Paddy's Sports Bar

Paddy's Sports Bar
601 W. Appleway, Coeur d'Alene
(208) 765-0701

"Why is it trivia? People call it trivia because they know nothing and they are embarrassed about it." ~ Robbie Coltrane

"Name three films starring Cher that have one word titles and all start with the same letter of the alphabet."* The question hovered before us in white letters against a bright green background on the giant projector screen at Tuesday Trivia Night at Paddy's in Coeur d'Alene. Everyone at our table erupted in a chorus of "Oh! I know that one! I know! I know!" Any question involving Cher isn't especially a tough one for the "Mik's Place" team, but we were careful not to blurt out the actual answer, lest a rotten scoundrel on one of the other trivia teams overhear and ruthlessly steal our correct answer.

A friend of mine had been trying to drag me to Paddy's every Tuesday night for a while, and I wasn't especially interested at first. Trivia is fabulous and all, but I hadn't darkened Paddy's door since it was the all-ages Corner Pocket in the mid-80's, and I rarely venture outside of my usual haunt anyway. It cost Jake a couple of shots of Jagermeister, but one Tuesday night about a month ago he caught me in a good mood and I decided to tag along and see what kind of damage we could do to Trivia Night.

I glad he twisted my liver and made me go. Each of the three times I've gone now,  it's been a fantastic experience. Competition between trivia teams can be full-on fierce and vicious, but we've come out on top twice, earning us some beer distributor related swag and a $25 gift certificate that usually manages to cover most of our food and booze cost. Our team, which has changed it's name each week (Mik's Place, Down In Front, Hot Salsa), includes a schoolteacher, a total science nerd, a total music freak and celeb gossip junkie (me), and the guy that just seems to know the answer randomly when nobody else does. It's like the Beatles, the chemistry between us is just somehow magically there.

I hadn't realized what an extensive range of activities were on hand at Paddy's - trivia night is really just the tip of the beer tap. Along with a million pool tables, an old school video arcade room, televisions in every corner and even a giant Jenga set, there is a row of probably a dozen dartboards that seem almost arsty in their arrangement and repetition. Dart tournaments happen on Thursdays, and if you manage to not put someone's eyeball out with one of those things, you could win up to $100 cash. Basically, if you decide to get bored at Paddy's, you really might want to consider upping your gas a hair. Or at least consider getting blotto on PBR to make things more entertaining.

I also wasn't aware that Paddy's had such an extensive menu. I guess I just wasn't paying attention, but my brain had always registered the pace as a dive bar with possibly popcorn, hot dogs and previously frozen cardboard pizza, but I was clearly very wrong. Deep fried pub grub is a mainstay, of course, and Paddy's offers some interesting greasy treats that make a perfect accompaniment to binge drinking. Cheese sticks, popcorn chicken, mini corn-dogs, and that classic beer drinker's epicurean staple, Gizzards.

Those looking for a fuller fried meal are in luck as well, with fish and chips, steak strips, and up to a 40-piece (!) bucket of fried chicken available. The most oddball sandwich option on the Paddy's menu is the "Pork Chop John", which takes a "Butte famous pork patty" and tops it with melted Jack cheese, dijon mustard, pickles and tomato on a hoagie roll. They also serve up a classic Club Sandwich, a grilled cheese, a Philly steak or chicken, and my personal favorite delicious old chestnut, the BLT.

Apparently, I've been clueless about the fact that Paddy's pizza is famous in certain circles for it's homemade crust and highly addictive quality. They offer the standard list of toppings but include the phrase "if we have it for you we will add it, just ask", so it's entirely feasible to put together something like a bacon, chicken gizzard, Philly steak and Butte pork patty pizza, and if that's how you like to punish yourself with intense meat, you're the hero of my duodenum.

On my first visit to Paddy's trivia night, I decided I wasn't really hungry enough to eat a monster meal, I just needed some nibbly bits to stimulate the part of my brain where I keep all the random info about bad TV movies of the 80's and what not. The team split an order of their "Supreme Nachos", which were piled as high as our chins and included chili, beans, mounds of melted cheese, tomatoes, olives, onions, and both green and red spicy peppers. They were incredibly tasty, and it seemed like it took us all evening to work our way through the giant mound of food on the table in front of us.  

Last week, I actually saved my appetite for most of the day so I could go big time and splurge on a Paddy's burger. I'm kind of a believer in the Theory of Bacon Cheeseburgers, which is basically that a Bacon Cheeseburger is really the best test of an establishment's burger prowess, so a Bacon Cheeseburger it was. Here's the kicker: Paddy's offers something I don't ever recall seeing before: Horseradish Cheddar. I was pretty stoked. Horseradish is one of my favorite flavors, and a dive diner could serve Horseradish Buffalo Anus on a Bun and I'd probably give it a whirl.

It only took one round of seven trivia questions for my burger to appear, and indeed, I noticed the extra Horseradish perkiness in my first big bite. Not that it would have been too shabby with just plain cheese anyway. The burger was gigantic, a quarter pound Angus patty topped with lettuce, tomato, fresh bacon, and dill pickle spears. I only noticed the pickles after my first bite and had to pull them out of the situation. I like pickles on their own, but when used as part of other things, to me the flavor overwhelms. Once they were banished, I inhaled the thing - it was one of the most fantastic, satisfying meals in recent memory.

My humongo-burger was served  with such a huge pile of awesome Jojo-style fries that I ended up sharing them with the rest of my team, who still couldn't manage to make them go away over the course of the next six rounds of the game. Paddy's prices are attractively reasonable as well, and despite the conundrum of being the sole person working the floor of crowded sports bar, our server never once skipped a beat.

With a full tummy, a couple of pitchers of beer, and a lot of laughter, Mik's Place managed to answer nearly every question correctly and cruise ahead of the Corner Bar team to win the game by three points. We exited into the night with the smell of victory, alcohol,  and ranch dressing on our breath.

*Answer: Mask, Mermaids, and Moonstruck.

