, with mysterious dark meat parts drowned in an over-sweet bright yellow glaze suspiciously similar to the filling in a store-bought lemon fruit pie.

No complaints, on the other hand, from my Seattle friend, who declared his Almond Chicken to be “money” and better than he remembered Jimmy Woo’s ever being. I cracked open my fortune cookie and was shocked to read the words “At sunset you will be trampled on the beach by wild horses.”

The Photography of Phydeaux460

You might have noticed the dazzling new Get Out header with the neon signs floating above all this jazz. I must give credit to the photographer/collage artist known as Phydeaux460 aka Jess Jackson of Boise who took the original image and posted it on his flickr page, from where I totally swiped it. I've really been enjoying his wonderful photos of North Idaho, especially the ones that feature all the cool vintage signs in the area. Below are some examples, as well as a link to Jess' flickr page so you can check out his hundreds of other photos of local lakes, buildings and landscapes. Pretty neato stuff.

Phydeaux460's Photostream

NIC Wild Game Feast

Wild Game Feast Menu
2009

Appetizers
Northwest cheese and fruit display
Rabbit and duck sausage in a horseradish and dill cream sauce
Elk bratwurst in a sweet Black Butte Porter sauce
Buffalo chorizo in a zesty green pepper and tomato sauce
Smoked pheasant breast salad canapés
Duck breast mousse canapés
Smoked salmon mousse canapés
Duck foie gras pate
Rabbit pate en croute
Bacon wrapped pheasant pate

Soup
Cream of wild mushroom and toasted hazelnut

Salad
Spring salad with duck confit, dried cherries and pear vinaigrette

Sorbet
Fresh lemon and rosemary sorbet

Main
Venison osso bucco over herbed risotto with roasted root vegetables

Dessert
Chocolate decadence with a northwest berry compote and fresh sweet cream

Mik-n-Mac's Karaoke

Mik-n-Mac's Lounge
408 N. 4th St.
Coeur d'Alene

The Wild and Weird World of Karaoke Night at Mik-n-Mac’s

“Oh. My. Heck.” I stuttered in amazement. “Where is John Waters when you need him?” I wondered out loud, for the woman seemed to have crawled right out of the notorious film director’s cult classic “Desperate Living.”

I’d noticed the mysterious, hunched-over figure descending into Mik-n-Mac’s a while earlier hidden under a drab green blanket and looking like the old crone in Sleeping Beauty, the one who morphed into the evil witch. It was Karaoke night, and oddball things always seem to occur on Karaoke night, but that night there was an especially peculiar vibe in the air.

The crowd was vivacious as Billy and Sue sang the final hoots and hollers of another rousing rendition of their trademark tune “Dixieland Delight.” The hunched figure shuffled out to the middle of the dance floor and blurted out to anyone listening something along the lines of “Hey! I’m not gonna be disrespected anymore!” followed by a string of curse words shocking even in the context of the bar.

Suddenly, the ugly blanket was tossed away, revealing a polyester jacket and skirt, which also came flying off, revealing a Britney-style schoolgirl outfit, which took quite a bit of effort to remove actually, revealing a rather large and angry looking woman in her early forties, standing there in nothing but black skivvies, her various body parts unraveling themselves in every direction. It was a kamikaze karaoke striptease.

Hesitantly, I looked closer and realized that her arms, chest, and face were covered in handwritten rants and obscenities, self-graffiti done in multicolored permanent markers. Her head was shaved arbitrarily in the style of a slightly diseased Pekinese. Her undergarments gasped for life against the strain of her jelly dance, the disco pulse of a Donna Summer karaoke track causing her to twist her ample body into a frenzied flesh tornado. First, the jaws around the room started dropping in shock as half the crowd struggled to avert their gaze and the other half began cheering wildly, including me.

Outrageous! The bartender flew out from behind me, pointing and snapping her fingers, “Sweetie, you need to put your clothes back on and cool it, right now.” I had to know exactly what on Earth this toothless tyrant’s depraved fit of performance art was all about. Just what made her tick? I’ve always been a loony magnet anyway, so it didn’t surprise me when she emerged from the restroom dressed again in the schoolgirl garb and cornered me directly.

“What planet are you from?” I asked and she proceeded to rattle off a very loosely coherent story which involved getting permanently kicked off the City Link bus system and how since the Sherriff’s Department ignored her cries of injustice she decided to go from bar to bar as a one-woman act of civil disobedience, a lunatic stripper gyrating wildly in the hope of salvation for all those who’ve been banished from buses.

