Hermine's Old World Confections

Hermine's Old World Confections
2415 N. Government Way, Cd'A
Phone (208) 664-9580
Hours: Mon.-Sat. 10am-5pm, closed Thurs.
http://www.marzipanlove.com

“Alright, you’ve got me completely hooked,” I announced, feeling like a twisted Easter Bunny with a huge purple candy basket in one hand and a huge green one in the other. “It’s been a lot of fun, but I’ve got to go back to America now.” With a few short steps, I made my exit over the strip mall threshold of Hermine’s Old World Confections into the parking lot and suddenly, I was back in the USA. Before my visit, I had no idea it was possible to travel to Germany directly from Coeur d’Alene without a passport or a ticket for a long, expensive overseas flight. Forget the complimentary sack of airplane peanuts because Hermine has much better treats on offer and plenty of good conversation that will keep you entertained way more than any flop in-flight movie.

“Welcome to my world,” is her trademark greeting and it’s true, Hermine Sittel Kubista has created an entire miniature universe based on her childhood in the tiny German village of St. Alban where she grew up. A dizzyingly gigantic, floor-to-ceiling mural of the famous Bavarian castle Neuschwanstein hangs on one wall. Old country bric-a-brac is displayed tastefully in every corner of the tiny shop. A colorful hand painted gingerbread-style playhouse in which her daughter once frolicked now serves as a clever television stand. Even the TV was showing some kind of intensely odd German show about pewter figurines; I really thought I had every channel offered by Time-Warner, but apparently not.

Most eye-catching of all are the variety of colorful goodies displayed on all her shelves and in brightly-lit glass cases. Hermine’s shop wasn’t always so festive and full of foil-wrapped temptations. In fact, it was only about two years ago that she was able to realize her longtime dream by installing a fully functional, stainless steel kitchen in the back of her alterations shop, then called the Clothes Clinic. Since 1988, when she made her first batch of Lebkuchen, she’d been using the kitchen at the St. Pius Church and making her bonbons as a side gig to sell primarily to folks whose main business was having her hem some pants or replace a zipper. Gradually, through word of mouth and on the strength and uniqueness of her products, just as many people started showing up for the candies. Now, although she does still have a small but devoted customer base for her tailoring services, her shop has been fully transformed into a German candy paradise.

“I just missed the stuff so much, and I just couldn’t find anything like it” Sittel-Kubista explained on the day I visited. So, she decided the only way she was going to be able to satisfy the unstoppable urges for the treats she had as a girl was to start making them herself. It all started with the Lebkuchen (“cake of life”), a thick, soft cookie made with honey and five spices. It was an instant hit, but as we all know that anything is better when dipped in chocolate.

So that’s exactly what she did, drenching some bite size pieces in dark chocolate and then topping them off with a roasted almond. She sent a bag of these treats to the Agricultural Department for safety clearance and received a personal note back from the inspector; “I ate the whole sack with a cup of coffee and enjoyed every bite. Approved.”

Next, she started making the product that would eventually be her trademark item, her masterpiece, her “Starry Night” or “Mona Lisa.” Marzipan is a rich confection made of natural sugar and almond paste, and often covered in chocolate or used to create miniature fruit and other objects for cake decorating. The majority of what is passed off as marzipan in this country tends to be flavorless and pasty, but Hermine’s marzipan is absolutely heavenly with a melt-in-your-mouth soft texture and a delicately sweet almond flavor. She jokes that with her German accent, people sometimes misunderstand her. “What’s Marzipan? Is that Jewish?” they ask, perhaps thinking it’s related somehow to matzo balls. Her marzipan may not be exactly kosher, but it is authentic, made using an almond paste that she orders from a Brooklyn, NY company who’ve been shipping it in paint cans since 1924.

“It really takes something different to get peoples attention,” Hermine explained, and her treats certainly do fall into a category much higher than anything you’re likely to find on the grocery store shelf or anywhere else for that matter. For example, she makes little foil-wrapped red and green marzipan apples and “Idaho Potatoes”, which are miniature marzipan spud replicas dusted in cocoa powder and sold in a mini-crate of six. She sells her creamy hazelnut chocolate in bars, and her “Coeur d’Alene Nuggets” marry dark chocolate and crunchy almond bark. Her latest invention, the “2005 Truffle” combines Belgian nougat, hazelnut and marzipan, and is also dipped in a bath of chocolate. It’s hard to imagine such a thing becoming even more fabulous, but upon request, she’ll sprinkle your truffle with edible 24k gold dust. For those watching with a sugar problem, she does offer alternatives, and says that with her all-natural ingredients, her confections are “better for you” than other preservative-filled candies.

