Big Bear Deli

Big Bear Deli
700 8th St., Post Falls
(208) 457-8465

"The rule about bears is their unpredictability."
- Anonymous

There are times when I become belatedly aware of a wonderfully unique local eatery and have to give myself the old V8 hand action to the forehead. “What was I thinking”, I tell myself, reminiscing about all the fantastic rhetorical meals I never enjoyed there, and ruing about how I could have, and very well should have, made the place a regular haunt long ago.

I seem to recall hearing about Post Falls’ Big Bar Deli probably around the time Tim and Cathy Riordian first hung an “open” sign in the A-frame house a block off the main drag behind Napa Automotive over three years ago. I think I might have even cruised by a time or two and said “weird place for a deli, I’ll have to remember to check it out,” but those particular brain cells might have been among the ones I lost in a tragic champagne incident on New Years Eve 2008. When a kind reader recently recommended the place, I actually had to hit the Google to figure out exactly what he was talking about.

Now that I’m a bit more on top of the situation, I’ve got some catching up to do. Fortunately, between their all-inclusive menu and their innovative daily specials, I’m not going to run out of new things to try anytime soon. The main menu lists over two dozen pre-formatted sandwiches encompassing nearly every imaginable combo, but they’ll also let you invent your own from a massive roster of meats, cheese, veggies and breads. Big Bear’s prices may be a buck or two more than the average blah franchise deli, but you’re never going to be able to get fresh pastrami, smoked Gouda, dill havarti, Greek olives or house-roasted peppered turkey with your five dollar footlong.

There seems to be a minor cult built around their daily specials, likely because they’re not afraid to get a little out there and offer up some more unconventional deli cuisine. Last Friday saw them serving up “N'awlins Style Fried Shrimp Po-Boy” sandwiches and homemade Jambalaya Soup. Recent highlights also include a sundried tomato quiche and a toasted foccacia loaf stuffed with chicken, smoked bacon, mozzarella and lemon-pepper feta mayo.

Having finally conquered my phobia of rye bread, I’ve become a recent convert to the Reuben sandwich. A half-a-Reuben and a cup of homemade tomato soup seemed like a promising way to spend my maiden voyage into Big bear territory, and I wasn’t let down. The marbled rye was toasty and the sauerkraut was tart and crisp, the corned beef and cheese had just the right amount of warmth and delicacy, and the soup was rich and pungent, bright with the flavor or fresh herbs. The obligatory bag of Sun Chips and dill pickle spear did add some value, but seemed almost like unnecessary wallflowers next to the resplendence of the soup and sandwich.

Dessert is definitely a big deal at the Big Bear Deli, and the place is just as popular for its remarkable baked goods as it is for its top notch lunch items. Cathy seems to be quite the queen of the cupcake scene, with innovative ideas such as confetti cupcakes with Bavarian Cream frosting and gumballs, huckleberry crème filled lemon cupcakes, and French vanilla cupcakes topped with Pastry Pride, mango sauce, and a candied blackberry.

Personally, my vote for the most dreamily debauched variety goes to the Fudge Brownie Cupcakes with peanut butter frosting and drizzled with caramel sauce. Yes, I’d like two, please. Browsing the lurid images of her work on Big Bear’s Facebook page is sort of like looking at a travel brochure about a wonderful, colorful fantasyland where pastel icing flows freely and fat and calories don’t stick to thighs.

I wasn’t planning on indulging in a treat, but a big, gorgeous chocolate-toffee cookie bar winked at me as I was paying for my meal, and I was unable to resist. I had every intention of saving it for later, but I left it in direct sunlight in the car for ten minutes while I ran into the post office and I opened my car door to the intense smell of warm, oven fresh cookies. To make a long story short, a few blissful moments later I had to actually pull over and wipe melted chocolate off my steering wheel and hands and clean up the millions of tiny crumbs I’d managed to scatter all over myself and on every surface of my car interior. It was moist, messy and splendid, and worth every quarter I plugged into the car wash vacuum.

The Big Bear Deli is open for lunch Monday through Friday 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. and Saturdays from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.

4th Street Pantry

4th Street Pantry

206 N. Fourth St.,
Coeur d’Alene

"When you like something, you should do it all night long."
~ Chavela Vargas

I spent many hours at 24-hour diners in my late teens and early twenties, drinking oceans of coffee, chain smoking and filling notebooks with pretentious poetry. At the time, they were pretty much the only places for the under-21 crowd to meet and socialize without pesky parental units leering over their shoulders.

