Susie's Bar & Grill

Susie’s Bar & Grill
10325 N. Government Way,
Hayden, 762-2533.

I got a feel for the we-don’t-mess-around charm and earthy personality of Susie’s Bar & Grill before I’d even stepped in the front door. Directly to the right of the entry sat a local newspaper’s blue vending machine upon which was taped an enormous hand-scrawled note. “Dear Dumbass” it started out endearingly. “Are you making a lot of money from this machine? Apparently you haven’t noticed that something’s amiss, namely that the coin slot is plugged and has been for weeks. Yet you continue to refill it each day with new papers. What gives?” The note itself was a bit tattered as if the newspaper man was un-taping it, refilling and and re-taping it, just to return the dose of snark.

There aren’t many places left in our modern realm that harbor such a rarefied, historic aroma like the one that hits like a whammy upon entrance to the bar portion of Susie’s, where Q. and I landed one recent Saturday morning. It’s a mix of cigarettes, dust, the men’s room, heavy cuisine, beer taint, and loads and loads of time. Not that it’s necessarily a terrible odor, in fact it’s oddly comforting, reminiscent of an era when it was possible to sit down with your neighbors and loved ones and have Whiskey Sours and Pall Mall Lights with your bacon, eggs, and hotcakes. It’s a scent that seems to have been present in nearly every diner/lounge or truck stop I dined at as a child in the 1970’s, the last truly carefree era before health freaks ruined it for everyone with their overwrought concerns about the dangerous effects of second-hand smoke, trans-fat and getting drunk by noon.

Even Susie’s main room is a time-trip back to the hazy, cave-like dining spaces of my childhood. When Q. and I poked our head around the corner to check it out, we were met by the gaze of an elderly couple, the only souls occupying one of the chartreuse vinyl booths. They looked like shipwreck survivors on a desert island, bearded and unwashed liked they’d been stuck there for decades. We had a similarly eerie feeling a few minutes later after we’d returned to our table in the bar zone, when a specter-like gentleman with a full, droopy mustache and old-fashioned cowboy hat appeared seemingly from out of nowhere and floated across the room silently, vanishing behind us. We both looked at each other with unspoken concern. Were we seeing ghosts up in here?

Susie herself was incredibly friendly and chatty and seemed oblivious to the haunting, choosing instead to sing along loudly to the country music beaming in at full blast from the airwaves and entertain a couple of regulars who’d saddled up to the bar for their pre-noon Bull Blasters. I get the impression Susie’s has a ton of regulars, a tight-knit family of Susie fans who return time and time again to enjoy her down-to-earth presence and made-from-scratch cooking.

I’d been tipped off by a couple of different readers that Susie’s served up one of the best burgers around, and I’ve never been able to resist putting that claim to test, so I decided to leave my diet in the car and go for the Mushroom Swiss variety. Q. announced that he was feeling a little spicy, so he ordered Susie’s daily special, a breakfast mess called a “Red Hot Louisiana Sausage Scramble.” Kokanee? No, I was driving, so I had to resist doing as the Romans were doing and got a nice, tall Pepsi instead.

The menu at Susie’s Bar and Grill in Hayden is ripe with mirth and entertaining moments. “Best burgers anywhere,” it boasts, forgetting endless competition and going straight for the crown. “Beef- it’s what’s for dinner” it demands in a bold font, and Susie represents, throwing down your choice of Kentucky Devil Bourbon, Blue Cheese, or Smothered sirloin steaks with optional hand-breaded Jumbo Shrimp just for extra bling. The “SSS Omelet” will have you hissing like you had snakes up in your basket, with it’s brazen combo of spinach, swiss cheese, sausage, and even ‘shrooms.

If you’ve been sitting lonely night after night wondering where to find some juicy beef testicles, you’re finally in luck. Susie’s is one of very few places around featuring that exotic cowboy delicacy Rocky Mountain Oysters on its list of appetizers, complete with spicy cocktail sauce. For those who want to really go all the way with the idea, there’s the House Specialty “Hot Nuts”, which is Rocky Mountain Oysters fried crisp, smothered with green chile sauce and melted cheddar cheese, and served with a tortilla. Normally, I’m gung-ho to try new and bizarre foods, but my still bar-queasy tummy suggested it wasn’t in the mood to experiment. I pointed out to Q. the “Hot Nuts” on the menu and dared him to try them, but he winced and said “Um, no. I’m trying to cut back.”