Naturally, with Easter right around the corner, she’s fully stocked with a variety of hazelnut chocolate and marzipan eggs. While she was putting together an Easter basket for my mom, she insisted I try a couple of the marzipan eggs, but instead I asked her for some duct tape so I could save the effort of chewing and just tape them directly to my bottom. Okay, of course I ate them and just like an especially pure narcotic, I was instantly addicted.

Hermine summed up her philosophy to me like this: “You sit down and you enjoy life and take your time and smell the roses and relax a little bit and have something really good to eat on the palate, it’s worth it.” No need to pack your luggage and arrange for the neighbor to feed the cats. Just drop by Hermine’s Old World Confections and indulge in a super sweet German holiday without even leaving North Idaho.

Hermine in video action:

Fluky Friday Find: Photo Proof Sheets

Found: Photo proof sheets
Where: Top of full garbage receptacle outside Texaco, Northwest Boulevard, Cd'A
What: These three photo proof sheets were sitting atop a trash bin and I noticed them one afternoon pumping gas at the Texaco station. Subject matter of the photographs is quite random, covering everything from smiling kids, ugly home decor, night clubbing, a drag queen, Kiss look-a-likes and a church service of some kind. (Click image below to see a larger version.)

North Idaho Video Yard Sale

(A collection of random YouTube videos of local interest)

A bagpipe troupe performs at Paddy's in Cd'A,
St. Patrick's Day, 2009


BNSF on the Sandpoint Bridge.


Josh drives his jeep through a big mud puddle near Chilco.


Toilet in the Hagadone penthouse suite at the Coeur d'Alene Resort.


Downtown Coeur d'Alene stop motion.


Shook Twins perform "Broken Wing" live at 3 Glasses, Sandpoint, March 2009.


Low budget commercial for Dirty Ernie's Bar, Kellogg.


"Is it Really Titanium?" starring Dan Gookin.


A design proposal for Post Falls in 30 years.


Hilarious Hippo Car Wash Commercial set to the tune of Violent Femmes "Blister in the Sun". Brilliant! (Embedding disabled so click image below for video)

I ♥ Pabst Blue Ribbon

1. It was the beer brand preferred by beloved psychopath Frank Booth in David Lynch's classic film Blue Velvet.

2. Pabst brewing company was founded by in 1844 in Woodridge, Illinois by Jacob Best. His great-great-great-granddaughter is actress Caitlin O'Heaney, who once modeled for Salvador Dali.

3. Pabst is renowned in Milwaukee for its brewery tours where a massive statue of King Gambrinus greets visitors. King Gambrinus is the patron saint of beer.

4. It's the beer swilled by hipsters in every Indie Rock bar from Tacoma to Tallahassee.

5. The can boasts proudly, "This is the original Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. Nature's choicest products provide its prized flavor. Only the finest of hops and grains are used. Selected as America's Best in 1893."

6. More recently, in 2006, it won top honors and a Gold Medal at the Great American Beer Festival, with the judge saying, "A contrasting counterpoint of sharp texture and flowing sweetness is evident at the first sip of this historic brew. A slowly increasing hoppiness adds to the interplay of ingredients, while the texture smooths out by mid-bottle. The clear, pale-gold body is light and fizzy. Medium-bodied Blue Ribbon finishes with a dusting of malts and hops. A satisfying American classic."

7. It was the brand my late grandfather would drink a full 24-pack of in one sitting out on the fishing boat at 5:30 am.

8. Seems like the microbrew craze has died out a bit in favor of a return to the old classic lagers. For years, I kept telling the owner of my regular haunt to bring in PBR on tap but she thought I was nuts, calling it "old man beer." She finally started serving it a few months ago and it's become her top selling beer. A pitcher is a dollar cheaper than the other domestic brands. I've seen some places with PBR on special for as low as $3 a pitcher.

9. I'm a "fan" of PBR on Facebook, along with 17,879 others. Oddly, the PBR MySpace only has 1,100 "friends."

10. Some Pabst hardcorists claim that the only way that it should be consumed is from a can. Something about how the metal provides a flavor element that kicks it up a notch. I've tried both canned and draught and couldn't really distinguish any major difference between the two. Of course that was after I'd already had a few so who knows?

Pabst Blue Ribbon Website

1950's PBR TV Ad:


1979 PBR TV Ad:

Universal Life Church Picnic, Farragut, July 1971

If You Can Remember It You Weren't There:
"Church Picnic" Introduces Sleepy North Idaho to Sex, Drugs & Rock-n-Roll

It’s often said that major cultural trends sometimes seem to take a few extra years before they’re absorbed into our beautiful but somewhat isolated cranny of the world. By and large, the flower-power counterculture revolution didn’t hit North Idaho until the scorching summer of 1971, several years after the Summer of Love brought long scraggly hair, LSD, and groovy color combinations like magenta, goldenrod and chartreuse to the forefront of America’s collective consciousness. When the movement finally arrived here, it landed with quite a bang in the form of a drug-saturated, free-love fueled “be-in” and rock festival staged during that year’s 4th of July weekend at Farragut State Park on Lake Pend Oreille. It’s an occasion that seems especially burned into the memories of everyone who lived in the area at the time; a watershed moment when sleepy North Idaho had its safety bubble irreparably ruptured and was forced to finally acknowledge that the times were indeed a-changin’.