Safeway Deli

Safeway Deli
1001 N. 4th St., Coeur d’Alene
(208) 664-6019

"The ability to make small children cry at the grocery store I like better than the fame." ~ Marilyn Manson

One of the most unfortunate aspects of Safeway’s recent remodel of their Midtown Coeur d’Alene store was the sudden disappearance of the old sign at the corner of 3rd and Miller which proudly proclaimed “Serving Coeur d’Alene Since 1938”. Still, Judgment Day must eventually come for all things, and the sign had most likely been in use since the last time the store had a facelift around 40 years ago. In other words, the place was in desperate need of an update, and the replacement sign’s modern, minimalist rendering of the Safeway’s latest corporate logo is an accurate representation of the store’s slick interior improvements.

In the late 1990’s, when Safeway opened a comparably large new store on the north end of town, people speculated about how long it would be before the company would give the ax to the crusty old store in Midtown. The old Safeway has for decades been pretty much the only place remaining in the downtown area where one can buy a can of tomato soup and a box of oyster crackers, and although it had stayed busy, it had fallen into such a rough physical state that it became known by many as the “ghetto Safeway”.

When word got out earlier this spring that the store was not only staying put, but finally stepping into the 21st century, regular customers like me were abuzz with excitement. Well, for a minute anyway.

Once the workers came in and started pulling up the grungy old tiles and shuffling entire departments around randomly, the grocery shopping routine became a bit surreal and chaotic. I’ve frequented the old Safeway since I was just a kid throwing hissy fits over Count Chocula and I’d always been extremely familiar with the layout, so when things went all topsy-turvey on me, it took some adjustment.

One afternoon, as the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” quite appropriately blared over the PA system, I nearly lost my mind trying to find a jar of maraschino cherries, only to realize they were where they always had been, seemingly the only thing in the entire store that hadn’t moved to a different aisle. Another day, I discovered that every drink cooler in the store was blocked off with yellow caution tape, and I had to beg a stocker to sneak through surreptitiously and grab my Orange Crush. “How much longer must we bear this insanity?” I’d ask the cashiers, a desperate quiver in my voice and a bead of sweat on my brow.

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad and overall, the project seemed to be relatively quick and painless. The end result is basically a miniaturized version of the larger store uptown, with its blonde wood tone flooring, mellower lighting situation and up-to-date shelving and fixtures. I’ve noticed new products popping up here and there that I hadn’t seen before, including Greek Yogurt, a deliciously creamy substance to which I’ve become fully enslaved. They’ve added a floral department, upped the inventory of organic fruits and vegetables and bakery goods, and enhanced the store’s deli with the addition of some tables and a sandwich bar a la Subway.

It seems they might still have some kinks to work out on that last concept. A friend related lately how he decided to try out the new sandwich bar on a recent lunch break and ended up amused, but less than impressed. He requested a Turkey and Swiss Panini, which not only arrived with warm, wilty lettuce unappetizingly commingled amid melted cheese, but had been heated in a regular toaster oven rather than a grill press. This does not a Panini make.

I also can’t say that I’m overly fond of their selection of deep fried chicken strips, corn dogs, burritos, and jojos. My advice is to arrive early if you’re craving these items, as I learned the hard way on a late evening when I bravely gnawed my way through jerky-esque all-day chicken strips and a shredded beef burrito that appeared to be the survivor of a recent nuclear catastrophe.

Still, their “Signature Café” line of pre-made sandwiches and deli salads are among the best in town, and seem to have actually improved a hair or two in quality. Many grocery store deli sandwiches suffer from acute cases of Slimy Tomato-itis and Stale Bread-itosis, but Safeway puts out a selection of pre-wrapped hoagie-style and traditional sandwiches that are fresh enough to make you tell the cashier “let’s do lunch” on a regular basis.

The new seating area consists of three tiny tables and probably won’t win any awards for ambience, but it might be a logical place to plop down and take a work break or have a mid-shopping bite to eat. Offering everything from sushi rolls and a selection of interesting soups to cheap whole roasted chickens and a fully loaded baked potato salad, they cram a surprisingly wide array of grocery deli munchies into a small, attractively contemporized space.

Chicken Basket

Chicken Basket
601 Northwest Blvd.
Coeur d’Alene
(208) 765-3535

(Update: I've been told that sadly, on November 11 The Chicken Basket closed for good due to hard economic times. Also, I'm pretty sure that building is cursed.)

This most recent election season in Coeur d’Alene seemed to bring out a lot of passion in supporters of both the incumbents and challengers in the race for mayor and city council. While I admire those who choose get involved in such a crazy kind of circus, I find it somewhat odd that a restaurant would choose to forgo neutrality and boldly display signs in support of their preferred candidates. I would tend to think that by doing so, they run the risk of alienating certain customers who don’t share the love for the particular office-seekers they’ve chosen to advertise.

On a recent visit to the Chicken Basket on Northwest Boulevard in Coeur d’Alene, I was immediately greeted by several large placards endorsing a particular mayoral hopeful. They were scattered around the property and several were taped at eye level to the front door. Inside, there were candidates’ flyers posted here and there and even an official election ballot hung on the wall with the owner’s selections penciled in. Certainly there was no ambiguity about where the Chicken Basket stood in the impending municipal election.

Oh, well. Such an intensely appetizing aroma hit the hunger center of my brain when I walked in, all other thoughts evaporated right away. Really, the only politically oriented thought I could muster was “Vote for tender, juicy broasted chicken!” The Chicken Basket is the only local eatery licensed to serve the fine foods of The Broaster Company, a Wisconsin-based outfit who developed, according to their website, “a revolutionary method of preparing chicken, meats, and fish by combining pressure cooking and deep frying concepts”.

In exchange for the glory and glamour associated with the internationally renowned Broaster name, they agree to adhere to the use of certain equipment, methods and recipes developed by the company. Useless bit of trivia: as a teen, a pigtailed, smiling Daryl Hannah starred in a Broaster print advertisement. Clearly, this career-defining gig helped set the “Splash” actress on the fast track to fame and fortune.

