Gateway Café

Gateway Café
126 10th St., Plummer,
208-686-1314‎

We Came, We Saw, We Sniffed, We Ate Pickle Chips.

To the owner of Gateway Café: Christina really deserves a raise, or at least a big hug and some dark chocolate. The poor girl found herself in the undesirable position of running the entire front of the house solo on a busy Sunday, but she held it together with a stoic smile superglued to her face. She had us a little worried at first, as we hovered in the entry way for a few long minutes waiting in vain for guidance. A customer finally said we could just sit wherever and the waitress would eventually find us. We shimmied into the only booth left open, located directly next to the restrooms.

“Mmm. Smells like Smarties.” mentioned Q. I took a deep sniff of the air and grimaced slightly. ”Smarties? You mean, like the candy?” I had to clarify first, just to make sure. “Yeah, smells yummy!” he bubbled. “Um, I hate to ruin your little moment,” I sighed wearily, “but what you smell is a fresh toilet mint wafting at us from the men’s room. Yummy, indeed.” “Oh,” he winced, “never mind.”

The Gateway Café’s theme is “God Bless America.” The walls are painted patriotic red, white, and blue and American flag gewgaws mingle with framed photos of military friends and relatives on active duty. “In God we trust, all others pay cash,” announces a sign near the door. It’s not exactly Ruth’s Chris Steak House, but it is clean and comfortable. In fact, I’ve don’t think I’ve ever sat in such a relaxing, spacious booth seat. It was overstuffed and it sucked me right in; I never wanted to get up again. I kept trying invent clever ways we might be able to sneak out the door with the whole thing and take it home.

It only took a few minutes for Christina to arrive with some menus and an apology. “Sorry if everything takes a while, there was supposed to be two of us today, but that obviously didn’t happen.” She rolled her eyes with angst as anxiety crept across her sweaty brow. I wanted to ask for the gory details about why her rude, inconsiderate co-worker didn’t show up, maybe give her a chance to vent, but I figured it was probably safer not to tread into those waters. “That’s okay; we’re not really in a hurry,” I lied.

We stared at the menu, waiting for something to jump out and grab our eyeballs, saying “Eat me! Eat me!” It was mid-afternoon, but the Gateway Café serves breakfast all day on Sundays so we considered the option. Huckleberry Pancakes definitely created a strong quiver on my breakfast voltage meter, and it’s always hard to say no to my old best friends Chicken Fried Steak and Scrambled Eggs. Also tempting were the omelets galore, the Good Morning Pork Chops, and the ever-popular Hot Oatmeal with Toast.

Looking at lunch options, I immediately vetoed the burgers. As much as I love a good bacon cheeseburger, sometimes I feel the need to experiment. However, uncommon culinary possibilities are tenuous at the Gateway Café, so I went for a comfort classic, the Hot Ham and Swiss. Sandwich standards like the Triple Decker BLT, the French Dip, and the Clubhouse Grill may not be exactly far-out, but along with Fish and Chips, Taco Salad and a 21 Shrimp Basket, they make for a refreshingly vintage line-up.

We forgave Christina for taking twenty minutes to return, but I was so dying of thirst that I was about to go behind the counter and pour my own Pepsi. “One more minute, guys!” she called out and she did return momentarily, totally out of breath, to take our order. She did and we settled in for the long haul, expecting our food to arrive sometime within this or the next astrological cycle, unsure about specifically when. We were flabbergasted when she returned barely two and a half minutes later, arms loaded with our lunch. “I don’t know how that happened so fast, I really don’t,” she marveled to us, still smiling, before running off to continue working her aching, tired feet down to the bone.

My sandwich was remarkable. Grilled ham, sliced thin and tender and juicy, piled high and topped with creamy melted Swiss on a fresh white Hoagie Roll served with no frills, just a couple of pickle chips and some chunky golden fries. Q. rated his ¼ pound Knight Burger an 8 out of 10, saying that the ham was succulent and smoky and that the lettuce and tomato were perfectly cold and crisp. Prices were astoundingly low for the amount of food and quality of cookery. Honestly, we weren’t expecting such memorably delicious meals and Christina left a positive impression despite the frenzy. The simple, rich experience of the Gateway Café comes from a mixture of American pride, old-fashioned greasy grill love, succulent karma and magic Palouse sun dust.

Hudson's Hamburgers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milltown Grill

Milltown Grill
306 Spokane St.,
Post Falls.
457-1724

Spam, Spam , Schnitzel, Marmalade, Spam, B.B.I.T and Spam.