Our lunch took its own sweet time to arrive, but at Susie’s, everything is made fresh from scratch to order, and when our meals arrived, we forgot all about the wait and time in general. My burger was a five-star specimen, so mammoth I had to take Q’s advice and eat it upside down to keep from spilling melty Swiss and crisp lettuce on my lap. “Best burger anywhere” is arguable, of course, but with a huge, hearty beef patty as succulent as this, it indeed ranks high on the list. Q., on the other hand, wasn’t over-the-moon about his Louisiana Sausage scramble, saying it tasted like “old bar grease.” I tried a few bites, and delightfully, he was right! It was a flavor I actually enjoyed mingled with the dense potatoes and spicy sausage bites.

I’d bet this place gets exceedingly rowdy at night, when the pool balls crack above the din of Country karaoke and patrons work hard at contributing to the aforementioned timeless aroma. On the surface, there’s certainly nothing fancy about this well-worn building that has survived so many decades with dozens of incarnations. It’s Susie, her crew and her crowd of regular visitors that provide the place with its pulsing heart and soul.

The Blue Plate Cafe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Owl Café

Owl Café,
9178 N. Government Way,
Hayden, ID

Bright Lights, Dark Wood Panelling, Mediocre Eggs

For the most part, owls are strictly nocturnal and actively hunt their prey only under the cover of darkness. A very few owls do exist who are active at dawn or during the day; examples are the Burrowing Owl, the Short-eared Owl, and the Dust-Gathering Owl. The latter have been sighted at the Owl Café in Hayden, roosting daily on display shelves and peering out sagely over hungry breakfast and lunch patrons. There are dozens of them looking down from fusty heights with wide eyes or hanging sternly on ancient wood-paneled walls. Some are brass, some are ceramic, some are wooden; all are from some long-forgotten time when decorative owls were somehow the hottest thing going. Everything about the Owl Café is a definite flashback, from the grungy, retro ambience of the décor, to the un-fancy comfort-food lean of the menu and daily specials, and service that’s friendly enough to make anyone feel like an old-timer even on their first visit.

“Old-timer” is definitely the key word when it comes to describing the clientele of the mighty Owl. On a recent visit to the popular café with Weenis, her 7-year old daughter and their young friend, it seemed that many diners had been frequenting the same naugahyde booths and tables since the glory years of the Roosevelt administration. Even the less mature folks in attendance looked like they’d been eating meals there since before they could even say “Patty Melt”.

Somehow, both of us had gone our entire lives without experiencing the Owl Cafe, and driving by over the years we’d always pictured something dark and cave-like so it was kind of alarming to walk into overhead fluorescent lights casting an ambience similar to the waiting area at the DMV. Oh, our delicate morning eyes! We looked around the busy diner for a dark corner to hide in but such a place didn’t exist, so we grabbed an open booth near the register. Our waitress immediately dropped off cups of ice water with our menus, a simple but essential opener that all too often goes forgotten. Despite her young appearance, she was clearly a veteran waitress and displayed the talents and nuance of a pro.

For example, while we were spacing out into our menus, she came blazing by our table, both arms piled high with steaming plates of food and a face indicating not even vague concern that one little half-stumble or urge to sneeze could turn an entire table’s breakfast into Hurricane Benedict. When she arrived to take our order, we complimented her on her amazing dish-balancing routine. She laughed it off saying “It’s just my job” but she did pull up her sleeve and show us her “battle scars” that had resulted from various hot food injuries over the years.

It was Sunday, so sadly we were unable to validate the chalk-scrawled menu board labeled “Harlan’s Weekly Specials”, a different old-fashioned comfort food for every day of the week. Monday was Navy Bean Soup and Cornbread, Tuesday was Meat Loaf and Mashed Potatoes, Thursday was Pork Chops and Green Beans. We couldn’t believe there was still someplace in existence serving such classic Mom food. The menu itself provides very few surprises, but does offer a variety of standard breakfast and lunch fare. I’d put my money on some standout items: the Chili Dog with fresh onions and cheddar; the Fried Egg Sandwich; the Northern Cod & Chips; the massive Taco Salad.