“Interesting,” I replied.”You’re kind of a cross between Courtney Love and Rosa Parks.” She stared at me blankly for a moment then carried on ranting. I do seem to have endless patience for those with funky mind chemistry, those who’s thought patterns run entertainingly out of the norm, those perhaps touched a bit by the freak stick. However, even I was having a hard time pinning this madwoman down as she prattled on conspiratorially, dousing me with saliva droplets and hot vodka breath.

Mercifully, the KJ called my name, and by the time I’d finished singing “Take Me to the River”, the bartender had booted her out the door for going from table to table and soliciting beer money. That’s a tragedy because surely she deserved a tall frosty one for her efforts. I doubt anyone had been so entertained or frightened in ages.

Karaoke Night is never very dull, especially not at Mik-n-Mac’s where longtime host Jerry is the tie-dyed ring master for all the regulars that frequent that particular circus. In addition to having one of the largest song selections I’ve ever seen, Jerry’s also been known to act like Tom Cruise in “Risky Business” and perform ”Old Time Rock and Roll” wearing nothing but Ray-Bans, a dress shirt and underwear. In addition to Karaoke, Tuesdays is for cups of bottomless domestic beer for $5.

The combo of endless Pabst Blue Ribbon and wireless microphones has been known to result in some very unusual performances. Certain regulars are truly fantastic, with most singers at least ranging from not terrible to mostly tolerable.

Some of the performances will make you glad the beer is bottomless. I really root for anyone who chooses to turn in a slip and sing, who’s not afraid to get up there and at least give it a try. No one’s paying attention anyway.

This fact I learned the hard way after delivering show-stopping versions of “Copacabana” or “Fernando” only to land one or two lonely handclaps amid the crowd’s conversational din. To make myself feel better, I invented the convoluted theory that I must be such a good singer that people get busy talking and forget they’re not listening to the radio.

In addition to traditional karaoke each Tuesday, which runs from 8 to midnight, Mik-n-Mac’s has plans to take the idea to the next level on Wednesdays when they’ll be having Rock Band contests. Teams will compete and be eliminated during a series of weekly battles, with the winning band taking home some kind of dazzling prize.

I finally got a chance to play this mega-popular interactive video game with some friends recently and I had a complete blast. The drums were pretty rough for me, but I sang a 96% on “I Wanna Be Sedated” and managed to work the guitar without causing the music to crash and fail. It’s a perfectly logical step up from karaoke and will be a terrific challenge, especially for those who enjoy frequent nips of gin with their juice.

Cheeseburgers I Have Loved: A Memoir

The dawn of a new year brings with it the urge to refresh and reinvigorate one’s body, mind and spirit. The latter two notions can be taken care of easily enough; Feng-shui the rumpus room, explore the art of self-aromapuncturetherapy, volunteer some time teaching seniors to make soap sculpture busts of the members of the Coeur d’Alene city council. Trying to attain and/or maintain a body that’s slim and trim, on the other hand, is one of the biggest challenges one can face.

Right before January I start preparing. I make a vow to myself that I will learn to find some tragic kind of delight in plain brown rice and braised tofu. I promise the produce man that he’ll be getting sick of my face pretty soon what with me pestering him day in and day out for the vitamin-rich fruits and vegetables that will be the basis of my new healthy lifestyle. I alphabetize the dozens of bottles of salad dressings in the fridge, each a reminder of a long-ago valiant-but-failed attempt at making tossed greens a habit, kept in hope that maybe some fat-free French or a nice Raspberry Vinaigrette would finally come through as my savior, my way into the clear light of a sensible diet, far away from the lardaceous evil doings of the depraved Cheeseburger devil.

In fact, one of the most important parts of the pre-diet ritual is the December 31 “last supper.” This year, it was the ultra-classic Paul Bunyan Bacon Double Cheeseburger, a sublime, messy beast known to tear through twenty napkins, and a superb final indulgence before jumping on the wagon of salubriousness. Conversely, it’s almost always my inability to resist the voodoo pull of the bun-encased, cheese-slathered all-American ground beef patty that causes the New Year’s diet plan to go rattling violently off its tracks and crash into the nearest Zip’s Drive-In.