In the aftermath of the event, billed by organizers as a “Universal Life Church Picnic”, an independent fact-finding committee was put together to clear up the foggy details surrounding what was viewed by many as an epic debacle, mishandled by all involved parties. They also published a 100 page book on the subject in 1972, which reads equally as dry and informative as it does delightfully torrid and juicy and inexplicably features a purple Joni Mitchell (who did not perform) on the cover. Committee head Stanley D. Crow leaves no stoner unturned in his detailed accounts of rampant nudity, open-air sex, and people completely off their heads on every kind of mind-altering substance known to man. He breaks the weekend down, delving into the before and after, the why, the how and the Who (who also did not perform).

It’s not too surprising to learn that the whole affair had its roots in Moscow, Idaho; a college town, it was a step or two ahead of the rest of the area hipness-wise, and the hot thing that year was a big Jesus revival amongst the hippie flocks. The scene was centered around the “Church of the Rock”, a small but intense group which met in the back room of Moscow’s Northwest Passage Trading Post. Not exactly a quaint chapel, the store where this church met was basically a head shop, making the bulk of its sales from records, bongs and roach clips, tie-dye clothing, organic foods, and pornographic comic books, a topic which Crow spends nearly two pages of his report examining in humorously lascivious detail.

This group first petitioned the state that spring for use of Farragut State Park under the name of Universal Life Church, the same church which is now infamous for ordaining into ministry anyone willing to fill out a web form and print a certificate. The usage request, indicating plans for a “church picnic attended by at least 200 people” sat ignored on someone’s desk until early June, merely a month beforehand. Once park agents and local police got wind of the event, it didn’t take long for them to clue in to the probability that it wasn’t going to be attended by just a few sweet church grannies. With visions of naked, drugged-out hippies dancing like whirling dervishes in their heads, local officials begged the state to deny the permit. Governor Andrus granted it anyway, saying that by law, a church had every right to gather on state land and that he had no reason to believe that the weekend was going to be anything other than perfectly kumbaya.

The front page headline of the July 3 edition of the Coeur d’Alene Press was the first indication that things might be getting rambunctious, announcing “Farragut Growing at Car-a-Minute Rate!” At that early stage, the crowd estimate was 10,000 and writer Don Smith reported that the crowd was abuzz with rumors of appearances by popular bands Iron Butterfly, Grand Funk Railroad and Santana. Smith concluded “no one seemed to know for sure what big name acts would appear.” Here lies the biggest mystery of the whole gathering; everyone present was apparently too high to recall any names of the performers and even Crow’s reports that “the Committee makes no finding with regard to music groups.” Despite the lofty names rumored, it’s most likely that only regional acts performed. Spokane’s then-popular “Jesus Rock” act Wilson-McKinley is a good guess, but only Seattle band Anthem can be fully confirmed as present. Some fondly refer to the festival as “Idaho’s Woodstock”, but it certainly wasn’t for the quality of the music.

Like Woodstock, the Farragut gathering, which various sources put between twenty and forty thousand people, was soaked in a haze of free love, good vibes, and mind-altering substances. The Lewiston Morning Tribune reported that “public nudity was so frequent that even the tourist eyebrows quit rising” and eye witnessed couples “making love in a crowd too busy doing its own thing to notice”. Crow’s report is ripe with amusing details, including the sighting of a man “advertising free love by means of balloons tied to his penis” and tales of “Mungo the Witch Doctor”, the nickname of the self-appointed resident drug guru, the guy to visit for everything from banana peels to mescaline and beyond. Police made a handful of arrests, but quickly realized that things were way beyond the realm of control and gave up.

Overall, things went off without a hitch, no one died and countless babies were conceived. Naturally, officials were convinced that the sole reason organizers planned the whole event was to bring the dirty drug trade into squeaky clean North Idaho. Contrarily, Farragut park director John Greig was delighted saying “As far as I’m concerned, they can have one of these every weekend, all summer. The picnickers left the park cleaner than the Boy Scouts did and we can really use all the money it collects at the entrance.”

It would actually be many moons before another Rock Festival would be allowed to take place in the mossy realm of Farragut State Park. In fact, it was only last August when the park agreed to host the Black Dog Festival, slightly ironic in that all the involved acts were tributes to bands that might have been rumored to have been there in 1971: Led-Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Pink Floyd. I’d imagine also that some of the original festival’s attendees were present 27 years later for that concert as well, albeit with quite a bit more clothing and perhaps without as much starry-eyed trippiness, at least the kind one gets from drugs.