We all decided that breakfast was still in vogue so I decided to order up a Big Combo with one French toast and one pancake and two scrambled eggs and corned beef hash. The girls excitedly ordered Pigs in Blankets, strawberry crepes and hot cocoa with spray-can whipped cream. While we waited, we delved further into some of the subtle kitsch surrounding us like the window security bars molded cleverly into owl shapes or the massive old-school steel milk machine with a sign reminding us in big red letters that “Milk’s the One!” The two girls and I were getting busy with crayons and coloring books when our meals arrived all in one go on the amazing arms of our waitress.

I was glad Weenis ordered the Chicken Fried Steak since that’s usually how I shake down a new breakfast joint. I got to sneak a few bites and it wasn’t bad at all but it was nowhere near as fantastic as another I’ve raved about recently. On the other hand, she thought it was scrumptious. My French toast seemed like it had lived under the heat lamp a while before hitting my plate, but my pancake fared slightly better, large and fluffy as expected. The corned beef hash seemed to be the standard canned variety and perhaps I was expecting something different (home-made perhaps) but after three bites I suddenly remembered that I really don’t like corned beef hash anyway. One of the girls found a mysterious plastic strip in her hash browns, but unlike most kids, she wasn’t freaked out at all as she pulled the foreign object from her mouth and flicked it on the table. She just shrugged an kept on eating as we examined it, finally determining it to be a harmless piece of food packaging and if she wasn’t upset about it, why should we be?

I’ve heard there’s a cult of Owl Café regulars who probably find something magic here amongst the dusty owl bric-a-brac, the cramped booths and the darkly paneled walls. I’m willing to withhold full judgment until I’ve tested several of those rib-sticking lunch specials, but based on one experience, I haven’t got a great deal of excitement to report. The meal itself may have been slightly on the mediocre side, but the service was top notch and the time trip back to fifty-something years ago was an increasingly endangered treat.

Paupau's Kitchen

Paupau’s Kitchen
9751 N. Government Way, Hayden,
762-0169.

Bright White Lights and the Black Leather Pants

“Okay. See you there. 2:30 tomorrow.” My phone snapped closed in my hand. I was sitting in the lobby of my dentist trying to distract myself from the agony of a satanic toothache by flipping through the pages of the latest In Touch magazine when my thigh vibrated. 

It was M. “Let’s do Chinese tomorrow. I need something cheap and greasy, and I don’t mean my ex.” Hayden’s hidden gem Paupau’s Kitchen entered my mind and we agreed to meet there the next day. “Alrighty, see you around 2:30...” she said and hung up. 

“Perfect time, really...” I thought to myself, “tooth hurty.” It was the punch line to a really dumb, borderline racist joke I remembered from 2nd Grade (the set up: "When is Chinese dental time?"), but for me it was also an excruciating reality. I was just turning my attention back to the amazing miracle birth of little Vivienne and Knox Jolie-Pitt when the hygienist called my name.

Nearly twenty-four hours later, I was discussing the amazing miracle birth of little Vivienne and Knox Jolie-Pitt with M. over a relaxing late lunch. “You think she got those kids the old fashioned way? Can you say ‘In-vitro’?” she ranted as June cleared our dishes, nodding and smiling disinterestedly, too polite to react. 

I’d tried to engage Paupau’s overseer June in a conversation, asking “How long have you been in business now?” “Thirteen years” she said and with that she flitted away like a hummingbird and went back to intensely scrubbing a huge sink with a brillo pad, an activity she spent the entirety of our visit doing in between trips to our table. Glimpses into the kitchen area reveal a woman obsessed with old-fashioned cleanliness. Everything is sparkling, pristine white and stainless steel, an aesthetic which actually carries over into the main dining room as well.

Fluorescent overhead lighting, personality-free gray carpet and black banquet chairs combine to give the Paupau’s Kitchen dining room an ambiance that’s like a cross between trigonometry class and the urgent care waiting room. The wooden tables add a tiny spec of faux nature and the 1980’s travel-agent posters of Hong Kong provide fleeting moments of color on otherwise pristine white walls. 