Our circle of friends started out at Perkins, where we regularly annoyed the waitresses by acting like it was our living room and never buying anything more than a bottomless cup of joe and a large order of fries with a side of ranch dressing. When the management finally got fed up and threw us out for good, we relocated to Denny’s, where they seemed much more receptive to our chaos and where we would see a preview of our future selves; hungry post-bar drunks not quite ready to let the night come to a graceful end.

The new 4th Street Pantry in downtown Coeur d’Alene is set to corner the 24-hour restaurant market, and since Denny’s is still basically the only other place to stuff one’s face during the wee hours, they have a very good chance of success. Owners Michael Hanes and Tanya Dalton have created a warm, comfortable environment that feels like you’ve arrived at a friend’s cozy home for a nice little visit and a satisfying homemade meal.

A friend and I visited the restaurant for lunch recently and overheard Hanes telling a customer that since opening less than a week prior, the overnight shift has been regularly packed with people. It’s not hard to do, considering that the tiny diner currently houses only 7 small booths and two standing counters, but I’ve heard some rumors that they’ve got smart plans to expand into the vacant space next door.

We ducked in on a rainy, sleepy Sunday afternoon to find it percolating with activity and snagged the last available table. Except for one spot occupied by an older, tourist-looking couple, every booth was filled with what my lunch partner dubbed “the emo mafia underground.” In other words, black hoodie clad, eyeliner-wearing boys and girls with long bangs in their eyes and skinny jeans. Was there a Hot Topic convention in town? It was a bit of an unusual crowd, and perhaps a testament to the relaxed, inclusive appeal of the place.

Examining the menu, two words jumped out instantly. Monte Cristo. I’ve waxed romantic before on these pages about my love for this rarely-seen battered and fried ham, turkey and cheese sandwich, and I knew right away I had to give it a whirl. Still, their menu was so full of possibilities. The “Orange Cream Delight” is a French toast sandwich stuffed with orange cream cheese and sounded quite dreamy to me as well.

Breakfast is served 24/7 and also includes more traditional fare like the “Danz the Man” Steak and Eggs, “Harold’s Hash” and “Ol’Man Mike’s” Biscuits and Gravy, which are already creating a buzz as the best in town. Dinner is served from 5-9 p.m. daily, a smattering of comfort classics such as meat loaf, pork chops and a traditional turkey dinner, all for less than ten bucks.

The waitress came to take our order, trailed by the owner’s young daughter Mackenzie who was learning the ropes and helping out a bit. “Monte Cristo, please!” I announced but my heart sank when she apologetically told me they couldn’t serve it due to a snag with the food distributor. “OK, I’ll need another minute to figure it out,” I sighed and focused on the lunch section instead. The hot and cold sandwiches are served on bread from Bakery by the Lake and looked huge, but I was in a burger mood and the Bacon Cheddar Burger seemed like it would do the trick rather nicely.

Our lunches arrived in moments flat. Our burgers were tucked neatly into red plastic baskets and checkered paper, glamorous atop a pile of crisp lettuce, tomato and pickles. It tasted as good as it looked, with perfectly melted cheese oozing out the sides and smoky, crispy bacon that took the whole affair to the highest heights of satisfaction. I had ordered the huge, handmade onion rings which were perfect, enhanced by a side of tartar that little Mackenzie had brought me with a smile. My friend had ordered the “endless” fries, and of course I had to snag a few. Sometimes a French fry is a French fry, but something about these golden brown babies made them rise way above the norm.

We could barely finish the whipped cream covered brownie that the waitress “forced” us into having for dessert. It was dense and rich, almost too delicious. The bill was stunningly easy on the wallet, amazing considering the high quality of food and service. 7 a.m. or midnight, drunk or sober, tourist or emo kid. The 4th Street Pantry seems to have hit upon a formula for success that’s appealing to anyone any time of day; a friendly, comfortable vibe and top-shelf food at ridiculously affordable prices.

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:

Hideaway Café

Hideaway Café
6248 W. Maine St.,
Spirit Lake,
(208) 623-2409.

Exhibit 453a: Cobb Salad.
Exhibit 632c: French Dip Sandwich.
Exhibit 338f: Belgian Waffle.