The atmosphere in the tiny former railroad depot that houses the Chicken Basket is festive and inviting with cheery red walls and black and white checkered floors. The décor brings together an interesting mix of choo-choo trains, shabby-chic chickens and the golden age of rock and roll. I approached the counter and began taking in the wall menu. The treatment of the various chicken parts served here was both malicious and delicious. Breasts, legs, wings, thighs, even gizzards are subjected to the cruelty of the broaster, and far be it from me to cast judgment on the situation. For those who prefer to avoid the savagery of eating their fowl directly off the bone, they also offer up chicken strips and chicken sandwiches.

Other realms of the animal kingdom are not safe from harm either; pulled pork sandwiches and Dutch Harbor cod also make appearances on the Chicken Basket hit list. Everything comes with French fries, coleslaw and a roll, and big buckets of up to 22 golden chicken pieces are available for those looking for something to delight the guests at their next post-election or animal rights party.

I opted for the Chicken Strips Basket and the friendly gentleman behind the counter, who I’m guessing was the owner, told me that it would take a couple of minutes for my meal to reach

perfection and was nice enough to offer me a free soda while I waited. It wasn’t too long, maybe eight minutes before he reappeared behind the counter with my lunch, and it was well worth every moment.

The broasting process had left the lightly peppered breading delectably crisp and the meat inside succulent and steamy. I know there’s no room for a chicken coop anywhere in or around the place, but these two monstrous slabs of white meat tasted like they were rendered from a bird that clucked its final cluck only moments ago. The meaty fries were among the lengthiest I’ve ever seen and the creamy coleslaw had a flavorful snap that impressed even this non-fan of coleslaw. Plopped on top was an old fashioned roll, the kind which are rarely encountered these days, but were once served with every meal everywhere. As if that wasn’t enough southern-fried calories to deal with, the roll came with a gold-foil wrapped pat of real butter. Hello, calling Paula Deen.

Personally, my growling tummy is guaranteed to overrule any concerns about political posturing. If a restaurant such as the Chicken Basket serves good enough food and the service is pleasant, they could hang signs espousing the evils of kittens and unicorns and I probably wouldn’t care.

Get Out Goes West: Seattle

Big city to the west offers every exotic taste imaginable

A late summer foray to Seattle is always an easy, pleasurable road trip, just a relatively quick drive through the channeled scablands and over the North Cascades. I recently took the timeless advice of The Village People and decided to “Go West” for a weekend reunion with some old friends and to enjoy the city’s unique shopping, dining and nightlife.

Naturally, the much larger population and greater cultural diversity make for some dining and drinking adventures which simply don’t occur here in North Idaho.

I hadn’t been in town more than an hour and my Seattle friend and I were already headed to 23rd and Jefferson for a much needed fix of Ezell’s Famous Fried Chicken. When I say famous, I’m talking Oprah famous. In fact, the queen of all media herself reportedly flies her assistants into Seattle just for a grease-soaked box of Ezell’s original recipe and some of their homemade sides. An autographed photo of Miss Winfrey, ironically enough in one of her thin phases, reads “I don’t know what I like more, the chicken or the sweet potato pie.”

I faced a similar dilemma when I finally made it to the front of the line and elected to go for a leg and a breast with coleslaw and a side of fried okra to split. There is no finer chicken in the entire Northwest and probably beyond. An intensely rich golden-brown shell seals in the savory juices of the plump, locally raised poultry. The fried okra bits had the same crispy coating, lending some needed substance to the mushy vegetable inside. I had to wonder; does Oprah love the okra too?

After dinner, we had some time to kill before our two California friends were to taxi in from SeaTac and meet us at our home base for the weekend, the Silver Cloud Hotel. The Seattle friend frequents one of the city’s members-only lounges, partially because they’re immune from Washington’s no smoking laws and he tends to smoke more cigarettes than Bette Davis.

They also have an extremely strict Goth dress code and when we he tried to get me in as a guest, the doorman took one look at me and said “Um, sorry, you’re wearing blue jeans” and denied my entrance. Unfortunately, I had packed light and neglected to bring my black leather pants and spiked dog collar.

Instead, we wandered up the street to a crowded, noisy sports-themed gay bar where wearing jeans was completely acceptable and we made short work of a few mixed drinks before heading to the hotel and settling in.

I wouldn’t expect to see an Ethiopian restaurant anytime soon here in North Idaho, but Meskel is just one of many located in Seattle’s Central District. Dining at an Ethiopian place requires an adventuresome appetite, and we were all feeling up to the challenge for dinner on day two. No utensils are required; different piles of spicy bean, vegetable and meat dishes are served on a large, round sourdough flatbread called injera. Just tear off a piece of the bread and use it to scoop bites of the entrees.

The flavors are distinctive and exotic, but Ethiopian cuisine requires quite a bit of intestinal fortitude. The injera rapidly expands in your tummy and the dense, zesty main courses have been known to cause long, reflective interludes in the bathroom the next morning.

After attending a shindig at another friend’s apartment and some bar hopping on Capitol Hill, we ended up closing out Saturday night at a massive dance club with wall to wall party people and some very heavy-handed bartenders.

The next morning, half our group decided to sleep off the effects of the night before, but two of us decided to spend Sunday morning shaking off our case of the morning dizzies by exploring some record shops. Sadly, we discovered that they’re a dying breed these days. Half the stores listed in the most recent phone book had closed for good. Still, we did manage to unearth some vinyl treasures at a few of them.

We spent the last day of our Seattle visit in Chinatown, buying fun and freaky food products at Uwajimaya, a massive Asian supermarket, and eating fried rice and beef with black bean sauce at the Purple Dot Cafe. The menu was that of a typical Chinese restaurant but the incredibly fine food seemed to have an edge of authenticity that can only be found in the international district of a large city.

The weekend seemed to fly by and we all parted ways just before dawn on Monday morning. Every time I visit Seattle, I end up wanting to stick around for good and tackle every exotic eatery in the city. Still, it’s always a relief to roll back into the more conventional culinary terrain of Coeur d’Alene and experience the centering feeling of being home.

What's the Buzz July 24-30

("What's the Buzz" has been relocated to the more logical spot of Thursday, so half this post is a rerun from Sunday. Terribly sorry for the deja vu, m'dear.)

Weekly Recommendations: Crunchy Pea and the Icky Chicken

Thursday, July 24
Post Falls Singer/Songwriter Tim Nagle relocated from Chicago to Idaho for some unexplainable reason several years ago. I discovered his music on MySpace last year and thought it was pretty darned good. There's this cool rocker dude who works where I do and for months I've been wondering to myself "Who is that cool rocker dude?" Researching this week's music calendar, I saw that Tim Nagle is playing Calypso's Coffee Shop tonight (with Mike Lykins) and whilst re-investigating his website it clicked: Hey. Tim Nagle is the rocker dude from work. Tim's emotive pop-rock reflects the obvious musical influence of classic acts including Oasis, Tim Buckley and the Beatles. Anyway a video clip of Tim in action so you'll have an idea of what to expect before you head downtown tonight at 7:30 to catch his show.




Friday, July 25
Booze of the Week: Dr. McGillicuddy's Fireball is a Cinnamon Whiskey Liqueur that reminds me of fiery goofball Lucille Ball for two reasons. A. her maiden name on "I Love Lucy" was McGillicuddy, and B. because after a few shots, you'll be acting as goofy as Lucy under the influence of Vitameatavegamin. It's sweet like hundreds of melted Red Hot candies and tastes best right out of the freezer on a summer evening with reggae on the iPod shuffle and pork ribs sizzling on the grill. It's our booze of the week and tonight is the perfect night to invite other kids over to your house for some BBQ action and to investigate a frosty bottle. Check out the Albertson's deli for the side dishes. I think they make some of the best deli salads around, and my favorite is the Crunchy Pea salad, which is peas and cauliflower with bacon bits and a light sour cream dressing. I also completely dig the Chicken Cilantro Pasta Salad and don't forget to stock up on the green pistachio marshmallow foam.

Saturday, July 26
Not to date myself too much, but I remember when they used to have the annual Coeur d'Alene Tribal Pow Wow every year on the soccer field at NIC. Back then, it was pretty small and the awkward-to-pronounce name "Julyamsh" hadn't been adopted yet. Nowadays, the Pow Wow is a huge festival, one of the largest of it's kind in the country, so big that only the mighty Greyhound Race Track in Post Falls can contain it. Tribal members pour in from all over the place to celebrate their heritage through music, dancing and food and remind everyone who was here first. The event is open to everyone and is free of charge, but parking will cost you five bucks. Here's a nice little video from last years festivities:



Sunday, July 27
The Haggard Willies hold "Sunday Service" each and every weekend all summer long at 8 p.m. at the Iron Horse. The Spokane-based quartet cowboy up the rowdy Horse crowd with a sound they creatively describe as "A couple drunk jazz musicians falling down a long flight of stairs." Actually, they more like a Rockabilly twist on modern Toby Keith-style country than the traditional twang the name "Haggard Willies" might indicate. They seem to employ just enough irony to make them hip enough to appeal to the Iron Horse crowd, most of whom probably wouldn't make a habit of hanging out at real country bars like Big Al's or the Slab Inn. Thier MySpace says the band's main influences are Jack Daniels, Wild Turkey, Kokanee, Tequila, and Keystone and there will be plenty of all of the above available for the enjoyment of both band and audience. Preview the Haggard Willies via the magic of YouTube:



Monday, July 28
On your way to work today, you ought to swing by and see the latte hot-tay girls at Lean Bean Espresso hut on Sherman Ave. in front of Peterson's Grocery. Not only will you get some of the best coffee drinks around, you'll be reducing your "carbon footprint" as well, since Lean Bean has gone green. They now use recycled eco-friendly cups and napkins and also serve up a line of all-natural organic coffee by Thomas Hammer Roasting Co. They offer a full menu of yummy Bagel sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies bigger than your face and their prices beat the other coffee huts by far. My favorite Lean Bean coffee drink is their Mexican Mocha, which has a rich cinnamon undertone along with a thick, dark chocolateiness. That bean ain't so lean - it's certainly not a diet beverage. It must contain enough sugar to cause seizures in chinchillas, but is a wonderful occasional indulgence and combined with 3 shots of strong Java will get set alight the long wick of your work week: Bang!


Tuesday, July 29
In The Don't Even Bother Department: One place I likely won't be visiting today or anytime soon is the Chicken Basket on Northwest Boulevard near the skatepark in Cd'A. I finally checked the place out recently, after months of waiting and curiosity since the sign first appeared on the old railroad depot, and I was not impressed. The tragic part is, when I googled them searching for a menu, the first thing that came up was a real estate ad: "Turn key business for sale, everything included." Yep, they've only been open a few months and the owner is already trying to unload it. I'm not surprised they're suffering considering the less-than-stellar experience I had there. I don't have the heart to write a full review of the sad place and make them suffer in print - I'm just not that cruel. Anyway, the counter girl had a look on her face that said "I'd rather die than have to stand here taking orders from you assholes." I ordered a chicken strips basket to go. The menu indicated it would include fries, coleslaw and a dinner roll for $7.99 - the price seemed a little steep, but I pictured a lot of food. During the nearly 15 minute wait for my food, the only other customer, a very deaf old man, struck up a conversation with me. "You ever tried this place before?" I kept having to repeat myself 3-4 times before he could understand my replies. "Better be pretty damn good" he concluded, and rightly so since he'd been waiting even longer than me. When Ms. WannaDie finally handed me my dinner, it was in the form of a suspiciously small paper box.

I got home and opened it up to find a ream of wax paper containing a small handful of cold unsalted french fries and two flat , dark brown chicken filets. No cole slaw, no roll. That evil witch forgot to include my coleslaw and dinner roll, and I was already home, too hungry to go back and complain. So pissy. The chicken was overcooked to the point of tasting charred. The crusty old Safeway deli does better chicken strips and at a fraction of the cost. They do offer family sized buckets of "broiled" (they tout this repeatedly as if it were somehow amazing and special) chicken, but take my advice, skip the Chicken Basket and head for some good old fashioned Chester Fried at Peterson's Grocery Deli on East Sherman (wow, two mentions in one week...)