It matters not. June would probably never lay claim to being an interior decorator, she just wanted a simple place where she could offer her unique take on Chinese cuisine, prepared in the style of her grandmother, a woman they called Paupau.

My first Paupau’s experience was around ten years ago and I remember being put off by the fact they didn’t automatically serve a cup of egg flower soup with the lunch combos. “That’s Un-American! That’s just not right.” I must have been so beside myself with angst that it overshadowed the rest of my lunch, as I have no memory of anything else about it. Later, I lived up in the neighborhood of Paupau’s for a little while and this is when love began to blossom with stops for take-out at least once every new moon.

Like the interior scheme, the menu itself is stripped down to the bare essentials, each dish a simple easy-to-do math problem. Vegetable plus meat equals entrée. Broccoli chicken, celery chicken, onion chicken, mushroom chicken, Mandarin chicken. Mandarin isn’t technically a vegetable but you get the idea. 

The same formula works for beef and shrimp as well, simply a stir-fried combo of this thing and that thing. Menu items asterisked for spiciness include Szechuan, Kung Pao and Curry varieties of Beef, Chicken and Shrimp. The trademark dish is Paupau’s Kitchen Special Stir Fried Noodles, which includes all meats along with celery, onions and other veggies. 

Also simmering on the stove is a phenomenal homemade Hot and Sour Soup, and although they still don’t serve Egg Flower as an intro to the individual combos it is served as part of the massive family-style dinners. Most excitingly, Paupau’s is one of few proud establishments around who choose to forgo the dualistic trauma of the cola wars and offer RC products on tap. I like to root for the underdog, and there’s nothing as rare and refreshing as an ice cold Royal Crown Cola.

I was a little stunned when M. ordered something as health conscious as the Green Pepper Chicken with Garlic Black Beans. “I’ve got to watch my gut, I’ve got a date on Friday and I need to squeeze into my leather pants.” 

Despite the mental image her comment evoked, my appetite remained strong. I told June to bring Combination Dinner #C, the assortment of dishes it presents are essential and consistently fantastic. A scoop of excellent fried rice provides the base. The Chicken Chow Mein is comprised of soft noodles, celery and bok choy and is basic, but noticeably fresh and very flavorful. The pale gravy on the Almond chicken isn’t really almond-y at all to me, more like a rich coconut-milk glaze, and the crunchy golden-brown shell surrounding the chicken breast is light like tempura. 

Similarly battered is the Sweet and Sour Pork, a dish that normally conjures nightmare images of dark chewy mystery meat, but Paupau’s uses only prime white chops and the pink glaze is light and tangy. In fact, it was super tender; I could even eat it without risking pain and suffering as a result of my freshly pulled tooth.

“Ah, we don’t take credit card. Sorry.” I looked at M. and could tell she was about to succinctly remind poor June exactly what century it was, but I told her “Cool it chickie, I’ve got cash.” 

The freshness and quality of Paupau’s cuisine makes it stand out although it shares more in common with fast-Chinese joints like Panda Express or Safeway Deli than it does with the legends of old Chinatown. The atmosphere might be a little sterile and the customer service won’t blow your silk pajamas off, but there’s something alluring about June’s homespun food that will put the crave in you and keep you coming back to that dusty little strip mall hiding in plain sight out in Hayden.

Rustler's Roost

Rustler’s Roost
9627 N. Highway 95, Hayden.

Seventeen years worth of dust seems to powder much of the Old West themed bric-a-brac that decorates the lofty wooden crannies and clutter corners of the Rustler’s Roost. The exterior’s once-bright red paint job is washed out and the building itself seems slightly gimpy, causing the place to take on the appearance of a well-weathered barn rather than that of one of North Idaho’s proudest, most famous eateries. Bulldozers have recently begun pushing around dirt in the lot adjacent to the current location, the first evidence of the future direction of the Roost, a place that will be their first brand-new, built-from-scratch location ever and their fourth overall. It’s the latest segment in a long history which, despite the relocations, has actually seen very few overall changes food-wise and aesthetically. Given the similarly down-home vibes of past locations, I have high hopes they’ll find a way to carry the Roost’s comfortingly dingy ambience over into the new building.