Brown grease runs through my blood. When I was in grade school, I would leave for lunch every day and walk the three blocks to my grandmother’s house where she’d be standing by faithfully with a homemade lunch: a hot, juicy cheeseburger. These burgers were small, simple, just a little ketchup and mayo, but they were pure perfection. I remember the first time I decided to eat with the other kids in the Harding School gym and how horrified I was by the grey soy-meal patty and slice of cold government cheese that those lunch ladies were trying to pass off as a burger. I told my grandmother I felt sorry for the poor kids who had to eat those awful things and asked if we could invite them over for lunch too, all three hundred of them, so they could find out how a real cheeseburger was supposed to taste.

I’ve explored the back roads and the crack roads of North Idaho for years searching for the perfect burger, and have gone to great lengths to get my fix of ultimate burger satisfaction. I’ve stood in line for 20 minutes in hundred degree weather behind the entire Sandpoint High School Girls’ Volleyball Team in the tiny lobby of Dub’s Drive-In. I’ve travelled the icy, winding road over Dobson Pass to Murray, a living ghost town, and found a plump, seven inch diameter Bacon Cheeseburger amidst the historic quirks and clutter of the fusty old Sprag Pole Inn and Museum.

I’ve felt the cold-coffee gaze of the grim waitress at the Gem State Cafe in St. Maries, staring unrelentingly, uncomfortably at my partner and I like we were aliens from outer space as I lost myself in one of the best Mushroom-Swiss Burgers known to mankind. I’ve even returned incognito, wearing a deerstalker hat and Yoko shades, to Burger Heaven after my review of that five-star drive-in earned me a permanent place on Rathdrum’s blacklist when my description of their town caused them to name me as the worst thing to happen there since the old jail was vandalized.

“Pickle and Onion?” It’s an important question for many of us who grew up in Coeur d’Alene and hold a special place in our tummies for Hudson’s Hamburgers. Their tiny menu board has remained unchanged for decades until recently, with the appearance of a small sign reading “bottled water $1.00.” This is the one hint of modernity in a place that has remained untouched and untouchable, where tourists from Denmark and Bolivia come to wait in line behind twice-a-day local regulars for single and double Cheeseburgers that are so satisfyingly basic and so unforgettably tasty, they indeed deserve global recognition. People come for the live theater with the spatulas, the endearing crankiness of the staff, and the din of the local gossip crackling atop the sizzle of the grill. A true landmark.

I finally had a chance to investigate the recently-opened Riverstone Red Robin for lunch a few weeks ago. Not bad, but nothing to rip your wig off about. The prickly young server took our burger orders and asked, “Do you want that a little bit pink in the middle or not pink at all.” The question threw me off somehow. “Are you asking if I want it all the way dead or still mooing a little?” “No raw hamburger for me” announced my Dad, “I want mine cooked!” I had to agree, I see nothing appetizing about uncooked ground beef no matter how “gourmet” the pretense. My Red Robin Bleu Ribbon Burger turned out just fine, but it was too big to reasonably fit in my mouth, causing me to dissolve into a head-to-toe mess of bleu cheese crumbles and chipotle mayonnaise and napkins.

So as I kick off my latest Leptopril-induced health and wellness kick, I’d like to bid a bittersweet adieu to some of my favorite friends, at least until I drop down a few notches on the belt. To the Double Double at Longboard, I will miss you miss you. To the American Cheeseburger at the Dragon House, those pregnant girls were so right, you’re way better than the Chow Mein. To the Breakfast Burger at Rob’s Seafood, you’ve got egg on your face, my greasy little darling. To the Zips Wrangler with your double-wide style, your BBQ sauce is my kind of tangy. To the Lamb Burger at Moon Time, you’re so delicious I could count you in my sleep. To the Miss Piggy at Nosworthy’s Hall of Fame, I’ll forever be your Kermit the Frog. Finally, to the Office Burger at the Office Bar & Grill, I like you so much more than Dr. Mayer’s office, which is where I’ll end up if I eat you. Alas.

The Blue Plate Cafe

Blue Plate Café
10015 N. Government Way,
Hayden,
772-8399

Breakfast plans were momentarily waylaid after cruising by the Blue Plate Café and seeing that there were more cars in the parking lot than there were square feet in the restaurant itself. Q. and I were mildly cranky after making the brave trek north in sub-zero temperatures through four feet of powdery snow on roads that made us feel like we were trapped in some kind of apocalyptic Iditarod nightmare. Weather conditions were so bad, we weren’t even sure the Blue Plate would be open for business, and even if it were would anyone besides us be foolish enough to venture out? It attests to either the popularity of the restaurant or the hardcore-ness of Haydenites that the answer was a resounding yes; driving by, the tiny building was overstuffed with eager diners. Q. was hesitant to deal with a crazy crowd, but I vetoed his objections. We would at least see how long the wait time was before instigating a Plan B.