“I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay/I sleep all night and I work all day” sang the Merry Lumberjack to his Mounties in the classic Monty Python comedy sketch.“I cut down trees, I eat my lunch/I go to the lavatory/On Wednesdays I go shoppin'/And have buttered scones for tea.” The menu at the Milltown Grill in Post Falls features that song’s distant, long-lost cousin, entitled “The Lumberjack’s Prayer”. In this version, instead of ending up in women’s clothing and hanging around in bars, our lumberjack eats everything in sight until he finally cries “With alum bread and pressed beef butts/Dear Lord! You damn near ruined my guts/Your whitewash milk and Oleorine/I wish to Christ I’d never seen.” Penned about a hundred years ago, it was a career highlight for humorist and labor activist T-Bone Slim, who according to the menu tragically “went wino after the Wobble movement busted up.”

In fact, The Milltown Grill is ripe with history. The walls display a Museum-worthy collection of interesting local artifacts and ephemera including town founder Frederick Post’s birth certificate, marriage license, and WalMart receipts. They’ve even got a copy of the transfer of the ownership of the land itself from Chief Joseph who traded it to Mr. Post for some French toast and a hot fluffy omelet.

A Sunday morning flavored late-fall fog hovered over the dense forests of West Riverview Drive as Q, and I wound our way into Post Falls via the scenic back way. Sometimes I like to keep our breakfast destination a secret until we get there. “Where are we going, anyway? You know I’m scared of Post Falls.” He glared at me. I did know this actually, and I’ve never been able to quite figure out this particularly odd quirk of his. “It’s okay,” I offered. “I won’t let mean old Post Falls getcha. We’ll just zoom in, eat, and zoom out again.” “I’m totally too hungry right now to care anyway” he growled, ignoring my sarcasm.”Are we almost there?”

Pulling into the Milltown Grill lot, the first thing we spotted was a sign touting the lofty acronym “B.B.I.T. Best Breakfast in Town.” Settling down near the door at the one empty table in the small, busy place, we discussed how we would have no choice but to take this B.B.I.T. business as a serious challenge; Frankly, the two of us have really been around the block a few times when it comes to local breakfast joints and to lay a claim to the title of THE best is rather boastful. Actually, “in town” would refer specifically to Post Falls, which narrowed down the competition quite a bit, since neither of us could really recall having breakfast anywhere else within those city limits recently enough to count. Ultimately, the Milltown Grill had us. They would have to be B.B.I.T. automatically by default.

“Observe me on my bended legs/I’m askin’ you for ham and eggs/And of the hottest custard pies/I like, Dear Lord, the largest size” continues “The Lumberjack’s Prayer”. Turns out that B.B.I.T. is an actual menu item, a mega-scramble of sorts with eggs, onion, peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, ham, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and covered in shredded cheddar cheese. I wanted to give it a whirl, but I was more enthralled with the idea of the “Schnitzel Breakfast” so I made Q. order the B.B.I.T. so I could just steal a few bites of his. Seems like their Steak and Eggs must rock as well, since all four folks who were seated across from us requested an order without even bothering with menus., They also feature a bunch of dishes with names that reflect Post Falls’ industrious past like the “Logroller Omelets”, the blueberry or buckwheat “Timberjack Pancakes”, and the “Traumatic Head Injury Oatmeal” with fresh berries.

Lunch options provoke the warm fuzzies with comfort classics like hot turkey and beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy and “Log Jam Soup”, a homemade vegetable variety presumably named to once again highlight the town’s heritage and not to highlight the soup’s digestive effects. A few token salads cater to the pursed lip crowd and their snotty trip about “healthy vegetables”, leaving the calorie-rich burgers and fries and deep fried halibut to work their deadly, delicious magic on everyone else’s arteries. A note on the menu claims “If you don’t see what you want, ask and we’ll make it.” I thought about coming up with something outrageous just to be sassy. “Um, I don’t see it on the menu but I’d like the Lobster Thermidor Aux Crevettes and a Poached Ostrich Egg sprinkled with White New Zealand Truffles and Spam.” I resisted the urge; our waitress was far too friendly and focused on her work to purposely confuse.

Weiner Schnitzel usually consists of a thin piece of veal or pork, but here the Schnitzel is a white chicken breast flattened out to a ¼ inch thick pulp, then breaded and cooked like a Chicken Fried Steak, resulting in a Chicken Fried Chicken. Mine was truly tender and flavorful, made even more so by the splash of zesty country gravy. I usually pick disinterestedly at hash browns, but these were texturally light and just the right amount of crisp. I made them a short-lived task, along with a perfectly flat, folded yellow square of scrambled eggs and a super-fine stack of burly hotcakes. No complaints at all from me. Q. also couldn’t find any real reason to challenge his B.B.I.T. Mostly, he raved about his Rye Swirl toast with orange marmalade, a substance which he astoundingly claimed to have never before tasted. We waddled out convinced that even if we had a bunch of other Post Falls breakfast experiences under our belts to compare it to, the Milltown Grill would still rise to the top of our bottle of Aunt Jemima.