(photos reproduced from CDA Press)

Fluky Friday Find: Little Brown Book of God

(I used to have an occasional feature on the old blog, Making Flippy Floppy, in which I posted some of the forgotten flim-flam I'd find while thrifting, on the floor at Safeway, tucked into library books, basically any type of random ephemera that I deemed interesting or amusing enough to post. I still like the idea, and I've been coming across some interesting things recently, so I'm bringing "Found" back into action.)

Found: Little Brown Book of God, Author Unknown

Where: Coeur d'Alene Homes Thrift Store, 12th & Sherman, Coeur d'Alene (25 cents)

What: Hardbound journal with blank, baby-poo brown cover. The first few pages are torn out violently. Two pages are filled with handwritten prose that's religious yet charmingly abstract and springtimey. (Update: It's a Cat Stephens song, of course. I knew it was vaguely familiar. Thanks, Jeannie Spokane.) On the third page is glued a photo of a lone tree at sunset. The rest of the book (approx 200 pages) is completely blank except for a random page near the back on which is written "life is a beautiful thing."

Hudson's Hamburgers

Hudson’s Hamburgers
207 E. Sherman,
Coeur d’Alene
(208) 664-5444

What's the One Thing That Coeur d'Alene is Most Famous For? (Hint: It Ain't the Resort.)

“Totally overrated,” reads a user-contributed review of Hudson’s Hamburgers posted recently on Yahoo.com. “Can’t get lettuce or tomato on the burger, they don’t have French fries, and good luck getting a seat. The burger itself is good but nothing to write home about.” Naturally, it didn’t take long for a hardcore Huddy Burger fan to come along and issue a terse comeback. “People like you would never understand the concept of tradition. 18 bar stools and the truth is all anyone needs to know about the best Hamburger joint in the United States - bless the Hudson family for keeping it going for over 100 years and letting us all enjoy!”

The Hudson’s experience is a bit like old-timey Blues or Country music, some really get into it and some just don’t appreciate its history and raw, essential simplicity. Obviously, the majority of local old timers (of all ages) fall into the former category, and some are viciously defensive and/or completely obsessive about the landmark burger stand that has attracted national attention in publications like Sunset and USA Today.

There was even an official proclamation by the Idaho State House of Representatives two years ago recognizing the burger stand's 100th birthday and honoring all five generations of the Hudson family who have kept our town well fed and happy, having survived "two World Wars, several international military combat situations, the Great Depression, economic recessions, and the arrival of the Golden Arches." It opened as the "Missouri Kitchen" in a rickety shack built by Harley Hudson and has since been handed down to son Howard, grandson Roger, great-grandsons Steve and Todd, who currently run the show, and great-great grandson Alex who is poised to take the golden spatula some day in the future.

To be fair, folks accustomed to more contemporary, chain-style burgeries have a somewhat legitimate gripe. Without a pile of greasy fried potatoes or onions, a burger can seem lonely. Without layers of exotic toppings like avocado, goat cheese, and fois gras, a burger can seem as naked as Miss March. In a world of Wendy's, Applebee’s, and Red Robin’s with their “bottomless fries,” a simple burger a la carte might cause the typical diner to feel like something was amiss.

Ask any Hudson’s regular. No one even slightly notices the absence of fries, frou-frou side salads or bizarre burger toppings. In fact, mention any of these things inside the place, and you’re libel to be on the blunt end of a few stone cold death glares. Why distract from perfection? In fact, cheese has only been allowed since the 1960's. A Huddy burger is uncomplicated, iconic, handed down like a symbol of local pride from generation to generation since 1907. It comes in four varieties; single, double, single with cheese and double with cheese. Onion and pickles are the only garnish options, sliced fresh per order right there at the grill.

Hudson’s trademark spicy ketchup and mustard should be applied in generous doses, and a fountain Pepsi in a tiny glass is the only way to chase it down. Homemade pie is displayed in the mini-cooler and is probably incredible, but I’ve never had room for dessert. For oddballs inexplicably uninterested in America’s best burger, there are the options of ham, egg, or ham and egg sandwiches. But why? Also, Hudson’s is possibly the last place on Earth where one can order a nice, thick glass of buttermilk. But why?

I was probably around 8 when my father and I saddled up to the counter for my first Huddy Burger. It was rite of passage, a Kodak moment drenched in the 70’s soft-focus of an extra-mushy Hallmark card. Okay, I don’t really remember the details; is there a law against glossing up vague childhood memories? I do know that it didn’t take me long to become a regular, one of the cult. Even during times when I’ve lived out of town, Hudson’s would be one of the first stops I made upon returning. Now that I live in town again, I never seem to visit often enough.