Our rumbling tummies were giving off more attitude and sass than even Q himself could manage to muster. Entering the Blue Plate, we were immediately halted by a crowd of around a dozen folks waiting for a table to open up. Technically, there wasn’t a lobby so people just were just gathered willy-nilly in the aisles between tables or wherever they could grab some space. Claustrophobia was threatening to do a tap dance on my weary mind, and I was about to turn to Q and say “Forget it, let’s do IHOP” when the hostess announced “I have a table for two ready. How about you two?” she winked and pointed in our direction. Lady luck was serving our eggs sunny side up; everyone else waiting required tables for four or more.

We were certainly happy to have been seated so quickly, but the claustrophobia didn’t exactly fade away. We were sat at a wee table near the door, so the waiting crowd stood hovering right around us, all up in our hula hoops. We were officially squished and also involuntarily forced into feeling holiday cheer for directly next to us sat a cheery Christmas tree which threatened to collapse directly into our laps, it was so overstuffed with decorations and toys. Holiday tunes blared relentlessly overhead as cruel wintery breezes assaulted us each time the door opened to allow more sardines to squeeze into the can. “Popular place,” Q. observed dryly as we attempted to tune out the maddening crowd and focus our attention on the menu.

The idea of lunch must be taboo on Sundays at the Blue Plate; only breakfast items were on offer, but that was alright. We were still wearing our grumpy morning faces despite the early afternoon hour. The Blue Plate breakfast menu is a hand-typed, basic, black and white list of ordinary morning fare, nothing “foo-foo” as Q. put it. A selection of ordinary omelets, an egg-potato-etc scramble, combos involving your choice of meat, toast, potatoes and eggs. Coffee. Juice. Most astounding were the prices, with nearly every meal right around the five dollar point. I decided to go for the “Frenchy”, which was French toast, scrambled eggs and ham. Q. opted for the “1-1-1”, a simple combo of bacon, a fried egg and toast .

Moments after she took our order, our waitress returned. “Hey guys, can I ask a favor?” she purred sweetly. “Can I move y’all to another table? We need to push some smaller tables together for a six-top.” Some might find the idea of being asked to suddenly relocate after fully settling in offensive and rude. I could just hear my mother, for example, freaking out at the notion and even I might not be so keen on the idea under different circumstances. However, with polar penguins waddling underfoot and the waiting crowd practically sitting on our laps, we jumped at the chance. Our new table was spacious and warm, a 4-seater located right next to the kitchen.

As we began to absorb the atmosphere from a better perspective, the Blue Plate’s true “mom and pop” nature began to reveal itself. The sunny yellow and blue walls are covered in bric-a-brac which looks culled directly from some Grandma’s country farm kitchen, and our waitress kept loudly referring to the cook-on-duty as “Hey Dad!” I poked my neck around the corner to see Dad in action and realized that he was the guy whose caricature appears on the front of the Blue Plate menu, bespectacled and stern, wielding a spatula as if it were a sacred talisman that holds many ancient and rare breakfast secrets.

Q. lustily pointed out the sign listing that day’s homemade pies, which included “huckleberry peach” among others. We became lost in the concept; “huckleberry peach, huckleberry peach, huckleberry peach”, we rolled the words around slowly in our minds, conjuring a potential sweet vs. tart flavor war where everyone’s a winner.

Our pie fantasies popped like bubbles upon the arrival of our breakfasts, and yes indeed, they were served on blue plates, a nice powder blue to be exact. My slice of French toast was as thick as a Nora Roberts paperback and just as fluffy, served sprinkled in powdered sugar and warm real maple syrup. My eggs were perfecto, and my slab of pit ham was tender and juicy and as thick and wide as my manly hand. Q. declared his rye toast to be “the best in town” (the truth, I know because I snuck a bite when he wasn’t looking), made even finer with the help of an actual jar of homemade blackberry preserves. His chunky, funky potatoes were crispy, golden-brown and perfect.

Service was exceptional despite the heavy business; it seemed we often had several waitresses busily buzzing around us at the same time. The only minor complaint we could conjure up was that the coffee seemed a little weak. We needed a caffeine boost to get us motivated to tackle the retail hordes and do Christmas shopping, but we couldn’t manage to catch a buzz from the thin brown liquid that was being poured. Two words for Dad and his fine crew: French Roast.