Davis Donuts

Davis Donuts
2520 N 4th St., Coeur d’Alene.
(208) 664-1701

“The only thing that ever sat its way to success was a hen.” This is the most recent pearl of wisdom from whoever is currently behind the reader board at the iconic Davis Donuts in Coeur d’Alene. There was a time not too many years ago when the Davis Donuts sign wasn’t cute or even slightly uplifting, but was filled with scathing political commentary that would often cause such controversy that citizens would write passionate letters to the local papers decrying or championing its messages. People would wait anxiously each week for the next hot-button communication, which normally ranged from bitter commentary about government, church and society to angry call-outs of local politicians and newsmakers.

Rumor had it that these missives were concocted by a cranky old bearded fellow who could be seen in the shop many nights whiling away the wee hours with coffee, pen and notebook, but he was silent, unapproachable. The staff itself played dumb, claiming to have no affiliation with the mysterious author. Adding to the enigma was the fact that no-one could claim to have actually seen the sign being changed over.

The glory years ended one random day after a new owner took control and the sizzling eloquence was replaced with Hallmark-card schmaltz and even bible quotes. Horrors! Suddenly the very axis and equilibrium of local politics was thrown atilt, and some might say it never fully recovered. Nowadays, the sign features a mellow mix of motivations (“Go Ironmen!”), slightly snarky humor (“Men are from Earth. Women are from Earth. Deal with it”), and even a national-news making scorcher ("Duncan, Welcome to Idaho, a death penalty state. May you get your wish and die.")

Still, it’s not just a quote-worthy message board that’s made Davis Donuts into such a local landmark that people refer to Fourth and Appleway as the “Davis Donuts Intersection.” It was only partially in jest a few years ago when folks suggested that the Coeur d’Alene Police Department relocated their headquarters to the north side of town to be closer to the place. Primarily speaking, it’s the soul-satisfying baked goodies that have consistently placed Davis Donuts firmly in the hearts of many North Idahoans and anyone else lucky enough to have dropped in during its long existence.

For many years, it was open 24-hours a day, but these days I’d highly recommend checking in as early in the a.m. as possible. Around here, when the donuts are gone, the donuts are gone and owner/baker Dennis Monroe is done for the day, case closed. I discovered this fact on a recent lazy Sunday visit when my main intention was to give their biscuits and gravy a go. I’ve been told by several raving local foodies that I absolutely had to have them in my little world. Of course, a visit to Davis Donuts wouldn’t be complete without at least one of their classic namesakes. Even at the semi-early hour of 11a.m., I almost missed the boat, and there were only five lonely items remaining in the massive glass display case. “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s it,” the counter girl answered dryly. “What’ll you have?” I peered in and took inventory of the situation. A plain donut with frosted maple and nuts. Two big bear claws. Two muffins, one chocolate and one blueberry with cream cheese filling. I decided on the frosted plain and a bear claw to go, along with the “famous” biscuits and gravy and an Oregon Chai tea with soymilk.

Right behind me, a young grandmother walked in with a couple of squirrely kids and ordered the last three items. The counter girl instantly killed the lights, flipped “Open” to “Closed” and hung a sign that said “Sorry - out of donuts - closed early.” Still, several groups of ladies all dressed up for church came shuffling in ready for apple fritters and maple bars, reacting with cold indignant frowns when Dennis apologetically shooed them away. Waiting for my breakfast, I noticed that since my last visit a few years ago, the clinical white walls have been painted rusty red and mustard yellow, which adds warmth and personality along with along with a massive moose collection and an inviting “take a book, leave a book” shelf.

My biscuits and gravy arrived steamy and intense, and absolutely lived up to the hype. The biscuits themselves were fluffy and grand; more like little moist cakes, and as far away from hockey-puck syndrome as a biscuit can be. The home-made gravy just needed a sprinkling of salt and black pepper to hit perfection, rich and dense with salty, crisp diced ham chunks in the mix. It’s a huge portion and for two measly bucks it beats any other biscuits and gravy deal on the local market. I chased it with my peanut-sprinkled, maple-frosted plain donut, which was an excellent specimen, but not as memorable as the bear claw, which I ate later that afternoon. It was a paw-shaped glazed donut with a shamelessly messy crumbly crumb coating and an explosive sweet apple filling, and it was so brain-tinglingly soft and gooey, it made a Krispy Kreme donut seem tragic and sad like a Little Debbie Honey Bun.

I ate quickly, grabbing my Soy Chai to go and on my way out, noticed a sign on the wall behind the register that read “There will be a five dollar charge for whining.” A-ha! They sell off all the donuts early, then hang out and charge $5 to everyone who comes in and complains because they didn’t get their precious donut fix on time. With such a high demand, the owners of Davis Donuts must be getting rich this way.