I most recently popped into Hudson’s with a friend on a frigid afternoon around 3:30, hoping that the lateness of the hour would mean the lunch masses had gone bye-bye, and that we’d actually be able to nab a couple of stools right away. We crept by in the car, realizing there was still a line out the door. That’s not necessarily a surprise since Hudson’s is invariably packed from open to close daily. Even in the grey nightmare slowdown of winter, even in those frequent times when the rest of downtown Coeur d’Alene is so dead that all the shop workers are looking for random things to make into nooses, Hudson’s is off the charts busy.

We decided to kill some time by meandering through the retail ghost town known as the Resort Plaza Shops. There’s almost nothing at all there of interest to men, although the endless pricey dress boutiques are heaven-sent for both golf-widow touristas and cross-dressers with expensive taste. We checked out the newly-opened Bruttles candy store and the chatty clerk seemed delighted to finally see other human beings. She charmed me into picking up a small box of their signature “soft peanut brittle”, and it is every bit as flaky and scrumptious as the name implies.

We made it to Hudson’s in ravenous form; mercifully we only had to wait about four minutes before a couple of stools opened up. If only those stools could talk, they’d tell ghastly, oppressive tales of ten thousand bottoms. Sitting atop a Hudson's stool, one can feel the historic burger juju resonate up through the earth, through the stool and directly into the brain’s pleasure circuit.

We sat directly across from the grill, where Miss Tessa, spatula in hand, was doing whatever mystical thing it is they do to create such a consistently fine product. It could be the grill itself, seasoned with decades of love and soul, or it could be the beef, harvested locally and so fresh it was probably chewing its cud yesterday afternoon. No music played, the only sound was the polite murmur of the crowd and the saliva-inducing sizzle of the grill. Despite the frenzied turnover of customers, the atmosphere of the place was surprisingly relaxed.

Wham! Burgers hit buns and suddenly they’re steaming in front of us. Condiments applied and extra napkins ready, we dug in. I was instantly reminded of why these are truly worth all the hype. The magic is in the rich, caramelized crispiness of the patty’s outer layer and the delicate, meaty inside. It’s in the sweet bang of the cheese and the dense power of the onion slice. It’s in the remarkable simplicity of the bun and in the piquant heat of the sauce. Even served plain, there’s something intangibly special that separates them from any other burger.

We ate in silence until Tessa returned just in time to catch me with a couple of big crocodile tears rolling down my cheek. “It’s the onion and hot mustard,” I laughed, “but they could just as easily be tears of joy. It’s been way too long.” “Wish I could say that,” she shot back, winking and rubbing her tummy. “How could anyone get tired of these burgers?” I wondered aloud. “You can’t,” she smiled. “That’s the problem. Just imagine working here…” For many Hudson’s fans, including myself, that’s a fantasy come true.

I ♥ Crisp Burritos

My motto is "Gimme a Crisp Burrito or Gimme Death." OK, maybe not death exactly, but at least a pimp-slap.

I've been enslaved to them since Taco Time first opened it's doors on 7th and Sherman in an oddly shaped building that would eventually turn into Senor Froggy and ultimately, demolition.
It was a wonderful new world of sour-cream enhanced soft tacos, mexi-tots, and cinnamon crustos. The slim, tubular Crisp Pinto and Crisp Meat Burritos were a revelation of deep-fried holiness, and they were additively delicious as well. In fact I still crave them rabidly to this day.

I have nothing but eternal love for Taco Time and all their fine products. When the new 4th Street location opened in the old Taco Johns building last month, I was there ordering up on their very first day. I even worked at a Taco Time in the Spokane Valley for a few months and as much as I can't stand kitchen work, I actually enjoyed that job. I was so enthusuastic about seeing how things were put together and how things ran behind the counter.

I once had a friend who worked at a Taco Time in Eugene, Oregon. I came to visit her there and she revealed that her location was actually the very first Taco Time that ever opened and the national headquarters were located right there. I jumped with glee like it was Graceland, so excited to soak in the grand history of my Crisp Burrito heroes. OK, maybe it's a little weird, but you gotta have faith in something, right?

Anyway, Taco Time truly has the quintesstial version of the Crisp Burrito. They're never frozen; they really do make fresh batches several times a day, rolled and ready for the fryer. The pinto filling is made from a dehydrated spicy bean mix, but is still very tasty. The ground beef is also cooked fresh in a humungous frying pan, the same spiced meat they use in the tacos, but it's hand-mixed with shredded cheddar cheese before being rolled. A more recent (well, early 90's) menu addition is the Chicken Crisp Burrito, which has a cream-cheese and chive thing going on. Also very good.

Whatever variety I decide on, I always have to get the tangy pink sauce (you have to ask for "thousand island", although it really isn't quite that) on the side for mad dipping action.
I think every diet I've ever been on has been sabotaged by one of these babies.

