Served by Angels at Angelos outside of Angeles

Angelos Drive In Hamburgers

511 South State College Boulevard
Anaheim, California 92806




Food: Hamburger Joint

Fact: SuiteOchoCinco loves ground up cow and thick sliced pig

Fact: The Los Angeles area is a bankrupt bastion of liberal dogmatic ideologues bought and paid for by Big Labor

Fact: The Los Angeles area is a filthy, smoggy, disgusting crime ridden cess pool

Fact: The Anaheim area is a beautiful, thriving and decent place to visit

Fact: The Anaheim area is the only Conservative stronghold in the entire state

You do the math.

After taking 6 straight trips below the Mason Dixon, it was time for SuitOchoCinco to venture westward… and there is nothing I like better than 4 hour flights surrounded by the craziest people the world has to offer.

First crazy number one boards the plane and begins to take others peoples luggage out of the over head bins in order to put hers up???? Leaving the others on the floor???? Second, crazy number two (and owner of said bags now on the floor) loses his proverbial crap and flips a trip on crazy number one, verbally demoralizing her into her crazy cocoon (her seat next to me) then takes his seat.

Throughout the flight in my seat that didn’t recline, crazy two bobs her crazy head up and down and onto my shoulder while she falls asleep and mumbles incessantly, but crazy number one cant be out done and snaps his thumb to his music, hits people on the back that walk by because they brushed his outstretched elbow, gets up 8 times to get things out the overhead compartment, pushes the seat that is reclining in front of him forward so the gentlemen in that seat cant recline it, stands on 4 separate occasions to do “arm circles” and upon finally falling asleep, snores louder that the new Sun Chips Biodegradable bag (trust me, that’s loud)

Arriving in Orange County I was pleasantly surprised for one reason... it wasnt LA....

I searched for several days for a “joint” worthy of visiting...finally a local steers me to “Angelos Drive In Hamburgers” a nearly 50 year old drive in burger joint.

More Facts:

Old is good

Food served in wax paper 9 times out of 10 is wicked good

Moderately trashy exterior usually means great food

Gaudy paint schemes and plywood guarantee the burger is going to be ridiculous

Beautiful Carhops in mini skirts on roller skates means I am staying to watch the game

I pull up and I smile, it looks like a dive… awesome…
I park my Ford “amazingly enough we didn’t take a bailout but we are still controlled by union cronyism” Focus and shuffle into this mecca of slaughtered cow.

I immediately greeted by not one, not two, but three beautiful brunettes speeding past me in mini skirts on roller skates, their greeting left me reminiscent of the southern style hospitality I had grown so used to lately.


I was ushered to a booth and perused the menu, two of the “carhops” stopped by the booth and in a Doublemint twins stereo falsetto asked “what can we get you… (insert giggle)” I asked my regular question, the question that usually defines whether it will be a good experience or a bad… “What are you known for?” With out skipping a beat Doublemint Twin Two says, “Our Guacamole Bacon Cheeseburger” “OH!!” she exclaimed, “and it comes in a discounted basket with hand cut Onion Rings!!” awesome service… awesome...

I order said burger and onion rings and proceed to watch the Anaheim Angels get shellacked by the Boston Red Sox… (my team)… while enjoying a nice cold beer and reveling in the displeasure emanating from the mouths of the local Anaheimians every time the BoSox cram another run down the Angels throats.

A very short time later my burger arrives perfectly wrapped in wax paper, surrounded by monstrous fresh onion rings and with chili peppers on the side… wow… baseball, woman, burgers, fried food, beer… I am beginning to wonder if all of this is even possible? Being that I am in the land of the corrupt and twisted Barbara Boxer… alas I pinch myself and proceed to take my first bite… abso-freakin-lutely awesome… the guac is obviously fresh and the strips of bacon are perfectly cooked, the beef is 50 times removed from “McDonalds garbage meat” and the cheese is dripping of the side of the bun… this is heaven… I cant say enough…

I pop a few chilis in my mouth and move to try the O-Rings… first of all… these things are ginormus, the size of an infants head, it took 12 bites to eat ONE…. This is freakin wicked awesome… love it… and filling… I didn’t look at the menu again, this one meal filled me to the rim…

Doublemint twin number one slyly placed the check on the table asking but answering her own question with her tone and head bob, “How was everything?” she knew… it was phenomenal… there was no doubt… and ready for the kicker? Total Bill: $8… yeah I said it…. Go to Angelos…. Now.

Rating: I would have bought the shirt if they had one

Discovering a Mexican Diamond in the Suburban Rough

La Fogata
8090 E. Qunicy Ave.
Denver, CO
Visited August 10, 2010

Beer selection: Typical domestic and Mexican imports

Food: Better than expected Mexican dishes

Sometimes, finding a good place to eat isn’t that hard.