Rockin' Robin Cafe

Rockin’ Robin Café
3650 N. Government Way, Cd’A

The jukebox at the Rockin’ Robin does not like quarters. My breakfast buddy Niko discovered this the hard way after plugging in a few and getting no credits in return, just an ominous thud from somewhere inside the beasty machine. Fortunately, someone had already left behind a few credits, but in his attempt to conjure up Diana Ross and the Supremes a wrong button was punched, resulting in the unexpected harmonies of the Beach Boys’ ”God Only Knows.” “Ugh! I hate the Beach Boys,” he groaned as he retreated back to our table. “Oh I know, me too,” I agreed and we began loudly discussing the various reasons why we just couldn’t stand the popular sixties group. I looked up across the cozy dining room and realized our conversation had earned us a purple death glare from a fifty-something gentleman in a Hawaiian shirt.

A short while later, a teenager who was seated with Mr. Aging Surfer Dude approached the jukebox and started dropping in shiny quarters. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Niko piped up: “Um, that machine just ate my money; I think it only takes dollars.” The kid ignored us until the waitress came over and handed him a buck, “Here honey, try this.” He punched in a handful of tunes and returned to his table. Moments later the machine whirred into action and what else but “Don’t Worry Baby” came clamoring out of the tinny speakers. When this was promptly followed by “Kokomo”, one of the most annoying songs possibly ever committed to magnetic tape by the Beach Boys or anyone else, I knew for sure we’d been sabotaged. We had to chuckle a bit as the Surfer family gave us a final dirty look from the front counter as they settled their tab and exited.

The jukebox is the centerpiece of the generic rock-n-roll memorabilia displayed in every cranny of the Government Way restaurant. There are the obligatory framed portraits of Elvis and airbrushed posters of classic Cadillacs and Chevys. Then there’s the old 45 records tacked willy-nilly on pink walls, the life-size cardboard cut-out of James Dean lurking suspiciously by the back door, and a beat up guitar and lonely trombone hung above the dining counter. The overall effect is not so much a fifties theme exactly, it’s more of a “fifties in the eighties” theme, the elements that defined the original era boiled down to their pop essence and then exaggerated through the plastic gaudiness of the neon years.

The fifties might seem a little fake at the Rockin’ Robin, but the chow certainly doesn’t. When our waitress came to take our order, I told her I’d heard the place had come under new ownership recently and wondered if any big changes were in the wind. “Not really,” she said, “we’re just working on the food for now, a little portion control, just trying to make it better.” Make it better? It was already pretty darn fantastic, and it’s hard to fathom why anyone would need to fool with the good juju that former owner/cook Diane Horn created and perfected during the many years she reigned over one of Coeur d’Alene’s most singular and beloved hash houses.

The menu itself doesn’t seem to have changed a bit, and it really shouldn’t. The Rockin’ Robin menu has provided many much-needed moments of sunshine on certain bleak and cloudy mornings after. Would you like a Big Bopper Omelet? A buttered Fats Domino Biscuit? The humor of Gladys Knight & the Pips Pancakes or Little Richard Hot Sandwiches never fails to put at least half a smirk on grumpy morning faces. The menu is large, filled with pretty much any type of classic breakfast fare you would expect from a diner of this stripe; among the highlights are a humongous breakfast burrito and some truly dank Belgian waffles with fruit topping and vanilla ice cream. Lunch options include a long list of “Chubby Checker Burgers”, Haystack salads, and “Fonz Specialties”, which include fryer fare like chicken strips, shrimp, and hot beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy. I don’t recall the Fonz ever going fat like Elvis, but if that’s what he liked to eat, surely he must have.

Niko, who has recently been making a successful attempt to live a vegan lifestyle, surveyed the menu and announced “wow, with burgers like this, I’d probably go meaty” and actually followed up on his sudden carnivorous urge by ordering himself a nice, juicy Bacon Cheeseburger. It was after noon, but I was still in breakfast mode and knew from experience that a nice Chicken Fried Steak with all the sides would be the most perfect way to cause myself to go crawling back to bed on a lazy winter Sunday.

It seems like some of the endearingly seasoned waitresses have been slinging plates here since around the last time Chuck Berry had a hit song. They’re an entertaining bunch, a flashback to the days when Alice, Vera, and Flo sassed the customers at Mel’s Diner on TV. Our server was comparatively perky and new, and she brought our meals out almost as fast as it took for the jukebox to yodel “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”.