When the downtown Taco Time went north to the new Silver Lake Mall, it was immediately replaced by Senor Froggy. I'm not a mall person, so my Taco Time visits became pretty infrequent for many years. The Frog was owned by a set lovely triplets, three smiling, identical sisters who sang Country music on the side. They kept the Taco Time menu pretty much intact, so my Crisp Burrito fix was still a happening thing, although their version was a little on the pale and floppy side, nowhere near the stiff, brown-skinned meat wand of the original. Stiff meat wand? Substituting food for sex? Maybe I need therapy.

Taco Hell doesn't have anything at all close. Certain C-Stores and Grocery Deli's offer a squattier crisp burrito, usually in bean & cheese, beef & bean, and "BBQ" varieties. These will sometines do in a pinch but tend to laze under the heat lamp for too many hours, causing severe gastrointestinal thunderstorms upon consumption. Get them fresh or beware.

Last night I saw an obnoxious Carl's Jr. ad announcing their latest menu addition: Crisp Meat Burritos. I'm not at all a big fan of Carl's Jr.; I think it's a pretty sketchy outfit, but naturally, I had to drive through the drive-thru to give these babies a shakedown cruise. They're "mini" crisp burritos served in threes, and three minis is pretty much the same length as one Taco Time maxi. Mexi maxi. Also, they're served with a side of so-called guacamole.

Guess what, my dear reader. FAIL. The tortilla layers were too thick to render the burritos crispy except for the very outer later resulting in textural blah. The filling was remeniscent of an especially tangy Oaxacan pet food. Gross! The guac was virtually flavorless and comprised mainly of unweildy tomato chunks. Plus, they looked at me like I was speaking Korean when I asked for my special pink sauce. The accompanying plain-jane chips and cheese was much more enthralling than the 3 mini main atttractions, which are, as I type this, causing an uncomfortable frizzle and burn deep in my tum-tum.

Tums. I need Tums, pronto. Next time I need a Crisp Burrito fix, it's back to the comfort of home base, 'neath the big glowing Taco Time cactus.

Get Out! Moving to Sundays

Attention Get Out! print readers: We are pleased to announced that the Get Out column will be moving to the meaty Sunday edition of the Spokesman-Review starting 3/15 as part of the new, improved Handle Extra section, along with the music and arts calendar and other beloved favorites such as DFO's Huckleberries, Nils Rosdahl's business beat, and cranky Herb with his Bayview jazz. The Prairie Voice section is being incorporated into the Handle Extra, something I thought actually should have happened a long time ago.

Maybe I'm a dying breed, but I still really enjoy spending a few hours in bed on Sunday mornings listening to the Beatles and poring over the massive morning paper with all the ads spread all around. The Handle Extra will also still be available free in various bank lobbies, diners and gas station racks all over North Idaho. If you don't like to mess with inky hands, of course you can read the current column each week right here on this website, often in extended form with "bonus paragraphs." Thanks for reading!

Pita Pit

Pita Pit
320 Sherman Ave., Coeur d'Alene
900 N. Hwy 41, Post Falls
271 W. Prairie, Hayden

Lesson 17: Alliteration: "Please Politely Pass the Plate of Pitas"

Pita Pigsty? Pita Purgatory? Pita Pity Party perhaps? There are certainly worse names possible than Pita Pit, but I do think they’re kind of selling themselves short with a name that evokes both snake-filled crevasses and dark, shadowy underarms. Far from being “pits”, the interiors of every Pita Pit restaurant I’ve had the pleasure to visit have been quite nice and clean. Maybe Pita Palace is overstating it a little, but certainly something more akin to Pleasant Pita Parlor would be more representative of reality.

Whatever, the name doesn’t at all seem to hinder the expanding popularity of this Coeur d’Alene based national chain of fresh eateries. It’s a winning concept, brought to North Idaho in 2005 by former Idaho Lieutenant Governor Jack Riggs, who purchased the fledgling chain and soon relocated the company’s national headquarters and training center here. Opening a Pita Pit is a hot business prospect for folks looking to invest in something that has an established, relatively risk-free formula for success, especially considering the cult following the chain seems to have built up so rapidly.

The finished product rolls out fast and is fun for the customers because it’s so participatory and more importantly, easy on the worn-out Velcro of their pocketbooks. It was an especially hot summer when the original store on Sherman Avenue opened, and the place was an instant hit, offering something refreshingly different from the heavy burger and fries routine.

They were also, and still are, the only place for the downtown bar crowd to stumble into after three, uh five Vodka-Crans, okay six, and create a huge, unnecessary drama, then sober up in tears over a stuffed, nutritious pita. Don’t risk driving drunk all the way to Denny’s when the Pita Pit is open until 3 a.m. on weekends and midnight the rest of the week, and is located conveniently close to an especially comfortable park bench where you’ll pass out waiting for your Citylink bus home and get woken up hours later by the wet, curious tongue of a poodle on the leash of a sunrise tourist en route to the nearest coffee shop.