The tab arrived and the total made us laugh. We were tremendously satisfied and full, in fact we were too full even for any Huckleberry Peach action, all for approximately a ten dollar bill plus tip. A deal that economical is a mighty rare thing indeed and worth mucking through any amount of snow to find.

Gittel’s Grocery

Gittel’s Grocery
1201 N Government Way,
Coeur d’Alene,
208-667-6816.

Some years, I tend to get a little over-extravagant around Christmas time and end up spending pretty much my every last dime. I like to gift people with gifts they might actually remember and use and I also enjoy going out for nice dinners and festive nights on the town. These things are never cheap, and this year was no exception. Now that the yuletide cheer has faded, my bank account is as empty as my cup of hot buttered rum at bedtime on Christmas Eve.
Still, one must eat and when cupboards are bare, desperate times call for desperate measures. In times of poverty, I know that digging around in the dark areas of the couch or car will unearth at least enough coins for a satisfying and classic favorite; three hot dogs for $1.39 at Gittel’s Grocery in Coeur d’Alene.

Searching online for details about the subject, I came upon a blog post, written by former local resident Jake Donahue, in which he eloquently waxes poetic about the wonderful wieners at “the Biggest Little Store in Town”. His brief haiku showcases the typical emotional and physiological response to this divine lunchtime tableaux. “My mouth salivates/Three for a buck thirty-nine/Hot dogs are pure bliss.”

It’s unknown exactly when Gittel’s became the sacred homeland for this holy trinity of hot dogs. Elton Gittel might have decided to serve up discounted frank triplets on opening day way back when, or perhaps one of the many Gittel descendants who’ve run the store in the decades since had the winning idea. Either way, it’s been one of the most legendary lunch bargains in town for as long as I can remember.

I had a roommate long ago who actually managed to lose a bit of weight by guzzling water and eating nothing but three plain Gittel’s dogs every day for both lunch and dinner. Probably not the healthiest way to go about it, but at the time the special was three dogs for 99 cents, ensuring that he always had lots of money left over for something to stuff in his bong.

Recently, a friend of mine offered to take her mate to lunch to celebrate their 10th anniversary. “Surprise me,” said her lover and they ended sitting up at the lone picnic table on Gittel’s front lawn, holding hands and enjoying cheap hot dogs together in the autumn sunshine.

There’s no hype involved in a Gittel’s dog. There’s no piled-high Chicago-style action with mustard, onion, sweet relish, a dill pickle, tomato wedges, and pickled peppers. You won’t find any German sausages, brats, kielbasas or cheese-filled Ballpark plumpers. The counter is completely devoid of extravagant toppings or condiments such as sauerkraut, bacon bits, mayonnaise or coleslaw.

Nope. What you get here is all you really need; plain old ketchup and mustard. It’s available in two squeeze bottles, one colored retro red and the other yesteryear yellow. If you prefer not to squirt condiments in public or want to avoid messy accidents in the car, they’ve also been benevolent enough to provide to-go packets for those on the go.

The creative topping options do expand some if you explore the aisles of Gittel’s tiny grocery section for inspiration. Spray some Easy Cheese all up in there, pour on a can of cheap chili, and sprinkle it with crumbled beef jerky. Voila! It’s a poor man’s Coney Island dog. Hot dogs are the single, solitary item on the Gittel’s deli menu, and if for some odd reason, you only want one or two, you’ll have to pay the jacked-up price of 59 cents each.

The dogs at Gittel’s are a self-serve, and they fire up the machine just in time for breakfast. Certainly, a Glenray hot dog cooker like the one Gittel’s uses hasn’t been available since at least around the time when TV’s “Fantasy Island” was cancelled. The wieners are skewered roughly on a rotating steel spit with spikes and broiled under a hot lamp. This lends them the sweaty, tan complexion of that show’s ever-smiling host, Ricardo Montalban, however their length is more akin to the height of co-star Hervé Villechaize. Sill, they’re sufficiently juicy and tasty, and when you’re getting three, who cares?

The steamy white buns are warmed in the upper compartment and are always fresh, but require some delicacy as to not cause unnecessary squishing or tearing. Cardboard beer boxes are halved and piled up next to the machine to use as trays that perfectly fit three dogs. The only extravagance is the white paper hot dog holders which do a great job of holding together their cargo.

If I get extra lucky in my scrounge for pennies and find a few crumpled dollar bills in an old pants pocket, I might throw in a bag of Sun Chips and a bottle of lemonade, and really feel like I’m living it up. However, with Gittel’s dogs, add-ons aren’t even necessary to feel like a hot dog pauper in emperors clothing.