Look around at the folks eating there.

Typically, among the people dining at a really good Mexican restaurant will be, well, Mexicans.

Of course if you are the only gringo in the joint, that could be a good sign. (Or it could be a bad sign.)

So by those criteria, La Fogata wasn’t off to a good start.

A tidy little place with a well-flowered outdoor patio near the intersection of I-25 and I-225, this suburban cantina is as about white bread and yuppified as any Mexican restaurant since the Chi-Chi’s chain went out of business.

The only Mexicans at La Fogata were the ones cooking and serving the food.

But what do you expect in what is the vast soulless suburban hell that is south Denver?

As it turns out, you can expect some darn good authentic Mexican food.

My low expectations were exceeded right from the moment I dipped the first chip into La Fogota’s homemade salsa. Too many Mexican restaurants serve up a bland, tomatoey nothing-there kind of salsa.

Not La Fogata.

Their dark, maroon-colored salsa jumps right off the chip and says hello – a vibrant earthy burst of flavor and spice.

It turns out the salsa was a premonition of even better things to come.

My “Toquitos de Carne Adobada” were absolutely delicious, reminiscent of similar marinated pork dishes served up in Santa Fe, though not as spicy. The fork tender pork was smothered in Chorizo sausage-based bright red zesty sauce, with an extra helping of red sauce on the side to pour over the top.

Accompanied by grilled onions, lime wedges, tomatoes and a guacamole salad, it was one of the best Mexican dishes I’ve had in a while.

After I polished off my meal, my only regret was that I couldn’t sit there all afternoon plowing through every dish on the menu, complimented with an endless stream of Negra Modelas.

Alas, the jack-booted bureaucrats at Denver International Airport were waiting for me to justify their pathetic existence.

But I left with something valuable – a reason to look forward to a return trip to the strip malls and cul-de-sacs of south Denver.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt

Tackling a Preseason Gridiron Gobbler

El Burrito
Carrollton, VA

Summer loves to go out with a bang. That's why August is the hottest month of the year, and most sane Americans avoid physical exertion as much as possible.

But not every American is sane.

President Obama is an American, for instance.  Ok, maybe he isn't.

But further proof is that football players at virtually every level are practicing all day in full pads to get in shape for the regular season in 100+ degree weather.

Of course, fans like me have to get in shape too.

And what better way to prepare for four months of sitting on your butt in front of the TV, eating and drinking way too much than with the perfect football food -- NACHOS.

What could be better in the heart of Hokie country?

While hours away from Blacksburg, Carrolton is in the "757," notorious for producing Hokie greats like Bruce Smith, Michael Vick and DeAngelo Hall.

And I guess I shouldn't fail to mention non-Hokie "greats" like Lawrence Taylor, Plaxico Burress and Allen Iverson.


Still, a knock-down drag-out fight with a full plate of grease, cheese, chips and meat wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I first entered El Burrito Mexican Restaurant in Carrollton, Virginia.

In fact,  I wasn't sure what to expect.

I knew the locals loved it from all the local awards plastered all over the walls.

And I also knew they actually cared about their clientele, actually going the extra step to "comply" with Virginia's new not-as-horrible-as-North Carolina's smoking ban.

They actually had a full area completely separate from the main restaurant where patrons could still light up like they lived in a free country or something.

But what to order?

I started off with a Dos Equis on drought while I perused the menu.

It was substantial with many nice choices. They even had a "build your own" burrito that they "dared you to eat."

I thought about it while munching on chips dipped in their red and white salsas (both were excellent).

But another item on the menu was taunting me, challenging me and daring me to just "try it" if I thought I had what it took.

The "Hokies on Fire" Nachos.

No, this is not what happens when Virginia Tech players catch gonorrhea.

This is a full plate of chips, onions, green peppers, jalapenos, avocado, chorizo, shrimp and nacho cheese sauce with EXTRA heat.

 As a graduate of a Division III school, I knew I had to accept the challenge, so the match up was set.

My Division III stomach versus a bona-fide, top-ten ranked Division I plate of food.

Before I even placed the order, I was already getting nervous and began draining Dos Equis.

The plate came out hot -- and full.

I began with a chip with chorizo, avocado and cheese sauce . . . and that one bite changed my whole strategy.

It was creamy, spicy, greasy and GOOD.  Exactly what you want in a plate of nachos.

I had prepared rush through the "competition" just to prove I could down the whole thing. But it tasted too good!

I thought to myself, if I just enjoyed this plate of nachos for all it was worth, but couldn't finish it, was I really losing?

I decided the answer was no.

 But it turns out, I did finish the whole thing, and I loved every bite.