Faster than you could say “established, relatively risk-free formula for success,” Pita Pit expanded to dozens more locations including Spokane, Hayden and Post Falls, which remains the only local location with the added convenience of a drive-thru. This is nice for the shy, lazy and hurried, but I always like to be a part of the production, get my nose in there and direct the construction process a little bit.

My favorite creation is one I call the “Ultra-Greek.” It includes both their dense version of hummus and falafel balls, which hit the grill for a few minutes to crisp up before being tucked away inside a wheat pita shell. Next in are fresh spinach leaves, mushrooms, red onions, black olives, cucumber slices, and garden sprouts. For the dressing, it’s a generous squirt of tzatziki sauce, a creamy blend of cucumber, garlic, and yogurt. I finish with sprinkles of feta cheese, which for some reason they treat like white gold and skimp on, so I always have to beg for a little extra. No problem.

Dropping into the Coeur d’Alene store for lunch today, I created another pita combo idea. I was craving the flavors of ham and pineapple, and I half expected to see some kind of “Hawaiian” style specialty pita listed with the other big names like the “Chicken Crave” and the “Dagwood.” Not the case, so I ordered the Black Forest Ham pita and had the counter girl fill it with pineapple chunks, romaine lettuce, onions, black olives, mushrooms, Swiss cheese and ranch dressing. Aloha kakahiaka! So tasty I wanted to spontaneously break out a ukulele and warble Elvis’ “Blue Hawaii.”

With a vast variety of ingredients on hand (Babaghanoush anyone?), Pita Pit certainly lends itself well to inventing your own creations, but their menu has plenty of pre-planned options for those who aren’t into heavy decision making. The Chicken Caesar is terrific, with the ever-grand marriage of grilled chicken, bacon strips, Parmesan cheese and tangy Caesar dressing.

The Greek theme continues with Lamb and Beef Gyros and Chicken Souvlaki, and traditional sandwich favorites like B.L.T. and Tuna Salad also make a successful crossover to pita world. The current “5 under 500 Calories” promotion is easy on the fat content but not the flavor with a Light Buffalo Chicken and a Turkey & Swiss. The pitas they utilize are remarkable in their strength, sliced open and hollowed carefully, stretched to full capacity with so many wonderful things, then pulled together tight and wrapped neatly in a paper package. The end result is compact yet massive, weighty, something substantial in your hand.

Today, as I was enjoying my Hawaiian pita, I texted Q. for his random thoughts about Pita Pit. He wrote back “I like their mid-east stuff, but they use the wrong lettuce.” “Eh, how’s that?” I typed back. He responded, “Iceberg. It doesn’t get anymore school lunch than that. If they used a Spring Mix or something more she-she it would look better, taste better, and in my case, sell better.” I knew I could count on Q. for a nice negative counterbalance.

The only complaint I can possibly muster is that while Pita Pit pitas are surely delicious and satisfying, the ingredients aren’t evenly distributed enough. In one bite, you get all lettuce and in the next it’s all meat, and in the next all veggies and dressing; the layers are geographically separate and they don’t really mix unless you strategically combine them by taking a half-bite off each end, an act I’ve managed to master. It’s a small sacrifice to make for such a Plentiful Perfect Pita.

March Mailbag: Dear Get Out!

Dear Get Out!

I invite you to stay at my motel free for one night I will also throw in a free drink at that dimly lit biker bar next door.

Yours truly, you pompous ass, Joe (PJ)
Owner of the EL RAUNCHO MOTEL.

This is the deluxe room I have reserved for you. Good day.

Dear Joe (PJ),
I already e-mailed you, thanking you for, ahem, having a good sense of humor, but I dunno. You aren't doing your business any favors with that kinda attitude, Buster. We've been referring to the El Rancho as the "El Rauncho" for many decades, and my research indicates you've held ownership since 2002.

You've got to admit, a motel with a name like that is just asking for it. I'm sure you keep your place very nice, but there was a time when that motel wasn't exactly known as a luxury palace, in fact it was quite seedy. I'd suggest changing it's name if you don't want to be associated with its past, although I'd truly miss the iconic sign out front. Pompous ass? I guess I can own that.

PS When can I get my free drink?

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Dear Get Out!

Congratulations on the fine work you do on your column. Several weeks ago, you mentioned a restaurant and I think it might have been on Government Way...but you remarked about the Rye bread being outstanding. I'm a fan of the stuff and have been on a quest to find some that is comparable to the "east coast" variety. If you happen to recall the name of the restaurant, I'd be much obliged if you would pass it along to me.

Many Thanks,
Chuck, Post Falls

I hate rye bread. Actually, I used to hate rye bread until I accidentally ordered it at Schlotzky's Deli and decided it wasn't so terrible after all. But I haven't had it since and probably won't because I'm too used to despising it. So, it must have something Q. said because he's the one that almost always orders the rye toast action with his eggy scramble-ups. He likes the non-marblykind better than the marbly kind, but somehow it's almost always the latter in these parts.