My breakfast arrived impressively spread over three plates. The chicken fried streak was tender inside with a breaded skin cooked to crispy perfection and smothered in country gravy. The same deeply rich gravy was also laid bare across my hash browns, which along with some masterful scrambled eggs tasted delicious, but were nearly cold by the time they arrived at my table. I’d suggest to the cook to serve everything on heated platters. Not only is the food kept warmer longer, but a “careful, hot plates” warning from the server can add some fun drama to the dining experience.

Niko immediately inhaled his pile of fries and made it about halfway through his burger before his inner vegan rebelled and he declared it to be “too beef focused”. I laughed and asked him what else he might expect a burger to be and he cryptically explained that it was too much of a “burger man’s burger, not grandiose like a Red Robin burger, which hides its true beefiness with all the random stuff they put on there.” I guess he’d hoped all the lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onion would divert him from the fact that he was enjoying a poor innocent cow, but the savory ground beef patty won out. Coming from him, I think that might actually be some kind of backwards compliment.

The Rockin’ Robin Café is open daily at the unthinkable hour of 5 a.m. and closes following the lunch rush at 2 in the afternoon.

Mexican Food Factory

Mexican Food Factory
1032 N. 4^th St Cd’A
(208) 664-0079

 

The first thing I noticed when I made my snowy entrance into the warm, welcoming atmosphere of the Mexican Food Factory in midtown Coeur d’Alene the other evening was a dense, hungry-making aroma that I can only describe as deep-fried enchantment. It’s a dank hot oil fragrance that some restaurants might do everything to try and mask. Here, it hangs heavy in the air in proud memoriam of every golden-brown delicacy that ever emerged vaingloriously from the sizzling vat.

It’s the kind of smell that gets your tongue juices flowing and your tummy quaking and lets you know you’re in for the good stuff. Like the classic cartoon image of the wispy aroma cloud making the come-hither motion with its finger and pulling someone by the nose into the kitchen, you’ll find yourself adrift with sudden fits of appetite.

Asking around recently, I was totally amazed to learn that quite a few people were completely unaware of the existence of the Mexican Food Factory. Even some people who’ve lived here since the Ray Stone Administration gave me a blank look when I brought up the name. I guess I just took it for granted that everyone in town was blindly devoted to the charms of this tiny family-owned place by now, having had nearly three decades to come in and check it out.

On the other hand, the ones that did know about the restaurant couldn’t preach enough about the wonderful food. Some even confessed to repeatedly committing the sin of gluttony there and testified beatifically about the zesty enchilada sauce. The religious references here seem apropos since it seems the MFF is a cult thing, and I’m proud to include myself as one of the faithful disciples who worship at the feet of the droopy-eyed senor statue on the front step.

It can be a busy place at times - I’ve seen it totally loco with people, all six tables filling up fast during the lunch or dinner rush. No lingering allowed, just eat and go so the next party can have a place to sit and enjoy their chicken taquitos. It’s intimate but cramped, and there’s no cushy waiting area, just a wobbly bench which occupies the small space between the front door and the order counter.

The modest dining room is unfancy but festive with chili-pepper table cloths and colorful, folksy wall treatments. I normally come in and get my order to go, a process which is always fast and can be expedited even further by calling ahead and cruising through the drive in window to pick up your pungent, steaming brown bag of savory goodness.

When I came around the other night for a fix, owner Dan Franks was leaning out the drive-in window chatting with a curious customer, perhaps a new inductee into the cult. “Well, we’re going on 28 years here, pretty much a local institution.” I can find no evidence to argue their claim that they were actually Coeur d’Alene’s very first Mexican restaurant. I do have vague memories of the place being run for a long time by an actual Mexican family, and even as recent as a few years ago remember seeing the old Madre working her magic with kitchen implements that appeared to be relics from the late Teotihuacan era.

To his credit, the only changes Franks has made since taking over the place have been slight and seamless improvements. The menu and cooking methods remain virtually unchanged, but the place has been given some badly needed deep cleaning and cosmetic renovations.

It’s seems like most of the staff have been working here for quite a while, and they come off as a tight-knit, chummy bunch. It’s kind of like visiting someone’s cool older brother and his friends at their crash pad and they’re just chilling, cracking jokes and watching the game, inviting you in for a cold beer and some good grub. It’s a relaxed, casual ambience, but nobody is at all lackadaisical and service is always fast.

It’s nice that they seem to actually enjoy what they do, an attitude all too rare in the world of food service these days. A bulletin board behind the counter with dozens of slips labeled “credit” shows how regular customers (junkies?) are treated like trusted old friends, allowing them to eat now and pay later.

Although the convivial vibe and fanatical cult of regulars are certainly a major factor in the eatery’s longevity, it’s the superb quality of the food that makes the Mexican Food Factory such a notable establishment. The menu is basic and simple, and it’s impressive the variety of dishes they concoct using a fairly minimal selection of fresh ingredients. You can’t order any Ceviche or Camarones en Mole here; it’s all about the basics. There’s honestly no other local Mexican diner that does it exactly the way they do it here.