The Smithsonian Institute was signed into existence in 1847 with the mighty, wild-haired pen stroke of “Old Hickory” a.k.a. President Andrew Jackson. Its mission was to record essential historical minutiae such as Andrew Jackson’s nickname, and to spread knowledge through the preservation of artifacts like prehistoric Sloth Dung or a life size bust of late comedian Milton Berle. For many of their museum exhibits, they’ve meticulously disassembled, then reassembled noteworthy places, like they did in 2002 when they put Julia Child’s original TV kitchen on display, including every spatula, nut grinder, and half-imbibed bottle of cooking sherry.

On a recent crisp and sunshiny morning, Q. and I stumbled upon, quite by accident, a place that the Smithsonian folks might be interested in preserving as an example of a classic Northwestern American café with an attached barroom. Upon thorough examination, the Hideaway Café in Spirit Lake is a perfect specimen in nearly every detail; a place which, for aficionados of small-town old-fashioned diner/taverns, is equivalent to an avid birdwatcher unexpectedly spotting a rare Yellow-throated warbler and managing to snap a photo. Both discoveries inspire delight and awe and provoke an urge to capture them before they finally hit extinction.

We made the northern trek that day with the idea of investigating a new Mexican place suggested to me by a work friend. We got out of the truck and looked around, soaking in the historic charm of downtown Spirit Lake. “Cute” is an adjective which I seldom-to-never let escape from my lips or typing fingers, but I can’t think of a better word to describe Spirit Lake’s tiny-but-impactful collection of multi-sized and multi-colored restaurants, bars, and massage therapists. It’s cute like a Danbury Mint series of old-timey miniature light-up ceramic buildings ordered through the mail in fun, once-a-month packages until the entire town was complete.

We now realized that although Mexican did sound nice and all, there were several other dining options before us, and after a moment of deliberation, we both agreed that the Hideaway Café had some sort of gravitational pull, a curious sense of fate. Indeed it was “hidden away”, tucked back between two much larger buildings. Walking up to its lacquered wooden door and grasping the handle, we took an anticipatory breath not knowing exactly what we were about to walk into; I pictured some sweaty Betty slinging grits and pouring pitchers of Olympia for a roomful of sloppy-drunk lumberjacks. Not quite.

The place was utterly deserted save for one petit brunette woman who looked eerily like she was somehow already expecting us. “Hi guys, sit anywhere you like,” she croaked cheerfully, so we chose a corner table near the kitchen. We looked around, amazed at the precision perfect rustic Idaho-ness of the place, complete with knotty wooden walls, colorful bouquets of fake wildflowers, and a giant wagon wheel, reformatted effectively as a light fixture. This type of decorating motif can often encourage a sense of dreary grey dustiness, but the rafters and crannies of the Hideaway Café are kept noticeably clean and sparkly.

Even Dolly, our hostess, seemed like a delightful relic from the Old West in her elaborately bedazzled red cowgirl shirt and blue jeans. Q. gets queasy easy when we accidentally end up dining someplace where the chef appears to be maybe a drug-addled ex-con, strong b.o., missing fingers, history of animal abuse, whatever. With Q., no kitchen staff are safe from suspicion, so it was quite nice to hear him declare that the middle aged gentleman behind the Hideaway grill looked “real nice and clean,” even leading him to say “Wow, I’m not even scared of eating what he makes, you know, what he touches.” We’d soon realize that just like a certain Mr. Goldfinger, the man had a Midas touch, a magic way with classic, delicious American cuisine, done unpretentiously and with pride.

The dinner special for the evening was written up on the dry-erase board; Steak or Chicken Oscar with King Crab, Asparagus, and Hollandaise. Yum! For under ten bucks even. Amazing. The dinner menu reads in similarly rich-but-affordable fashion, highlighted by BBQ Pork Ribs, Pot Roast, and Cajun Shrimp Linguine. With the attached White Horse Saloon just an open doorway away, deep-fried bar faves such as Nachos and Jalapeño Poppers are plentiful as well. Any true cheap beer and cigs experience is incomplete without deep fried pickles, and the Hideaway’s got ‘em.

Breakfast is served up until noon, which was about twenty minutes before our grand entrance. We pointed our attention at the lunch list and Dolly returned fast with tall Pepsis and to take our order. I settled on a simple Grilled Turkey Avocado Melt, and chose onion rings as my side selection, fully ignoring the imaginary Richard Simmons-esque diet imp popping up behind my shoulder nagging “Get a salad!” Glad I didn’t. These were Smithsonian Institute onion rings, and my sandwich was a Smithsonian Institute sandwich, as if they should be shellacked, catalogued and encased in glass as perfect textbook examples. It was lunch as Pop Art.