If memory serves me, it was either the Blue Plate Cafe or Suzie's Bar and Grill, both located on Gov't Way in Hayden, that I mentioned something about him digging the rye. I'd read back through this site to confirm, but frankly I'm too lazy, so may I suggest the idea to you?

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Dear Get Out!,

Just wanted to say "Hey” and thanks for the good reviews. I thought the Valentine's Day review on all of East Sherman was classic! As you might imagine my team and I all work really hard at what we do. No one in this business sets out to fail or be just mediocre but it does happen and usually from the top down. We do not want to fail and do not want to let any of our guests down…ever! We just completed 10 years in November and when we hit twenty I might assume “we made it”, until then I take nothing and no one for granted. I look forward to meeting you, keep up the good work.

Sincerely,
Michael D.

Michael D., you are such a God of breakfast in this town. Like a Greek God of breakfast looking out proudly over Cd'A Lake instead of the Agean Sea. Your Greek God name could be Omeletorius.

Fail? Hardly.Your place is universally beloved, a hit and half. When we go, we bring magazines because we know we're going to have to wait twenty minutes for a table, and we don't care because it's so worth it. We love the Saratoga Scrambler and the Courageous omelet with it's overdose of fresh sliced Jalapenos and the giant fluffy pancakes and Your menu is unusual and affordable and everything is always consistently impressive. We love Bettina the waitress with her hot accent, hasn't she been there from Day One? We love it all. Thanks for just keeping the whole thing rolling, sir, to you I lift my glass of grapefruit juice.

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Dear Get Out!

Your description of the Hideaway was perfect. My wife and I live in Twin Lakes and happened upon the cafe while we were checking out another cafe we were referred to, but it had closed. After turning 180 degrees, we spotted the Hideaway nestled in its very cozy location. We've eaten there several times and have always experienced great food and service.

Thanks for boosting the local Spirit Lake image for your readers. I'm sure the business community will appreciate it.

Bill

I learned my lesson from the whole Rathdrum debacle last year that it's much more productive to focus on the positive aspects of a small town when discussing it. That said, I'll be that quaint little downtown gets pretty rowdy at night with three or four packed tavern in a wee, two block stretch. A wild Saturday midnight would be an intersting time to visit and get a taste of Spirit Lake's real personality.

One thing I forgot to mention in my review of the Hideaway was that the waitress brought us a couple of those candy Valentine's Day hearts with our check. "Too Cool","Be Mine", you know those things. They both had the same short phrase etched into thier faces:"Go Away!" Now, our waitress had been very sweet, so when she returned I had to ask her "Is that a hint?" She examined them and laughed, saying she'd bought a bag of them from the local school's candy sale that morning and she hadn't realized that they were actually those prank candy hearts you can get from Spencer Gifts or wherever. She'd been handing out nasty messages to her customers through the entirety of lunch without noticing.

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Dear Get Out!

Howdy.
Rustlers Roost is open Nights!
Yep...Wednesday thru Saturday till 8 pm.
BBQ Ribs are back, some new steaks and salads.
All the menu is served accept for breakfast. (till 2pm everyday)
Also, New Kids menu and Senior menu.
Thanks for all the years of support!
Thanks, Woody.

Woody, that was one of the loveliest poems I've ever read, thanks for sharing. Next, I want you to compose a Haiku about that wonderful Rustler's gravy.

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Dear Get Out!

First, I really enjoy your Get Out! web site. I grew up in the Spokane Valley near State Line, but have been in the Seattle area for the last thirty years or so. We have a ski house in Wardner, though, so we still get over once in a while.

I remember a while back you asked about the rock festival at Farragut State Park in oh, say, 1971 or 1972. I was there, but honestly I only remember snippets...it was that kind of weekend. Did you ever get any responses? It'd be nice to fill in the gaps in my memory. Seriously.

Cheers,
Gary

It's funny how many emails I've had about this subject over the last few years. Well, at least three. That festival must have been some kind of watershed moment in our local pop culture history.

I'm not sure if I wrote about this before, but according to my mom, my grandparents took her and my uncle to this concert, or one like it, just for something to do on a sleepy Sunday. But it would have had to have been a few years earlier than you suggest, I think - maybe 1967? Mom said they really weren't expecting all the free love, nudity and open drug rock-n-roll action that they encountered, but somehow they weren't terribly phased and spent the day picknicking and grooving out to who, who, who? The thing is that many people seem to vaguely recall the Farragut concert from way back when (or series of concerts as I tend to think), but no-one can remember what musical acts played. I've only heard they were actually pretty big names at the time.

I think Imight pursue the idea further and do some library-style research about the subject and maybe I'll get a column out of it, who knows...Stay tuned.