It’s hard to put a finger on it, but I’m always reminded of some of the wonderfully authentic hole-in-the-wall Mexican joints I visited on trips to San Jose, California several decades ago. I gathered similar comments from another MFF cultist who claims the Food Factory “serves the best Mexican food outside of Cali, and much better than most Mexican food I’ve had in Cali.”

Tacos include your choice of spicy ground beef, chicken or the craveworthy shredded beef, with the meat itself going for a dip in the deep fryer whilst tucked inside a gently crisped corn tortilla, then topped with finely shredded cheddar, icy cold thin strips of lettuce and topped with tomato chunks. The enchiladas and tamales are unimpeachable, smothered in twangy Colorado sauce and a hot lava flow of melted cheese.

Burritos are a specialty here, with fifteen available options including nearly every combination of beans, meat, cheese, and rice possible. Personally, I have a fetish for the Shredded Beef and Cheese Burrito, which is the only burrito on the menu to hit the hot oil before being served, an act which creates a cosmic fusion between the meat and cheese, causing glazed eyeballs and burrito nirvana to overcome this particular diner.

The Chili Rellanos are listed on the menu as a seasonal item, but I don’t recall ever having a problem ordering the exquisite red-sauce covered, pan-fried, omelettey egg and spicy green pepper treats. Combination platters are served with fluffy seasoned rice and homemade refried beans, which are sinfully lardy and fresh daily.

Along with the whole MFF cult, I’ve found evidence of a sub-group known as “the Guacamole sect”, people who might order three or four $1.50 sides of the green stuff per meal. It’s no wonder, since they make simply the best, brightest avocado and spice mash-up around. It’s so fantastic; I think certain crazy people order it just to eat by the spoonful, all by itself, like a dessert. Unique also is the texturally thin but super flavorful house salsa, available for you to abuse in big squirt bottles on each table.

There’s really nothing not to like about the Mexican Food Factory, and as long as they continue offering their singular style of Mexican delights to the drooling devoted, they’ll remain one of this town’s worst kept secrets.

The Sunshine Trader

The Sunshine Trader
1116 W. Ironwood Dr.
Coeur d'Alene
667-1233

http://www.sunshinetrader.net

What is the one thing that so many long time, locally owned eateries have in common? I pondered this question as I sat down recently at the lunch counter at the Sunshine Trader on Ironwood Drive. Sure, there are obvious similarities between old-school Coeur d’Alene joints like the Trader, Hudson’s Hamburgers, Rogers Ice Cream, Zips, Paul Bunyan, and Down the Street just to name a few. There’s the classic comfort foods served fresh and with a homemade flair unattainable at big-budget chain restaurants. There’s the down-to-earth quality of the service, the staff that treats you like an old friend, even if you haven’t visited in years. There’s the lack of modern décor, the feeling that the profit goes back into keeping the food and service at a quality level rather than flashy remodeling jobs. There is all that, but there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I’d been there for ten minutes, had ordered my lunch and was daydreaming, staring off into the middle space, when suddenly it came into sharp focus: a square blue and white plastic clock with that familiar Pepsi logo. Yes! For some reason all the great local places have these prominently displayed on the wall. It’s not a particularly fabulous objet d’art, but it is one thing that seems to only be found at locally owned diners. That austere cola-riffic timepiece, boldly sporting only the numbers 12, 3, 6, and 9 hangs like an unofficial badge of local pride and independence that you’ll never see at places like Applebee’s or Red Lobster.

From its roots as a little “hippie joint” which opened in 1981 in the tiny building that now houses the Parkside Bistro, to its current digs near the mad rush of the Hospital District, the Sunshine Trader has changed relatively little. When they first opened so many years ago in that City Park hut, the concept of serving healthy, organic food was quite foreign to many local people. Whole grain bread, alfalfa sprouts and avocados were frequently viewed as the territory of vegetarian, dope-smoking, yoga-practicing longhairs who worshipped crystals and smelled like patchouli oil. Real folks ate previously frozen Salisbury steak with instant mashed potatoes and brown gravy down at the Iron Horse. In fact, I think they’re still there eating the same thing. Anyway, the Trader was one of the first places around to specialize in fresh veggie sandwiches and soups from scratch, and their status as a local favorite lunch spot was quickly established.

It must have been at some point in the late 80’s that they outgrew their original spot and moved in to their current place amidst of the hustle and bustle of the Ironwood zone. This was a smart move – the neighborhood’s thousands of medical and business workers guaranteed them a daily lunch rush. It’s literally the only lunch option in the whole district (other than the wonderful hospital cafeteria), and it’s been known to get mighty hectic around noontime. Arrive during the busy hour, and you’re guaranteed a brief wait, although the summertime addition of an expansive outdoor patio has helped a bit to alleviate the overcrowding.

I slipped in a little bit after the main rush, at about 1:15. At that point, the restaurant was only about half-full of diners, but a palpable sense of mad activity still hung anxiously in the air as young waitresses in blue t-shirts ran around clearing tables. No wait for me as I sidled up to the front counter and ordered an Iced Pike Street tea. Confused, my waitress turned to her co-worker, “Um…” Before she could speak, the other girl jumped in to clarify “Oh, he wants an Iced Spiced tea, it’s the same thing.” Regardless of what they call it, it’s one of the more rare and delicious summertime beverages, so refreshing and so VERY full of natural caffeine. I finished four tall glasses of the stuff and my brain was buzzing like an old TV. I ran into a couple of old friends I hadn’t seen in years, and I was so wired, they probably thought I had taken up a mild crack habit.

I hadn’t visited the Trader in quite a while and looking around, I realized that visually, nothing had changed. The building has an odd, polygonal shape, making for an unusually large number of walls, each completely white and bereft of décor under harsh fluorescent overhead lights. Except for that obligatory Pepsi clock and a few token vaguely nautical knick-knacks, visual stimulus is kept to a minimum. The front wall behind the counter has some seriously disturbing baby pink and blue striped wallpaper and the entryway and hall are covered with a ropy brown treatment I can only describe as a tragedy in lacy burlap. The fixtures and appliances behind the counter are seriously lo-tech and approaching antique status. However, we don’t really come here to admire the modern ambience, and the presence of dozens of lush, overgrown potted plants injects a much needed organic quality. It’s a no-frills, homey atmosphere.

According to their website, the Sunshine Trader came under new management in the recent past, and the only perceptible changes are on the menu. Over the years, they seem to have expanded away from only offering the basics of healthful soup and sandwiches. There are three kinds of Panini on focaccia bread: ham, turkey and Rueben. There’s the selection of large salads, from the traditional (Caesar and Chef) to the offbeat (Cranberry Feta, and the classic Oriental salad with mandarin oranges and chow mein noodles.) Most interestingly, there are the crepes, including the tempting Sherried Chicken Crepe and the cleverly named “Mexican in a French Jacket Crepe”, which is basically a burrito with a crepe instead of a tortilla.

Of course, the classic sandwiches are still here, their names alternating between the themes of “The Old Man and the Sea” and “The Lord of the Rings.” The “First Mate’s Choice” is stuffed with cashew chicken salad, and the “Captain Crab” is just that, along with avocado and swiss cheese. The “Bilbo” is a vegetarians delight, with avocado spread, marinated mushrooms, sprouts and tomato. I actually knew what I wanted to order before I walked in, even before I parked the car. It’s something I sometimes get a mad craving for, something I’ve tried at other places but they just don’t do it right. “The Hobbit” is a warm sandwich with the delightful marriage of turkey, lettuce, cream cheese, and chunky cranberry sauce. Served on French bread, it’s messy and delicious, the tang of the cream cheese mingling perfectly with the tart sweetness of the cranberries. It’s like having your own personal mini-thanksgiving, and I think it’s one of the best sandwiches in the great Northwest.

In addition, I had to try one of the soups of the day, another thing the Sunshine Trader is famous for. Their website claims that they serve more that 120 types of soups, and that they have a customer who has been returning for 15 years and has never had the same soup twice. When I visited, it was either Vegetable Medley or Cheddar Chowder. I love cheese soup, so I added the Cheddar Chowder (only a dollar more with a sandwich order), which was as scrumptious as the sandwich, thick and creamy and swimming with veggies. Along with distinctive refreshments like Spiced Iced Tea and Fresh Huckleberry Lemonade, they recently added a small selection of beer and wine. Also on offer is soft serve ice cream, as well as homemade temptations like Godiva Chocolate and White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecakes.

I glanced up at that omniscient blue Pepsi clock and noticed that it was nearly closing time for the lunch-only restaurant. When I stood up, I realized the place had completely cleared out and I was the last man standing. It was a bit surreal that the place had gone from hectic to vacated in such a relatively short period of time, but the Trader really knows how to get ‘em in and out. Their menu even has a guarantee that if you aren’t in and out in 40 minutes or less, they’ll buy your lunch. I’d imagine that happens very rarely, as their staff is extremely fast and as comfortingly homey as the food itself. With a bill totaling under ten bucks, I was a very full and extremely pleased customer. The Sunshine Trader is open year-round Monday through Friday from 10:00AM to 2:30PM.

Paul Bunyan Famous Hamburgers

Paul Bunyan Famous Hamburgers
602 Northwest Blvd.
Coeur d'Alene
208-664-2725

In local burger folklore, it’s always Hudsons that gets all the glory. Okay sure, the place has been there serving the same product for a hundred years but so what? Want fries? Too bad – try ordering them and they’ll look at you like you just asked for Bald Eagle McNuggets. Take away the “secret recipe” (do I taste horseradish?) hot mustard and ketchup and the burgers become suddenly a little plain. It’s so crowded in that tiny joint you have to sit elbow-to-elbow with some less-than-appetizing stranger nearly as old as the place itself. Not for the claustrophobic.

Paul Bunyan must be the second oldest burger joint in town, having been in the same spot since sometime in the fifties. My mother worked there during its glory years when she was a teenager. For years it was the teenybop hot spot, a place for car cruisers to gather. By the time I was a kid, the place was pretty run down, and they demolished and rebuilt about ten years ago. It seems like the place lost a bit of charm after the rebuild – I can remember sitting outside the place at grungy carved-up picnic tables and having corn dogs and vanilla coke in the shade of some kind of dilapidated multicolored fifties plastic canopy structure that would cast odd pink and orange shadows onto the ground. Now the place is rather plain – grey brick, crisp white interior - exactly like the two newer locations in Post Falls and Hayden. However, the giant original iconic sign of Paul himself still stands out front, winking at passersby.

The menu remains nearly identical to how it was 50 years ago as well. Where else can you get a Blue Ox Burger or a Hammy Whammy (mmmm - layers of thin fried ham and yellow mustard on a double-size roll)? Their food is typically very good – a hometown joint with food made fresh and with a flair for originality you can only find at old small-town joints like this. The onion rings are killer – hand battered and fried to a perfect golden brown until they’re stuck to each other – so good right down to the little crunchy bits left at the bottom of your little red-and-white checkered tray. They will flavor your Coke with vanilla, cherry, chocolate and probably a dozen other flavors. They have fresh Huckleberry shakes for goodness sake, although they will cost you. In fact, I noticed that everything on the menu suffered a dramatic price hike recently, and a meal here can add up quick. The food is normally worth it here, but you could spend the same amount at Applebee's or something and at least feel a little fancy.

Unfortunately, a recent visit to Paul Bunyan was marred by a bad customer service experience. Hungry after work one day last week, I cruised into the drive through and ordered my usual Double Bacon Cheeseburger and small onion rings with fry sauce and a large Cherry Coke. The wait is always long here, but it’s forgivable since everything is made fresh when you order it.

I pulled up and peered into the closed drive-up window as one of the girls yammered away on the phone, talking and laughing, which she continued to do for at least five minutes during which time I could clearly see my finished food sitting there waiting to be bagged and handed out to me. My patience was wearing thin for this girl who seemed gum-smackingly oblivious to my basic need for sustenance. She eventually put down the phone and handed my bag of food out to me and immediately closed the window, and I got halfway home before I realized she had forgotten to hand me my large Cherry Coke. I was mad, but I decided I was too hungry to go back, I’d just take the loss and have water, it’s better for me anyway.

I got home, just starving, sat down and pulled my food out of the bag and realized to my horror that the flaky gal had forgotten my darned fry sauce! That was it, my temper was shot. I could handle the forgetting-the-Coke thing, but there was no way I was eating cold onion rings with no dip! I flew back down there (all four blocks), pulled in and barked into the drive-thru box, telling them how they forgot my stuff and how hungry and upset I was and - I’m not joking here, there was a long pause and the girl comes on: “(Audible sigh) …Well, sir, what do you expect me to do about it.” Naturally a million things flooded my brain, all of which I'm too polite to commit to print. Ultimately, I decided to not risk teen-girl spit appearing in my food and calmly replied, “Well, my dear, you can cook me a fresh order of onion rings since mine are ice-cold by now, along with the drink I paid for and the dip I ordered in the first place, and the sooner the better because I am rabidly hungry and now grouchy as a bear.” (audible sigh…smack of gum) “Well, I guess we can do that.” Damn skippy you can, miss thang!

When I got to the window, all the Paul Bunyan girls lingered in the back like a flock of turkeys, bobbing their necks trying to get a look at the mean grouch. You could feel the tension as top-ponytail girl opened the slider, wide-eyed: "Oh mah gawd ah am sooooo soooorry bout thay-at!" she drawled, dripping with faux sincerity. I grumbled "Whatever...I'm just hungry, I guess..." and grabbed my food and drink, and noticed three cups of dip in my bag. I wouldn’t let one bad experience permanently ruin my relationship with Paul. Anyway, the employee turnover there is so fast, by the time I visit again, there’ll be a whole new set of counter girls for me to razz.