The Hokies on Fire Nachos would make any top ten list of best Nachos whether there ever actually is a BCS playoff or not.

On my way out, I halfway expected to hear some jeering from Hokie fans claiming the plate of nachos "wasn't at full strength."

You see, I asked for my order without carrots which was supposed to included with the order.  My guess is, that was added to match Virginia Tech orange.

But all I heard was silence.  Maybe Hokie fans recognize that if one of your team colors translates as a carrot in the food world, you should just shut the hell up.

Whether they do or not, I'm ready for some football.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt

O’Brothers Proves the Key to Happiness is Low Expectations

O’Brothers Irish Pub
1521 Margaret St.
Jacksonville, FL
Visited August 4, 2010

Beer selection: Great cross section of imports, local beers and Oregon microbrews

Food: Good enough to line your stomach for a night of drinking

I can be somewhat of a stickler about “authentic” Irish pubs.

Lots of them claim the “authentic” label, but really, how authentic can you be if your bartender is named Bruno Goldstein, doesn’t know how to properly pour a Guinness and can’t carry on a conversation about Irish legends like Brian Boru or Paul Hornung?

A few plastic Budweiser shamrocks hanging from the black and white TV, a Notre Dame pennant on the wall and a green sign out front doesn’t cut it.

No, real Irish pubs play real Irish music and are populated by at least a few hosts and patrons who are actually Irish.

The latest gimmick for Irish pubs to prove their authenticity is to claim that the entire bar, booths, stools, fixtures, woodwork, everything, was shipped over from Ireland.

The first time I stumbled into a place that made such a claim, I actually thought that sounded kind of cool.

By the time I’d patronized a half dozen of them, I thought this is what our fiat-money printing-press-obsessed-Federal-Reserve-created house-of-cards economy has led us to. Bar owners willing to ship an entire bar piece by piece across the planet and customers willing to shell out $8 per pint to pay for it all.

I guess that’s why a place with a tongue-in-cheek name like O’Brothers doesn’t get my Irish up.

You know they aren’t going for the Irish purity test.

In fact, located in the edgy, hip, light-in-the-loafers section of a city best know as the birthplace of Ronnie Van Zant, I’m pretty sure I might be the first patron of Irish descent to step foot in the place since it opened a year or two ago.

But that’s OK. In the part of town where hippies go to hide out from rednecks, O’Brothers isn’t trying that hard.

Oh, sure, they have the corporate Irish beer triumvirate on tap (Guinness, Harp & Smithwicks), a few pictures of rolling Irish hills on the walls and a couple dark cozy nooks to enjoy a pint.

But by 7pm, after a long day of zigzagging across America’s largest city by land mass to four meetings, I was ready to relax – even if I was the only one in the state of Florida on this August day wearing a suit.

For an Irish pub, authentic or not, O’Brothers has a good beer selection. The waitress told me the Rogue Dead Guy Ale was just $3.50 per pint.

Sold.

What a great way to kick off an evening of beer drinking – with one of my favorites! (And the glow-in-the-dark skeleton dude on the big 22 oz bottles is pretty cool too. In fact, an empty, recently enjoyed bottle of Dead Guy Ale is my favorite Halloween decoration. Scares the little trick-or-treaters every time.)

After following up my Dead Guy Ale with two or three Guinnesses, I was starting to get a little hungry.

That’s where the trouble usually begins in an Irish pub.

The Irish are known for good drink, good times and a good way with words.

Good food? Not so much.

So I was intrigued when my waitress handed me a “tapas” menu.

Tapas? In an Irish pub?

Just as I was about to go into a Guinness-fueled rant about serving Spanish food in an Irish pub, I calmed down, took and deep breath and came to my senses.

Of course, O’Brothers doesn’t really serve Spanish food.

They mean tapas in the gimmicky, trendy sense of “small plates”. In this case, small plates of pub food.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.

The last thing anyone wants to do is make a big financial commitment to food in an Irish pub. By the third or fourth pint, beer munchies are kicking in. So order a few plates of food, and if you screw up and one of them is lousy, you’re only out four or five bucks.

Brilliant!

First up was the “Banger in a Blanket” – basically a big corn dog cut up like your mommy did for you when you were three so that no big blocks of processed pig blocked your esophagus and killed you. It was just okay, with the cornbread part a little stale tasting.

Feeling healthy, I guess, I ordered both versions of green beans – pan seared, with bacon; and fried, with horseradish sauce.

The pan seared version was better in writing than in reality. It was just some string beans with a few bits of bacon and cheese chunks sprinkled on top.

The fried green beans were pretty good – and filling. Not the best fried green beans I’ve ever had, that’s for sure, but you know, they were breaded and deep fried. I mean, what’s not to like?