Moist turkey piled high, crisp tomato slices, vibrant green lettuce, thick avocado chunks and lightly melted Swiss cheese tucked between buttered slices of Texas toast and all held together with one of those toothpicks with the spangly plastic end. I wondered aloud if there were greenhouses out back, everything was so fresh. Q. was in mad love with his Oly Burger, a giant beast that he finished to very last bite, a rarity.

It was Valentine’s Day and since neither one of us actually had a Valentine this year, we decided to follow Dolly’s suggestion and have a guilt-free ménage a trois with one of their home-made Peanut Butter Brownie Hot Fudge Sundaes. The warm gushiness of the brownie tangoed with the coldness of the peanut butter ice cream under hot chocolate syrup, and across the universe, a distant star exploded in ecstasy. Like everything else at the Hideaway Café, it was another museum-worthy triumph of luscious Americana.

Wheat Montana Farms Bakery & Deli

Wheat Montana Farms Bakery & Deli
405 W. Neider Ave,
Coeur d’Alene,
(208) 667-3354.
Wheat Montana site

“Would you like one our fresh-baked pastries with that?” offered the man at the counter after taking my order. I gazed longingly into the glass display case at the giant bear claws and frosted cinni-buns. “Uhhhh…no, thanks.” It took every bit of willpower I had to reject his fierce upsell. I’ve been successfully trying to avoid such intensely caloric pleasures, and I was already breaking the law by indulging in a full-size deli sandwich and a large soda. It was more populated than I’d expected when I wandered into Coeur d’Alene’s new Wheat Montana Farms Bakery & Deli, and seating was scarce. Thankfully, a spot near the door opened up just as I was about to reluctantly join a harried dad and his yowling toddlers at the opposite end of a long table.

The Wheat Montana brand was conceptualized by company founder Dean Folkvord, a businessman with deep homesteading roots near Three Forks, Montana. Evolving over time from a family wheat farm to a bakery (they offer breads, flours, and grains you can purchase and take home with you) and deli, there are now over a dozen franchises open in Montana, Idaho, and Washington. They use chemical-free grains for their breads and include organic ingredients whenever possible.

The menu is exceedingly basic and the simple approach is nice, but it nearly crosses the line into just plain boring and uninspired. The overall atmosphere is bright and open but full of overused design elements like the faux-unfinished cement floor, high ceilings with exposed ductwork and corrugated steel meets blonde-wood fixtures. However, what Wheat Montana lacks in originality and flair, it more than makes up for with its welcoming staff and farm-fresh approach to lunchtime classics

As I sat waiting for my lunch to be brought out, I observed both a burly mechanic and a grey-haired grandma sitting at separate tables unaware of each other, each with a giant caramel roll as big around as an old 45 rpm record. If I couldn’t actually eat such fattening treats myself, at least I could live vicariously through others who can. The mechanic slammed his fork right in with wild abandon, chomping on huge bites of sticky bun, while the woman picked at hers, birdlike. I flipped through a newspaper, looking up occasionally to gauge the status of the two sweet roll eaters, who were now, in my mind at least, competing to see who could finish first. I was rooting for granny, but the odds weren’t much in her favor as Mr. Macho Mechanic continued to plow right through his.

I was distracted by the arrival of my own food. I’d ordered the “Combine,” a sandwich that includes roast beef, cheddar slices, lettuce, tomato and Dijon horseradish mayo, served on Wheat Montana bread slices and grilled to a perfect crispy meltiness. The richness of the roast beef and the zing of the horseradish made for a classic combo amidst the layers of flavor. The tomatoes were so fresh they practically screamed in pain when I took my first bite. The accompanying dill pickle spear played the role of Ethel Mertz to the sandwich’s Lucy, not the main star but just as important to the storyline in her own way.

As an alternative to the snoozy tortilla chips, I’d like to have seen some potato salad or a slaw or something even more creative. Without a doubt it was a very good sandwich, but I kept getting the feeling it wasn’t really anything Mom couldn’t whip up at home. Well, that is if Mom actually had an organic garden and a boulangerie.

After a few healthy bites I looked up and saw that the grandma was licking her fork in satisfaction behind an empty plate, while the mechanic had slowed down to a crawl with over a quarter of his roll to go and a slightly bloated look on his face. Victory! Resisting the urge to congratulate her, I began studying the Wheat Montana menu a little more in depth. The Homestead will be my next order, with the ever-popular combo of turkey, bacon, guacamole and Swiss cheese.

Other sandwich possibilities include the Reuben on Big Sky Rye, the French Dip, the classic Philly, and the grilled chicken on a soft foccacia bun. Of course you can create full or half sandwiches according to your own style, enjoy a healthful salad (which is what I probably should have done), or pop in early for a “day break specialty”, like a breakfast wrap or biscuits & gravy.

I’d been trying my best to ignore the handwritten card on my table which teased “Chocolate chip cookies oven fresh at noon every day”. I finished my last bite of sandwich and looked up at the clock. 12:04. “Well, I’ll just get one to go and I’ll just nibble on it now and then a little bit,” I thought. The thick, six-inch wide cookie weighed down the spatula as the counter guy came around the corner with the steaming treasure and slid it gingerly into a wax paper bag. Rain was coming down in sheets so I ran to my car and as soon as I climbed in the irresistible scent of the enticingly warm goodie filled the cab. I was useless against such strong cookie-fu. My health kick came to a sudden end as I sat in my automobile surrounded cocoon-like by the roar and downpour of the thunderstorm and enjoyed every last crumb.

.

Mini Review: Dairy Queen

Dairy Queen
305 E. Appleway,
Coeur d'Alene
208-664-3253


I had a hardcore craving for some chicken strip action, and Dairy Queen happened to catch my eye. It's not a place that usually crosses my mental food radar yet I've been there so many times over the years. Not to date myself, but when I was growing up, DQ was significantly more campy, with psychedelic orange tables, waxy multicolored dilly bars, workers in brown polyester uniforms, and hours of Donkey Kong.

According to rumors, the place had become a little cracked out in recent years and I heard more than one alleged story of folks enjoying the convenience of picking up some meth along with their kid's meals. I didn't really care as long as they didn't get any in my Cotton Candy Blizzard. They've since remodeled and the place seems clean and free of riff-raff these days.

DQ must have hired a jazzy marketing team in the last few years, and now they've gone a bit high gloss and mainstream, with a modern image update, and a series of clever TV ads portraying customers in random office scenarios eating Flamethrower Sandwiches and nearly burning the place down with their firebreath. I liked the old hokey Dairy Queen better, but the thankfully the actual food doesn't seemed to have changed much.

I ordered the "Hot Dips" Chicken strip basket with Spicy Buffalo Sauce and a Diet Pepsi, of course, and the cashier was odd to me because he looked like a totally normal and boring nondescript kid, except he had elaborate, colorful tattoos up and down both arms, and it made me realize how prevalent tattoos are getting, even in untrendy North Idaho.

My Hot Dips basket was actually served in a thin paper box, which was dripping red stuff when I pulled it out of the bag. The lid had come off the Spicy Buffalo Sauce and when I opened the box, every french fry and every blessed chicken strip was coated in a nice even layer of the stuff. Also making an appearance in my box, for no explainable reason, were three warm and soggy celery strips and a side of blue cheese dressing. Was this some kind of lame attempt to hop on the health craze bandwagon, like Subway and their lame-o apple slices?

Regardless, it was a beautiful and delicious mess. It looked like hurricane Spicy Buffalo had hit my Hot Dips box. I can't imagine eating this any other way from now on. It did start to get messy and required a fork to eat those soggy fries swimming in the actually-quite-spicy-and-delicious sauce and then finally killing them off by drowning them in the cool blue cheese dressing. Even the celery turned out great that way. The large chicken pieces remained totally crisp on the outside despite the dousing and was moist and mighty inside. My recommendation: Order this meal, open your basket box, dump the sauce cup all over everything, close your basket box, shake well, enjoy. Amazing for only $3.99.

Huckleberry Season Roundup

Pick a Peck of Huckleberries in the Panhandle

Visitors from out of town often ask me “Where can I buy an Idaho potato?” I tell them “Try Safeway” and politely explain that perhaps somewhere in the unspoken hinterlands of Central and Southern Idaho, there may be plenty of potato farms, I don’t know. I’ve never seen one myself. Up here in the beautiful part of the state, I tell them, it’s all about the magical huckleberry. Many are surprised to learn that the huckleberry is actually the official state fruit, rather than the more obvious choice of Congressman Bill Sali.

I may risk getting blacklisted by the Idaho Potato Commission when I say that I hold our rare and deeply violaceous berry in much higher esteem than some lowly everyday tuber, offensively dirt-encrusted and starchy. No, the huckleberry is what makes North Idaho a purple paradise every July and August. You can’t, in good conscience, call yourself a North Idahoan unless you have experienced the Zen of picking huckleberries.

You certainly don’t have to drive far to find a good picking spot, and they grow literally in every alpine area of the Idaho panhandle. Pack a picnic lunch and bring the family or make it a peaceful and meditative solo experience. Either way, it’s a great way to spend a day (or longer) hiking in the raw resplendence of the mountainous wilderness.

Avoid the heat by heading up to the mountains as early in the morning as you can. You’ll need to bring a container to gather your rotund little treasures in; anything from a grocery sack to Tupperware to a 5-gallon bucket will work. You might want to bring some light gloves so you don’t get scratches on your hands or ruin that $50 Resort Spa manicure. Long sleeves, long pants, socks and hiking boots are the best gear with which to avoid bloody legs while getting into the nitty gritty of a berry patch, and covering up also helps to prevent the agony of insect bites and poison ivy. The horse flies up there are huge translucent blue-green critters that visibly sneer at you as they bite into your flesh, and they certainly don’t know the meaning of the word “shoo”. Additionally, it’s a good idea to wear a cap for the avoidance of those nasty deer ticks; nothing ruins an appetite for huckleberry cheesecake faster than learning you’ve contracted Lyme disease. Other things you may want to bring include bottled water, sunscreen, bear spray, your iPod, and your laptop for live blogging the whole thing.

Be warned, many folks have their preferred huckleberry picking place, and they return to that spot year after year. Some people can be viciously territorial about their picking spot, as if they were the only people around to have discovered it and now it’s theirs and theirs only and of course it’s where the finest perfect berries grow and there’s no way in Athol they’re going to share their precious secret place with an amateur like you! Go find your own darn picking spot! In other words, I could tell you some very specific places to go, but I risk stepping on the toes of folks who might claim reservation of those particular bushes.

In reality, there are plenty of berries to go around – the bushes have a magical way of restocking themselves after encounters with greedy pickers. For longer, more camping-oriented huckleberry getaways, head north to Priest Lake and the Kanisku forest near Bonners Ferry. If you’re just in the mood for a small day trip and only require enough berries to throw in your pancakes on some lazy Sunday morning, I’d recommend heading up into the Coeur d’Alene National Forest via either Fernan Road or Blue Creek Road near Wolf Lodge. From these roads you can access some of the many very bumpy Forest Service roads that will take you up to where the berries grow fierce. If you don’t see any yet, keep going up.

Huckleberries are a little shy: they only grow above a certain elevation and they might not be visible from the road, hiding in the shady safety of bushy leaves. Look for clearings in the thick trees. The best berry picking is usually found along abandoned logging roads, and in old burns. The berry bushes found in these areas have a lot of sunlight and little competition for nutrients and yield the plumpest, most purple fruit. As they say, the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.

Whether you just picked enough berries to make a single tantalizing tart, or if you’ve managed to pack your freezer with a motherlode of the sweet little buggers, you’ll find plenty of ways to put your takings to good use. The dessert possibilities are almost endless; you can just substitute the huckleberry for almost any other type of berry in your recipe book. Make syrup and smother

Some local folks have made the berry their business, manufacturing and selling huckleberry filled chocolates, jams and jellies, even flavored popcorn. Perhaps the most ingenious and inspired concoction is “44 Degrees North”, an elegant huckleberry infused vodka which can be found as the main ingredient in “Huckletinis” and other unusual cocktails at certain fine dining establishments throughout the region.

If you really can’t get enough of the luscious purple fruit, there are several Huckleberry Festivals in the region, all happening on the weekend of August 17^th and 18^th. I wasn’t able to uncover much information about the Priest Lake Huckleberry Festival, other than the fact that it’s located on Highway 57, near milepost 27. Slightly further south, The Schweitzer Mountain Huckleberry Festival is Saturday only, with guided berry picking hikes starting at 9 a.m., a massive barbecue, live music and a “huckleberry themed village” with arts and crafts vendors. The event closes at 5 p.m.

The biggest huckleparty appears to be in Wallace, whose annual Huckleberry/Heritage Festival runs the entire weekend and will feature a huckleberry pancake breakfast, vendors on the front lawn of the old depot, a “bake off”, and a 5k fun run, presumably to burn off the calories from all those huckleberry treats. The Wallace Chamber website states that “Huckleberry Sheriff and Huckleberry Hound will reign during this exciting two-day event that features activities for the whole family.” So don’t even think about committing any huckleberry crimes or you may find yourself in huckleberry jail.