Wednesday, July 30
There's never anything much worth getting gussied up for on Wednesday nights and that's fine with me because I'm way caught up in the new season of Bravo TV's Project Runway (Tonight at 9 p.m., Time-Warner channel 66). There's no fierce young genius scene stealing divas on par with last years big winner, Christian Siriano ("Hot Tranny Mess"), although painfully tanorexic Yakima resident Blayne has been working hard to coin this season's catchphrase ("Girlicious"? I like Suede's "wackadoodle" much better.) My early fave is last week's winner Kelli, who had turned vaccuum cleaner bags into couture with bleach and ink. I also have to admit my love for leatha-lovah Stella, a gritty New york designer who comes of like a cross between Lou Reed and Elvira and has designed stage wear for Debbie Harry and Joan Jett. She was almost auf-ed last week when her plan to use plastic trash bags backfired and forced her to send something pretty awful down the runway. I'm anxious to see what she can whip up given better materials, but she's got some intense competition ahead of her - all this years designers have at least a grain of potential. Plus, host/mentor Tim Gunn is amazingly wonderful as usual.

What kind of wine, cheese and chocolate goes good as a snack whilst sucked into the world of amateur fashion? Stop and ask the experts at Daanen's Deli in Hayden, they have an intense selection of nibbly bits to supply your PR party guests.

The Office Bar & Grill

The Office Bar & Grill
816 N 4th St,
Cd’A, 664-9957

"Where the Elite Meet"

The bartender’s sweatshirt was sunny with hope and optimism. “Aloha Hawaii” it sang out in floral patterns and colors reminiscent of a tropical summer, while outside a frozen-faced kid in an Eskimo coat worked to shovel a path through the waist-deep ice and snow the street plows had just dumped on the sidewalks of Midtown. “Aloha Hawaii”, on a day when even the icicles have icicles and penguins practically waddle through town.

I’m not sure if her fashion choice was meant as a bold statement of irony or just a happy accident, but either way it was somewhat symptomatic of the many uncommon charms found within the wood-paneled walls of The Office Bar & Grill on N. 4^th Street in Coeur d’Alene.

“Where the Elite Meet” is the motto painted in large letters across the back wall of the long, skinny tavern, and when Q and I ducked in from the cold one recent early afternoon, “the elite” consisted of exactly three neighborhood regulars, animatedly chatting it up and chain smoking over pitchers of Pabst. We picked a tall table close to the action under a vintage sign featuring a leggy, winking Mae West beer mug and the slogan “Beauty is in the Eye of the Beer Holder.” The selection of miscellany that decorates the Office is entertainingly random.

There’s the broke down bicycle for some reason glued the back wall next to the pool table. A couple of gorgeous wall murals vividly depicting classic hot-rods like huge works of pop art. A miniaturized vintage airplane of some kind hovers over, and the walls are hung with plaques proclaiming a variety of cutesy notions. A couple of honest-to-goodness live plants even manage to survive within this realm of merciless smokers.

Yet despite the collection of mish-mash, nothing seems cluttered or claustrophobic. For a tavern of its age and history, it’s remarkably clean and well kept and offers a warm and inviting getaway from more common haunts. I’m not certain if this was always the case or if current owners Laurie Schaefer and husband Dwight Hill have done some beautification work since taking over the place last August.

Despite its long-standing location right in my very own neighborhood, the Office just wasn’t on my radar until Q persuaded me to slink in with him that afternoon. He’d eaten lunch there for the first time a few weeks ago on the recommendation of our friends at the neighboring Inkworld Tattoo shop, who have been heralding Office food for years.

The menu is a masterpiece of bar chow minimalism. Presented on one side of a two-sided table tent, its small enough you could write it on the back of your hand if for some reason the need arose, or you could memorize it and recite it at a post-modern poetry slam. “O Breaded North Atlantic Clam Strips! O Inferno Hot Crunchy Wings! O Tater Tots and Mozzarella Sticks!” Obsessive cholesterol watchers probably ought to just steer clear of the place, as nearly everything here becomes intimately acquainted with hot grease before it arrives sizzling at your table.

The selection of fried foods is impressive and all-inclusive, from giant, homemade onion rings and chicken strips to off-kilter snacks like breaded calamari and even gizzards. I’m sure there are plenty of gizzard lovers out there, but choking down a chicken’s chewy gastric mill is not my idea of a fine lunch. Amazingly, nearly everything they have on offer can be had for less than a five spot.

The bartender broke away from the confab happening up at the bar and directed her bright blonde attention to our table. For some gross reason, Q likes to always mispronounce the word cheeseburger by leaving off the first “r”, but our gal didn’t even bat a mascara-smeared lash, asking “what kind of cheese do you want, honey?” Wow, you get your choice of cheese!

Q was lauding the Office burger as one of the very best in town, but I had to go for the finger steaks and fries because really, how often do you see finger steaks on the menu these days? “You want sour cream with your jo-jo’s?” she suggested. Brilliant. I don’t know if it would have ever occurred to me to even ask for sour cream with my jo-jo’s, but suddenly the idea seemed so meant-to-be. She disappeared back into the kitchen to change from her bartender hat into her chef hat and prepare our lunches herself.

A few minutes before our food arrived, our hostess/chef brought out a wonderful 6-pack of condiments. Literally, an old cardboard six bottle beer holder had been given a new lease on life holding squeeze bottles of ketchup, mustard, tartar sauce, pink fry sauce, horseradish sauce, and spicy ketchup. “You’ll need some Barbecue sauce too,” she suddenly decided and returned with a bottle of the brown stuff. Q had to take the condiment insanity to its highest level with a request for some ranch dressing. I had a lot of fun experimenting with the different food/condiment combinations, and my favorite was the horseradishy ketchup, simply labeled “mild hot”.

The presentation of our meals in red plastic baskets lined with red and white checked paper was a visual delight and a catalyst for warm fuzzy feelings. The steak bites were tender and addictive, breaded to perfection and fried gorgeously. The potato wedges were enormous, hot and steamy and superb with the cool sour cream.

The front door swooshed open, pulling us back to reality from our food-induced trance and ushering in a cool burst of winter air. It was another bar regular, an older woman dressed in a sky blue floor-length puffy jacket. She pulled a stool up to the bar and before she could sit the bartender already had her favorite beer poured and ready. She lit a cigarette and her cell phone rang to the tune of “California Dreaming”. She let us listen for a few moments then answered, squawking to whoever was on the other end “Hey, I bought you a crab!” Just like our dear hostess with the unseasonably summery top, she wasn’t going to let any extreme winter conditions ruin the sunshine in her head.

Bread Crumbs: Random Bits

Feeling left out because your employer is too cheap to spring for a lavish company Christmas party? No worries, tis the season for convention crashing. Just wear your finest get-up, slap on a "Hello! My Name Is..." name badge and sneak into one of the many holiday functions happening on a nightly basis down at the CDA Resort! It's easier if you go down there earlier in the day and read the list of functions for that night. The bigger party the better, and preferably one thrown by a Spokane company. Maybe you might Google the company so you won't be totally lost at sea if someone tries to strike up a conversation about work. Dress as corporate as possible, and bring a partner in crime - you'll be less conspicuous if you're visiting with someone else rather than sitting alone. Security is usually lax, so you should have no problem gliding right in the front door of the convention center and into the bays. If you need to sneak in via the back hallway, no problem - convention center staff are way too young and busy to notice or care. If anyone asks, just tell them you work for "Ron in Corporate" - no one will question it. You'll get a free delicious meal, maybe a free "fantasy" boat cruise and if you're lucky, some bonus swag courtesy of your "new boss"or Uncle Duane. Get totally sloshed and make an ass out of yourself. Who cares? You'll never see those people again. Good luck and good free eats!

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New greasy food shack alert: Opening soon on Northwest Boulevard across from the Spokesman Review building in Coeur d'Alene is the Chicken Basket. The signs read "Fish and Chicken" and"Broasted Foods" but otherwise, it's a bit of a mystery. I can't imagine that Paul Bunyan, also located directly across the street is too thrilled about this development since they also sell chicken and fish, although "broasted" certainly doesn't describe their brand of deep-fryer abuse. Hopefully they'll come up with something unique and wonderful - I fear that building is cursed, having been home to the ill-fated Pasty Depot several years back along with several failed skate shops. Expect some form of a review here as soon as they open for biz.

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From the Get Out! mailbag:

Dear Get Out!

First off I do enjoy your column in the Community News section of Handle Extra. I sometimes go or revisit a place depending on your reviews. I must take you to task about the recent Zips restaurant article/review. I was anything but happy after my return visit there last week. I have been to the one on Sherman Ave in CdA in the past, and each time I say "no more" but then I go again to give it a try several months later. After trying the fish dinner (two piece) I dont think I'll ever be going back again. The fish was very small and thin (but tasty) and the fries were partially over done, and the rest under done (although a heap of them in the meal) Total waste after I ate the fish and a few fries. Must be the home town nostalgia that keeps you going back for more. Oh well. Keep up the good work,as I do enjoy your columns. Just thought I'd vent a little about the quality of the meal I got at Zips.

B. Ritchie

Cd'A, Idaho

Well, far be it from me to discrimate against thin fish, although I do sympathize with your situation. I've noticed that the dimensions of Zips fish have shrunk over the last few years. They used to be one of the best places to order fish and chips, and had large, flaky halibut pieces, but you are correct - the last time I ordered a 3-piece, I was shocked to find that said filets had indeed been suffering from anorexia and were overcooked to the point of chewiness. However, I was able to smother on enough of that famous tartar sauce to glom it down anyway. Thanks for the nice words btw.

Dear Get Out!

Re: Rock Concert at Farragut State Park. Just an idea. In the sixties, can’t recall what year or a great deal about it, to drug’d up. But it was great they even had a nude beach, which in those days was really hot of North Idaho . North Idaho could be a dangerous place in those days if you had long hair. Also, the old Stateline in the 60’s, with fake ID, the El Patio and the Hillbilly bars, Kon Tiki etc.

Wes Albert

It's good to know that Stateline hasn't changed a bit after all these years. I've heard of that legendary rock concert at Farragut before, in fact I think I vaguely recall hearing that my uncle Dan English was there - perhaps I'll have to grill him for details. Seems like it might have been sort of North Idaho's own little Woodstock. I can't imagine it being too wild, but I'd love to know if there were any LSD-fueled love-ins, nude mudbaths, incidents of police brutality etc. Any famous or semi-famous musicians show up? Details, people! If I get any good stories, I might include them in my next retro-themed column in January...

Dear Get Out!

I've been a regular reader of your column in the since I moved to CDA 2 years ago. In fact I think it was your review of that TacoWorks trailer over on Best Avenue that helped me find the best street tacos since I left Southern California. I would have never pulled over and tried that location if it wasn't for your positive review. I even had Omar cater my Dad's wake here back in May. It was a hit.

I read a little blurb in the Huckleberries column a week ago about your reticence to review Hudson's. Risking a social backlash from the Hudson's cult that exists here in little ole Coeur d' Alene could be a pain for sure with a highly visible profile like yours. Now, I've never been to Hudson's. Sure, I've heard all the hype. But when I also hear about the draconian restrictions they have about the type of burgers, drinks and sides (none), the limited seating and long lines, I haven't exactly yelled "Let's go to Hudson's" when I need a burger fix. I'll go Carl's Jr for a Famous Star at 11:00 in the morning (it has to be hot and fresh) or if I really want to bust my cholesterol reading (and budget) go to Red Robin for a Royal Red Robin Burger. C'mon, bacon and a fried egg on a thick juicy burger with all the fixin's!

Anyway, if the idea of a "secret shopper" appeals to you, let me know. The review, good, bad or lukewarm, could be used in your column without any of the cult throwing you stink-eye around town and we'll get to the truth.

David

Thanks for the hype yo, but I'm afraid I've only had the column for nine months, and it wasn't me who reviewed that taco truck. Sounds good though, I'll have to check it out. I've heard from a bunch of folks that the owner of Hudson's wants me to "come in and visit sometime" which is a little on the scary side for me, after publicly declaring the 100-year old lunch counter to be nothing more than hype. I just picture him behind that counter chopping meat with that giant knife. Chop chop CHOP! Gulp. So, I might actually take you up on that offer. Seems like a nice, neutral way to get an untainted impression of the legendary burger stop to see if it indeed lives up to the hype. I'm afraid one glimpse of that meat knife and I'd have no choice but to give the place a unfairly glowing write-up.

Sprag Pole Inn & Museum

Sprag Pole Inn & Museum
Murray, ID

For me, it’s record albums. My fascination with them started as soon as I was old enough to figure out how to put them on the gigantic wooden console stereo we had in our living room. My childhood record collection started with the Beatles and the Supremes and lasted through disco, new wave, and early alt-rock before the shiny CD eventually took over as my format of choice. However, to this day I cannot pass a thrift store or yard sale without stopping to file through any dusty stacks of vinyl that might be lurking within.

Almost everybody is a collector of something, but few ever took the idea to the extreme level of the late great Walt Almquist, whose jaw-dropping collections of nearly everything you can think of are displayed in the dusty glass cases that make up the Sprag Pole Museum in Murray, Idaho. For Mr. Almquist, it all started in the 1930’s after a pal gave him a decorative whiskey bottle to adorn behind the bar of his newly established Sprag Pole Inn, which was housed in an already historic building where legendary local madam Molly B’Dam once performed her, ahem, business. With the help of his brother Harry and many friends, Walt spent the rest of his long life adding miscellany to his self-proclaimed Museum, eventually expanding to fill three buildings.

Curiosity recently led Q. and I to make the venture east to Murray one cloudy afternoon to check out this legendary tourist trap . In Wallace, I took the wrong road north and we ended up travelling through the narrow Gem-Burke valley filled with mining ruins and mobile homes occupied by folks who look like they don’t especially take kindly to strangers in them there parts. We backtracked and found the proper road to Murray, which was approximately wide enough to fit 1 and ¼ automobiles and snaked over the mountain like a cheap rollercoaster. I gleefully zoomed around the curves, causing Q. to go into a full-on anxiety attack as he pictured us flying off the ledge to our death in the remote wilderness.

Fortunately we made it in one piece, and pulling into Murray it became clear why it’s listed as a living ghost town. At the height of the mining boom, it was a city of several thousand folks, complete with a thriving red light district. Today, around six original buildings remain standing, including a tiny post office, a fire station which looks more like a fire trap, and two bars, including the bright yellow Sprag Pole Inn building itself.

I actually didn’t realize they served food and drinks until I walked in. I was famished but Q. was still a little queasy from our mountain adventure. The room was empty but the noise of several televisions and the staggering amount of wall clutter made it seem lively. We were greeted by current Sprag Pole owner Lloyd, who told us to grab a seat anywhere.

Looking around the place two things became immediately clear: Lloyd really, really likes both the Seahawks and Mariners, so much so that he has continued old Walt’s collecting obsession, except he chose to focus solely on memorabilia of the two Seattle teams. Secondly, I never knew that antlers could be used to make such a wide array of lighting fixtures.

The Sprag Pole dining room takes the notion of “down home charm” to the extreme, with it’s mismatched variety of plastic church chairs and tables of random height, size and shape. Crudely handwritten signs hang everywhere, touting everything from the wine list and the daily specials to snarky company policies “No credit – don’t even ask!” Looking at the menu, we were a bit surprised at the fanciness and cost of some of the offerings. For example, the going special was a full pound of Dungeness crab, a half pound of steamed clams, five jumbo prawns, a potato and soup or salad for $25.99. Racks of Lloyd’s “famous” BBQ ribs, Porterhouse steak, Prime rib dinner, Pan-seared oysters and Alaskan cod, all floating near or above the $20 mark. We realized perhaps this wasn’t the backwoods dive we thought it was, and that they must have quite a cult following to be able to serve such relatively haute cuisine.

Fortunately for us poor folks, they also serve a variety of burgers, sandwiches, and fried items. Basically, if you can fry it they serve it, including zucchini, cheese sticks, gizzards and that rare and so wonderful artery-clogging delicacy known as Chester Fried Chicken. Tempting, but I chose to opt for the relative safety of a Bacon Cheeseburger and Q. decided his tummy had settled enough to tackle a bowl of chili and a pint of Moose Drool. Yes, not even wee Murray is safe from the microbrew craze.

Our food came hot and fast. My burger and onion rings looked like they’d arrived via a time machine from 1955, an old-fashioned monster meat patty on a behemoth bun, served with a pile of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and pickles . It was fully luscious, exploding with the rich flavor of the crisp bacon and sharp cheddar. The beer-battered onion rings were laughably huge, light and crispy and not at all overly greasy. Q. tasted his chili and declared that it “didn’t need a thing”, an impressive compliment coming from someone who usually massively abuses his food with condiments and salt. He proudly pointed out the huge chunks of jalapeno swimming within, and when the waitress came to clear the table, he told her it was the best chili he’d ever had in his life. From the quiver in his voice, I knew he meant it.

Full, we sat stunned for a few moments, absorbing the unexpected shock of such incredible food. We paid the bill, a bargain at under fifteen dollars for both of us, and turned our attention to the ugly metal door in the far back corner that serves as the humble entry to Walt Almquist’s Museum.

The first fluorescently lit room houses Walt’s original collection of dust covered bric-a-brac and curios, displayed in huge glass cases. One case is nothing but hundreds of small wooden animals, carved by Walt himself. A half-dozen cases are filled with a half-decades worth of collectable booze bottles representing all forty-eight states in the union. Another is filled with nothing but cigarette packages. Rock and mineral buffs will want to visit just to check out the thousands of colorful specimen the Almquists somehow amassed from around the globe. Other displays are more random, showcasing long outmoded household devices, brass vases, old money, war and mining memorabilia and even old Avon cologne bottles. One of the more humorously morbid items we noticed was a small ceramic urn with the red dymo-tape label “Grandma Shroyer”. In addition to the items, each display case is filled with tags describing the items written in old-man handwriting.

Cleary, the time and effort that our dear Walt must have invested in this collection is staggering, and he did all this while cooking food and serving drinks at the Inn. After running out room for all his stuff, he built on an expansion and set up some scenario-oriented historic displays, including an old one-room classroom, a mining scene, and a replication of Molly B’Dam’s den of iniquity. Even some antiques of more recent vintage make appearances here, like pinball machines and primitive video games, clunky old telephone answering devices, BetaMax video machines and other quaint obsolete electronics.

Eventually, it all became too much for the aging collector to maintain, and in 1982 the operation of the museum was handed over to a private, non-profit company who carry the Almquist torch proudly by continuing to collect items and expand the displays. They regularly receive large donations from private collectors, so it’s worth returning here every few years or so to see what’s new. Q. and I weren’t really sure what to expect when we arrived, but we left as devoted members of the Sprag Pole cult and plan on returning as soon as we can afford that incredible $25.99 seafood special.

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.

Peterson Family Foods Deli

Petersons Family Foods Deli
(formerly Sherman IGA)
1211 E. Sherman Ave.
Coeur d’Alene
208-664-9992

A trip to the deli area at Sherman IGA in Coeur d’Alene is a trip back in time. It’s one of those rare local spots that is pleasingly untouched by the grip of modernization. In fact, I’d bet most of the owners of the upscale boutiques and exclusive galleries that seem to be crawling their way up Sherman avenue consider Sherman IGA to be outdated urban blight, and they’d love to see it burn to make way for maybe a nice little high-rise of condos and offices.

Other, more corporate grocery delis in town have bigger selections, trendier items, cleaner, more updated looks and little personality. None offer the historic, "hometown proud" experience that good old IGA serves up. Of course, technically it's not a restaurant, you've got to eat your takings at home, but the food here is certainly worth discussion.

I grew up in the increasingly rough neighborhood where the old IGA is located and I’ll admit that shopping there can be risking your life at times. When I was about 12 or so my mother and I hid shivering behind a mayonnaise display as the store was being robbed. It takes a certain type of person to shop there, adventurous, unafraid of society’s fringe, or the body odor of the homeless junkie. It’s the kind of place you really want to hit in the mid-morning when it feels safest, and the friendly long-time staff and management will make you feel like you just got home to old friends. You might run into an old teacher from high-school, the friendly postman, your dear Aunt Betty. However, be warned - when the sun goes down the place carries a whole different vibe – it turns into an edgy hotspot for meth moms in recovery, drunk college boys, and munchie-afflicted emo kids. On hot summer nights, the parking lot swelters with intensity, heavy metal music blaress out of high-revving Corvettes.

Like the rest of Sherman IGA, the deli area has seen little cosmetic change in at least 25 years. The mainstay here is the world-famous “Chester Fried” chicken. I was curious to know exactly what made a chicken “Chester Fried” versus just plain old fried, and a Google search turned up some interesting tidbits. The company website lists only a few dozen places nationwide where you can get this delicacy, but oddly there’s no mention of Sherman IGA. How did they manage to drop off the official Chester radar, I wonder? Is the big 70’s-ish sign they display just a ruse, a leftover from better days? Are they actually peddling some kind of bootleg knock-off of Chester Fried Chicken? Is it just another of IGA’s many dark secrets? Where does that leave the jo-jo’s? All besmeared with blood-like ketchup?

Well, I think they’re getting it down pretty close at least, since the trick behind Chester’s is in the unique moisturization process that renders that sinful, highly caloric chicken breast so juicy and irresistibly tender inside that greasy, thick crunchy shell so flavorful and artery-clogging. These chickens must have been huge beasts when they roamed the earth – these giant fried chicken parts make KFC pieces look Barbie doll size. It’s likely not a healthful idea to indulge in the Chester action more than every once in a while, but when the craving hits, there’s only once place in town that has it and god bless them for it.

Also heavenly are the BBQ spareribs, delicious and always cooked to falling-off-the-bone perfection, although they are on the spendy side (for this place at least). I have tried the roasted chicken, and it wasn’t bad, just average, and not as much fun as killing yourself with the fattier fried version. IGA also offers huge jo-jos, chicken strips and old-school beef and bean burritos – the kind you usually can only find at middle-of-nowhere gas stations. Cheap, filling, and always an interesting gastrointestinal experience.

Move on over to the deli cooler for more retro action. I love the raspberry jell-o chunks mixed with sugary pink froth. Or the “Ambrosia salad” (secret recipe: canned mixed fruit and cool whip). Then there’s the mean green mystery substance simply labeled “pistachio crème” which shares nothing at all in common with its namesake nut other than its unexplainable addictiveness. Not everything here is my favorite. There’s the joyless “five bean salad” swimming in some kind of bland, oily dressing; a plethora of potato and macaroni salads, all including those damn little red pepper chunks I always have to pick out. Is it a pimento, maybe? I won’t eat them. I think the “Mustard Potato Salad” is free of the evil buggers, but could use another squirt of the yellow stuff to liven it up a tad.

There are gourmet desserts like tapioca, glompy chocolate pudding, and some type of layered raspberry/cool whip/angel cake parfait concoction that looks like it came right out of the pages of the Betty Crocker 1974 Edition cookbook. There’s the usual deli assortment of prepackaged sliced cheeses and meats, and maybe it’s just the bad lighting to blame, but there’s something a bit off about the pallor of the roast beef. Is there such a color as “electric brown”? It looks quite a bit more appetizing when coupled with some cheddar in one of the perfectly fine pre-made sandwiches, but if you’re like me you’ll want to grab an extra mayonnaise packet – they’re a bit on the dry side.
I’d recommend sticking with the main attraction, but do try to arrive early for your Chester Fried fix. There have been a few times when I’ve stood in line behind ladies that buy enough of the stuff to feed the whole church and by the time I make it to the counter, nothing remains but Chester Fried crumbs at the bottom of the deli case. After a certain time of day, they will refuse to make more, even if you threaten a hold-up. They’re not that easily fazed around here.

Note: Since publication, the place has been renamed Petersons Family Foods and is basically the same, save for the tiniest bit of rearranging. As one of the cashiers there told me "the crackheads still come out at night..."