Perhaps it is getting a bit frazzled, but the Hayden location has served the Roost well since 1991. I remember vividly the shock and horror when owners Woody and Daren McEvers announced they were abandoning downtown Coeur d’Alene location and moving north for cheaper rent. The closure of the mega-popular gathering spot caused the demise of countess Coeur d’Alene subcultures, and created a hole in the fabric of downtown life that dozens of uppity cafes and jazzy wine bars still can’t replace.

Those who followed Woody and the gang up US-95 discovered right away that the physical location of the Roost was thankfully the only perceptible change. The labyrinthine building which once held a retro-futuristic spaghetti house had been re-formatted as a trip back in time to a wild-west ghost town. Suddenly, the 7-mile trip to Hayden never seemed so long as on a Sunday morning with a snarly tummy and an irrepressible craving for a “famous country breakfast”.

There were quite a few of us Pike Street Tea addicts who had no choice but to make the transition, needing desperately to feel the familiar squeeze of the plastic honey bottle and the steamy warmth of the sweet, spicy brew drifting up into our cold faces. A few of the long-time waitresses made the transition as well and amazingly, some remain to this day. If serving tables was a degree-earning skill, these ladies would all hold double doctorates – they’re incredibly down to Earth, fast as heck, and charming even in foul moods, yours or theirs.

On a recent weekend morning visit, the lobby was in its usual elbow-to-elbow state and Woody was running the chaotic show at the front counter. Despite the mad hungry throng, Woody was calm as can be, answering folks who asked about the wait time with a smile and a vague “Oh, not much time at all…” Realistically, the wait can be anywhere from five to twenty minutes, and is certainly worth it, but he probably knew that if he said specifically “fifteen minutes”, a lot of people might not stick around for a table. As we sat waiting, I had to point and chuckle at the irony of the “Lose Weight Fast” CD on display for sale in the waiting area – I wondered how many they sell to miserably full regretful dieters on their way out.

We were seated by Woody himself, who wiped our table and apologized for the wait, rolling his eyes and saying “Sorry guys, must be the all rain today that’s bringing all these people in here.” Funny, seems like it’s busy like that pretty much every time I drop in, rain or shine.

Many people know that Woody moonlights as a Coeur d’Alene City Councilman, but few realize that he’s also the Governor of Great Gravy. Or at least, that’s what we decided he is, the original mastermind behind such intense breakfast situations as the Wrangler, the Maverick or the Bull Rider, which are two eggs, home fried potatoes, biscuits and that awe-inspiring gravy served with, respectively, piles of bacon, sausage or beef patties. The Oakland Special is a ham and veggie egg-scramble, the Redneck is a three biscuit whammy, and even the Lightweight is actually pretty heavy.

Long-time customers don’t even fuss with a menu, knowing exactly what to ask for: “Wagon Master please, eggs over easy, extra gravy.” Portions are humongous, and most breakfasts come spread delightfully across two or three separate plates. The hotcakes here are bigger than the platter they come on, and the hot cinnamon roll automatically comes with a to-go box since no-one can finish a whole one without croaking.

Rustler’s Roost is also worth checking out for their excellent diner-style lunches, some featuring their wonderful tangy original2 BBQ sauce, like the fresh grilled burgers, smothered roast beef sandwiches, and thick slices of pit ham. Noontime classics abound like tuna melts, BLTs, and you can even get your fix of comfort foods like liver & onions and meatloaf, served mom-style with mashed potatoes and a green salad.

I elected to go with the Rustler’s Special, an old stand-by which is the same three-egg combo as above with chicken fried steak. We realized with awe that their already-incredible biscuits had somehow grown larger and become flakier, and the gravy was addictive as ever, perfect atop every portion of the meal, even the sublime scrambled eggs. The home fries were as good as they’ve been consistently since the 80’s, small potatoes sliced into circles and fried flavorfully dark.

My only minor complaint this time was that the chicken-fried steak was noticeably different than usual, as if they’d run out of fresh cube steak and had to use perhaps a frozen, Salisbury-steak sort of thing. It was a little on the rubbery side, but just fine, especially after I smothered it with enough dank gravy to justify ordering myself a nice Lipitor for dessert.