The best dish, by far, was the “Guinness Mac & Cheese”. I don’t know where the Guinness comes in, but this was some good cheesy macaroni, making me regret not ordering the $10 entre version which the waitress said was four times bigger than my $5 tapas version.

But that’s okay. Even though I spent $20 on food – and another $20 on beer, I felt like I got my money’s worth. It wasn’t like I was expecting the Capital Grille.

And that’s why all Irish pubs could learn a key lesson from a place like O’Brothers.

It’s like maintaining a healthy relationship. Make sure you keep the expectations in check, and you’ll do just fine.

Rating: Would Wear Shirt If It Were Free

California Dreamin' at Cass Street Bar & Grill

Cass Street Bar and Grill
Pacific Beach, CA

There’s a street in Pacific Beach where you’ll find a hole in the wall . . . and I don’t mean figuratively.

Want to find the best spots for food and drink in town? Walk into the bar or restaurant of the nicest hotel you can find and ask the bar back or busboy where they hang out. Of course, you can save yourself the trouble and just read Suits in Strange Places.

And so it is, on the advice of a hardworking denizen of San Diego’s hotel industry that I find myself scurrying through the streets of Pacific Beach in search of Cass St. Bar and Grill.

Every now and then, when I find myself in throws of that rare luxury that is time to spare, I cast off chains modern technology. GPS be damned; I’ll find my own way.

Being a master orienteer, I find the place with ease. It’s not like it isn’t on Cass Street.

It’s a semi open-air joint with dormers drawn open – giving locals perch to command passersby – and neon signs. It beckons from a block away, seeming to say please come in, but remember this is our spot.

Which, given that California has one of the only “secure” portions of southern border in the United States, seems to reflect the native’s attitude.

This is indeed a local hangout. A spot the boys come to after a surf down at Crystal Pier. A place to throw down a few with buddies over a couple of rounds of pool or foosball.


In other words, my kind of place.

Entering Cass, I’m greeted with a smile by the cute girl stationed at the door. She proves to be the sole waitress on duty – she must have been one of the jobs “created or saved” – and it turns out she only serves drinks.

The walls are lined with fish, both taxidermies and black and white photos of patrons with their catches. Some of the fish in the photos are rather unimpressive, but they’re the ones being held up by scantily clad girlfriends, and that’s a combination that’s hard to beat.

Making my way to the bar, I find two old favorites on the TVs: baseball and an old surf film circa ’78 called Freeride. The beer selection is fairly impressive; there are about twenty craft and regional brews on tap, in addition to the familiar staples. I order an Alaskan IPA from the moderately attractive, if pregnant, bar tender.

Don’t know why, but pregnant girls working in bars always both pains and reassures me. While on the one hand, behind a bar isn’t an ideal place for an expectant mother, it’s nice to know another child is spared from the Planned Parenthood monsters. And you have to admire the determination to stay off the government dole.

Half way through my drink, I decide it’s time for a menu. Asking the bartender, I’m answered with a curt “we don’t do that here” as she points at the wall beside me. “Menu’s on the wall.” Indeed it is, and underneath is the aforementioned hole in the wall.

The options are somewhat limited. And, they’re somewhat common fare – at least in these parts. But, they’re done up with uncommon touches. I opt for the teriyaki steak sandwich.

With mild apprehension, I step to the 2’ x 2’ window; you never know what’s waiting on the other side. I’m taken aback when I find a raven-haired beauty rushing up with a smile to take my order. She’s not alone either.

Best I could count, there were 5 stunning girls running about the small kitchen. Which gives me the only complaint I can mount – they need a bigger window. Such assets shouldn’t be hidden. That and the girl taking my order asks if I’m from Jersey.

In about five minutes, one of the girls is out with my food. The sandwich is amazing. It’s like a Philly cheese steak on steroids – chunks of teriyaki-marinated beef grilled to perfection and stuffed into a hollowed out French roll with gooey cheese and grilled onions. Dill pickle and chips to boot.

Sandwich devoured, I order another Alaskan and kick up a conversation with one of the locals that’d joined me at the bar.

Before long the guy wants to talk politics; I can’t resist and hope for the chance to tell the guy why his state such a disaster. Surprisingly, and I admit somewhat disappointingly, I find we disagree on little. Seems Californians understand how they’ve damned themselves. The guy’s opening salvo was actually aimed at the NEA. There may be hope for the state yet.

I settle up and walk off into the sunset wishing I had more time to spend in Pacific Beach and at Cass Street.

I didn’t buy the Shirt – ‘cause they don’t have them. Even if they did, it’s not a place you want just one memory of and a t-shirt would be just a cruel reminder; there are meetings to make – cars, trains and flying things.

Rating:  Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt