Blowing My Cover for a Half Smoke

Ben’s Chili Bowl
1213 U St., NW
Washington DC




No one knows who Suit757 is.

I think my mom has some suspicions, but even she doesn’t know for sure.

Why all the cloak-and-dagger mystery?

Dude, have you been watching the news lately?

NSA spying. FBI drones. CIA waterboarding. Gestapo IRS agents targeting conservatives.

You’ve heard about the Homeland Security “No Fly List”? How do you think that would work with Suit757’s travel schedule?

Yeah. I’m not taking any chances.

So I was a little nervous about eating at Ben’s Chili Bowl.

No, not because Suit757 is a white guy looking for chili dogs along Washington DC’s “black Broadway.”

Heck, thanks to the combination of urban gentrification, the gluttonous bloat of the federal government, Ben Bernanke’s money printing and skyrocketing real estate costs, there are as many white yuppie bureaucrats and Hill staffers populating U Street these days as native black folks.

Nope. I was nervous about blowing my cover.

What if I bumped into Barack Obama and he found out about my subversive clandestine activities while cruising the country for spicy junk food?

Could an IRS audit or TSA enhanced body cavity search be far behind for Suit757?

Nahhhh.

Our President would never use the federal bureaucracy to attack his political opponents like some Third World banana republic dictator.

Right?

Ummm. Yeah, right.

See? Just because Suit757 is paranoid doesn’t mean Obama isn’t really out to get me.

So while I was really excited to check out Ben’s Chili Bowl’s famous hot dogs and half smokes, I was on the lookout for Ben’s most famous patron, President Obama.

Obama famously stopped by Ben’s in 2009 just before his first inauguration.

Ever since, this black culinary institution in our nation’s capital has been inextricably linked to America’s first black president.

A sign by the cash register states in no uncertain terms: “Bill Cosby and President Obama and family eat free. Everyone else pays.”

Hilariously, a bumpkin tourist on a visit to the White House used his once-in-a-lifetime 5 seconds of conversation with Michelle Obama to ask this profoundly important question:

“Um. Hi.  Where can I find Ben’s Chili Bowl?”

Obviously not a follower of Suits in Strange Places.

While Michelle seemed a little thrown off by the directions request, I could have pointed him to Ben’s by telling him to follow the savory smell of simmering chili and spicy sausages browning on the grill by the front door.

Famous for its “half smoke” sausage, Ben’s ladles a delicious thick chili packed with peppery seasoning over the browned meat tube.

As its name implies, the sausage has a faint smoky flavor perfectly complimented by the punch of the chili.

The hot dog is top notch too with a slight spicy kick.

Chili dogs are among life’s greatest pleasures. But when you upgrade the components the way Ben’s does, you can see why it attracts the attention of the world’s most powerful man.

So by all means, if you are in our Capital city, I encourage you to stop by Ben’s Chili Bowl and enjoy one of the greatest sausage/chili combos of your lifetime.

But if you find yourself at the lunch counter rubbing shoulders with Barack, please do me a favor.

Don’t tell him Suit757 sent you.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

 

Who’s Hungry for a Garbage Plate?

Nick Tahou’s
320 W. Main St.
Rochester, NY







I sure hope New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg never runs for Governor.

For the sake of the loud f-bomb-dropping black guys manning the griddle at Nick Tahou’s.

For the sake of generations of hung-over University of Rochester frat boys.

And for the sake of suit-wearing junk food addict business travelers like me.

That’s because the Nanny State Dictator-In-Chief down state who actually passed a law banning soft drinks over pint size would surely shut down Nick Tahou’s by executive order on his first day in Albany.

In The People’s Republic of Bloomberg, if a Seven Eleven Big Gulp is a dire threat to the health and safety of New Yorkers, than a Nick Tahou’s Garbage Plate is a weapon of culinary mass destruction.

That’s why I was excited as Anthony Weiner at a sorority slumber party when the counterman slid me my Styrofoam plate of kaleidoscopic greasy goodness.

Ah, the moment I’d been waiting for all day.

It had been 24 hours since I’d eaten. Nearly twelve hours since my alarm woke me at 4:30am for my flight to New York.

One TSA groping, two flights, several meetings later, I was ready to tackle Rochester’s most celebrated contribution to humanity -- the infamous Garbage Plate.

Invented for drunk and/or hung over partiers, the Garbage Plate is one of those epicurean items from which most sober people would recoil.

A base of fried potatoes and macaroni salad topped with skillet fried hot dogs, chili and onions, Nick Tahou’s has been serving its infamous Garbage Plate at morning, noon and night since 1918.

As a child, I would have refused to touch such a monstrosity.

Young Suit757 had one of those food mixing phobias -- no one food item could possibly come in contact with another.

Somehow, over the years, I’ve managed to get over that.

As it turns out, macaroni salad, potatoes, onions, chili and hot dogs all mixed together taste pretty darn good -- even stone cold sober on a Monday afternoon.

Work with me on this one.

You cannot minimize the role the law of gravity plays in this dish.

Grease from the chili sinks to the bottom of the Styrofoam, saturating the fried potatoes. Add a little salt and ketchup and you’ve got yourself a tasty, greasy pile of fried potatoes.

The sting of raw onions and spicy chili perfectly compliment the skillet-blackened hot dogs -- known here in Rochester as Texas Hots.

This is no ordinary Oscar Meyer microwaved dog, either. A little kick of spice buried in the meat tube, split open and grilled brown on the flattop, this is a high end processed meat.

Just when the spices start to tingle my palette, the cool refreshing tang of macaroni salad helps to counter-balance the heat.

Of course once I started to dig down into the bowels of my Garbage Plate, all the various elements began to mix -- much to the horror of any staunch segregationist -- or picky seven year old eater.

As it turns out, the dreaded “mixing of the ingredients” isn’t so bad after all. Chili, grease, ketchup and onions mixed into macaroni salad tastes pretty good all mashed up.

Even sober.

Like its signature dish, Nick Tahou’s isn’t much to look at.

Situated in a mostly boarded up long-abandoned old brick building on the not-so-good outskirts of downtown Rochester, the folks here put about as much thought into the naked white-washed décor as I do to the latest innovations in vegan cuisine.

Noticing that I polished off every last morsel of my Garbage Plate, the gruff counterman asked me how I liked it -- knowing the answer full well.
I happily obliged his compliment-fishing endeavor.

“Outstanding!”

Just don’t tip off Mayor Nanny State. Or you will surely be out of a job.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

You Won’t Get Burnt at the Roast Grill

The Roast Grill
7 S. West St.
Raleigh, NC





Sometimes “choice” is overrated.

If we’re talking about some “nanny state” politician telling me what size Big Gulp I can buy or whether or not I have to pay union dues, you better not infringe on my freedom to choose.

But at the same time, I can appreciate a certain amount of decisiveness – especially at a good place to eat.

When a restaurant owner presents a grocery store shelf worth of condiments to his customers, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in his food.

I mean, if a guy spends a life-time perfecting some basic culinary delight like a hot dog, he knows exactly how it should be eaten.

If you can manage to attain that elusive state of perfection, why deviate?

I guess that’s why I like this world famous hole-in-the-wall in Downtown Raleigh.

Decisive. Confident. Perfect.

NO cheese. NO mayo. NO kraut. NO relish. NO fries. NO chips. NO coffee. NO hot tea. NO iced tea. NO sweet tea. NO credit cards.

And absolutely NO KETCHUP!

That’s how the Roast Grill markets itself on its basic one-page web site.

How’s that for customer service?

Screw “have it your way.” If you don’t like it, go to Burger King.

But judging by the line to get into this place on a Thursday at 2pm, plenty of folks do like it.

Since 1940, the Charles family has been grilling modest-sized hot dogs at this tiny joint under a sign that says “HOT WEINERS.”

Apparently folks had much shorter legs 72 years ago.

About ten little bar stools with six inches of legroom and two tiny two-top tables crammed against the wall are the only accommodations in this six foot wide lunch room.

I’ve been more comfortable in the middle seat of an American Airlines 757.

But unlike a five hour transcontinental flight of torture, nobody minds the accommodations for the few minutes they spend downing hot dogs at the Roast Grill.

The service is a lot friendlier too.

Mr. Charles (the original owners’ son) and his grill man, George, offer up plenty of Southern hospitality.

They just want to keep their little enterprise simple and efficient.

Here are your limited choices: burnt, medium or light. (That’s doneness of your hot dogs.) And chili, slaw, onions or mustard.

To drink, you can have a Miller Lite. Or, if you are working -- like Suit757 -- an old-fashioned 8 oz glass bottle of Coke.

Cash only. 9% sales tax already included.

Simple. Efficient.

And delicious.

At the risk of getting too complicated, I decided to try three different combinations: burnt with chili, burnt with slaw and burnt with chili and slaw.

I wanted to sample the full spectrum of Roast Grill options.

The chili is from Mr. Charles parents’ 70 year old recipe.

Tangy and zesty, it is an excellent hot dog topper. The burnt skin of the dog adds a flavorful snap to each bite.

The slaw dog left something to be desired. The cole slaw just didn’t have much flavor. No sweetness. No vinegary tanginess. No mayonnaisey creaminess.

Just cabbagey crunch. Probably would have been better with some mustard.

But put the slaw and the chili together on top of the grill-darkened dog?

Now you’re talkin’!

The savory chili gets a nice textural crunch from the slaw. Hot dog, chili and cabbagey crunch in every bite. That’s Roast Grill perfection there!

It was so good, I ordered a fourth dog done exactly that way.

In fact, I left the Roast Grill wondering why they bother giving the customers any options at all.

Clearly, my configuration is the height of Roast Grill hot dog perfection.

And as a compulsive perfectionist, Suit757’s mantra is, “don’t mess with perfection.”

But don’t worry. I’m not going to make a federal issue out of it.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Dishing out Bar Stool Philosophy in the Swamps of Jersey

Rutt’s Hut
417 River Rd.
Clifton, NJ




New Jersey. Yuck.

As Suit757, I go to all 50 states. Not every itinerary can include such idyllic locales as Palm Beach, Key West, Coronado or Balboa Island.

Sometimes you get stuck going to the swamps of Jersey.

But the fun thing about being Suit757 is I can usually think up some reason to look forward to going to just about everywhere.

Even New Jersey.

My guess is Clifton, New Jersey doesn’t have a Tourism Bureau.

But if they did, Rutt’s Hut should feature prominently in their promos.

I, for one, can’t wait to come back.

Rutt’s Hut is a North Jersey institution that’s been frying hot dogs for generations.

Yes. I said FRYING hot dogs.

No wonder I fell in love with this place.

I consider hot dogs to be one of the seven great man-made wonders of the world. (Don’t worry, bikinis and beer can huggies are on my list too.)

But even the best inventions of mankind can be improved by a dip in a vat of gurgling grease. (Well, maybe not the bikini.)

At Rutt’s, high quality dogs are deep fried in scalding grease until the molten insides of pig and cow parts burst the skin open, producing a mangled, scarred tube of delicious processed meat, known here for generations as a “ripper”.

A “weller” gets a few additional seconds in the grease inferno. A “cremator” even more – until your dog resembles an over cooked strip of Jersey diner bacon.

You are only allowed two toppings on your dogs at Rutt’s – mustard or homemade relish.

Youse gotta problem wit dat?

Look, you are in New Jersey. Home of Tony Soprano. Just go with it.

Truth be told, I’m not a big fan of mustard or relish on my dogs. But I’m glad I gave the relish a try.

First just a little. Then a lot.

Sweet and zesty, the yellow mish mash of onion, cabbage and spice was one of the best toppings I’ve ever slathered over a hot dog.

Just for the hell of it, I ordered one “ripper” and one “weller”, although I had trouble telling them apart.

The “weller” was just half a notch crisper on the outside. I think.

But both were soft, delicious and juicy on the inside, a perfect accompaniment to the standard issue soft white bun holding all this goodness together.

On the side, I ordered a cup of chili, loaded with big clumps of ground beef and a few beans. Hearty with just a slight kick, this was top notch chili.

When you come to Rutt’s Hut, you have to decide more than just “ripper” or “weller” or “cremator”.

You have to decide where you want to eat these famous fried tubes of meat.

Your first choice is in a blindingly bright holding cell adjacent to the take out counter. Under the radiant glow of florescent lights you stand by a ledge near the big window and eat your dogs prone while admiring through a litter-strewn barbed wire fence the cars zooming by on the Jersey freeway running along the banks of the Passaic River.

Or for the more adventurous, you can open the weathered door under the 50s era “Bar Entrance” sign and walk into a piece of roadside nostalgia that would look familiar to your grandparents.

Guess which side I picked?

Grey haired guys in trucker caps, 300 pound heavily-tattooed union no-necks and a North Jersey politician or two make up the clientele on this side.

If Tony Soprano came walking through the door, no body would even bat an eye.

A long bar punctuated with regulars knock back tiny little mugs of American beer.

Is that a Coors tap handle?

Do they even make that any more?

“Yep. We’ve got Coors AND Coors Light,” the gravel voiced bartender told me in her Jersey accent.

Well, slide me down a Coors Original. This might be my only opportunity in life.

There were only two TVs in the bar. At one end showing the Yankees game. At the other end, the Mets game.

By 10pm, after both games recorded their last outs, there were only a couple of us left at the bar.

The bar tender began ranting about the local politicians down at the Shore who want to ban alcohol sales after midnight.

Apparently teenagers spend too much time these days watching “The Jersey Shore” and head down to Point Pleasant to replicate what they see on television.

Underage drinking, public urination, passing out in the streets, broken beer bottles everywhere, she explained while standing under a sign behind the bar reading, “WE PREFER TO SERVE CHILDREN AT TABLES ONLY. THANK YOU.”

I got her to agree with me that they might want to try enforcing the laws already on the books against the trouble makers before passing new ones to infringe on the liberties of the rest of us.

“Exactly!” She slid me down one more ten ouncer “on the house.”

See? Armed with my famous Suit757 bar stool philosophy, I’m winning converts over to the cause of liberty everywhere I go.

Even in the swamps of Jersey.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Anticipation on Tap at Dogfish Head

Dogfish Head Alehouse
6220 Leesburg Pike
Falls Church, VA




Look, nobody is more excited than me about the renaissance of good beer we’re all enjoying right now in America.

It seems like every city across “fly over” country, no matter how blue collar, unhip and unsophisticated, is bragging about at least one or two new start-up microbreweries. (I’m talking about you -- Cleveland, Norfolk, Jacksonville, Oklahoma City.)

Where once a trip to the corner bar meant a tedious exercise of listening to your waitress list off the mass produced yellow piss water most Americans are still addicted to, I can now almost always count on at least one or two decent local brewed craft beers. No matter what corner of America Southwest Airlines happened to drop me into.

And I’m happy about that. I’ll take a local clever-named “Fill-in-the-Blank” obligatory Brown Ale, Red Ale, IPA, Stout, etc., over a Bud Light every time.

But let’s face it, some of these brew masters could use a little more imagination.

They should take a trip out to the Delaware coast to pay a visit to The Dogfish Head Brewery which is constantly pushing the boundaries of the most adventuresome beer drinkers in America.

Those guys in Rehoboth Beach are nuts!

They brew beers with raisins, gesho root, cilantro, ginger, honey, blackberries, blueberries, kumquats, maple syrup, black tea, toasted amaranth and fungus-infected grapes.

You can get Dogfish beers aged in exotic Paraguayan Palo Santo wood. Or brewed from a recipe found on a 2,700 year old beer jug that was buried in King Midas’ tomb.

In other words, don’t bring your girlfriend who “only drinks Bud Light Lime” to this place.

She won’t be happy.

That might explain why Dogfish Head decided to open a small cluster of alehouses in the Washington DC metro area – almost 200 miles from their birthplace on the Delaware coast.

If you’ve ever been to Rehoboth Beach, you’ll know what I mean.

Dogfish beers are for manly men who can lift their beer glasses to their lips with sturdy wrists. Clearly, there aren’t enough of them around Rehoboth Beach.

These are high octane, high alcohol muscular beers that will put hair on your chest.

And I couldn’t be more excited to check the place out.

For Suit757, a journey to the Dogfish Head Alehouse in Falls Church is like Moses climbing to the summit of Mt. Sinai.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

What if they have the mythical 20% ABV 120 Minute IPA on draft? What if they serve all kinds of crazy beers I’ve never even heard of before?

Should I try something completely different? Or reacquaint myself with my rare favorites?

What if I drink so much high octane double digit alcohol beer that I don’t even know what I’m drinking?

My apprehension only increased as I made my way to the bar. The place was standing room only – on a Wednesday night!

Over the bar was a huge chalk board listing all the beers available that night.

I have to admit, it was a bit overwhelming.

It was like walking into a room full of your heroes, Ronald Reagan, Ron Paul, Robert E. Lee, John Wayne and Jesus.

What do I do now?

I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment. I didn’t want to screw it up.

Almost immediately, a female bartender asked me what I wanted.

Like Ralphie on Santa’s lap, my brain froze.

Eyes darting up and down the chalkboard, I was looking at the chalky words on the board – 60 Minute IPA, Indian Brown, Chicory Stout – but the information wasn’t registering with my brain.

So much great beer. I wanted to try them all.

But, no! I had to choose. But how?

Oh, the cruelty.

After some interminable number of seconds passed, the bartender decided she had better things to do in the jam-packed bar than watch my glazed over eyes and open mouth as I starred blankly at the chalk board above me.

She helpfully handed me a detailed beer menu and said, “I’ll check back with you in a minute.”

As I clutched the laminated document outlining in exquisite detail all the available beers, I felt myself calming down a bit.

Okay. I can do this.

I began to formulate a plan of action. I knew that I needed to go with the high alcohol beers early in the evening – while I could still appreciate them.

I definitely wanted to try some of the experimental crazy Dogfish beers I’ll never find at home.

But not right off the bat. Nope. Let’s start with something I know is good. And strong.

So, confidence restored, I strode to the edge of the bar and ordered a Burton Baton, a kick-ass 10% ABV hoppy dark beer. The hops are muted a bit by a sweet vanilla flavor acquired as the brew ages for a month in oak barrels.

I doubt you’ll find anything this good at your local microbrewery. Beer doesn’t get much better than Dogfish’s Burton Baton.

One of my dining companions is -- let’s just say -- a little less adventurous when it comes to beer drinking.

I noticed apprehension in his eyes too as he gazed at the black board.

But for completely different reasons.

He asked the bartender, “Do you have anything like a lager?”

Translation: “Which of these beers is closest to Bud Light?”

“Go with the Shelter Pale Ale,” she said.

The menu says it is their “most approachable beer.”

In other words, perfect for girlfriends and Rehoboth Beach bed and breakfast owners.

To be honest, the Shelter Pale Ale is a tasty brew. I would expect noting less from America’s greatest brewery. But at 5% ABV and no discernable hop bite, I wouldn’t even consider wasting one of my limited beer choices on it.

Instead, on my second round I opted for a My Antonia, an “imperial pilsner”.

An “imperial pilsner?” That’s like “jumbo shrimp”. Or “civil war.”

It’s an oxymoron in a glass.

The menu describes it, ironically enough, as “a lager for ale lovers”. In other words, my lager-loving buddy would probably hate it.

My Antonia is a light colored lager with lots of hops. Crisp, refreshing and delicious, I found My Antonia to pack even more of a hop wallop than the Burton Baton.

At this point I was ready to just go crazy.

Unfortunately, most of the off-beat experimental beers on the laminated menu were not available on draft, including the 120 Minute IPA, Immort Ale and World Wide Stout, which dashed my hopes of an over-the-top flight of four different mind-blowing beers.

Rather than go with a sampler of stuff I’ve tried before, I decided to get creative.

As a proud Suit of Irish descent, I’m normally morally opposed to contaminating a perfectly good Guinness with a repugnant British lager by ordering a “black and tan.”

But the Dogfish Head version of a “black and tan” intrigued me. I mean, when else will I be able to mix multiple Dogfish brews on tap?

My Dogfish black and tan was a sight to behold. A dark layer of Dogfish Chicory Stout layered over a base of 90 Minute IPA.

Now that’s a marriage I can drink to!

In all this excitement, I almost forgot to tell you about the food.

Yes, they do serve food at the Dogfish Head Alehouse. Good food too.

After all that high potency beer, I might not be the best one to judge, but I really liked my cup of crab soup.

Generous clumps of crab meat floated on a thick, hearty stew. It was a good taste of Delaware.

The calamari appetizer we all split was excellent also. Huge clumps of squid fried crisp were accompanied by spicy banana peppers, which added a nice kick.

Unfortunately, the standard issue cocktail sauce was not the right condiment. A nice aioli or remoulade would really elevate the dish.

For entrees, the menu listed a vast variety of options, from wood oven baked pizzas to ribs to sandwiches to pastas to burgers.

Perhaps because I was just exhausted from all the evening’s gut wrenching decision making, I opted for a ten dollar bratwurst -- the first thing I looked at.

The sausage was dense and flavorful and served in a sturdy pretzel roll, but the banana pepper sauerkraut overwhelmed the taste of the brat. I’m not really a big sauerkraut guy anyway, so I scrapped most of it off.

Like the calamari, the brat suffered under the wrong accompaniment. Grilled onions and peppers would be a better option.

Along side the two brats came a small dish of meaty chili and a whole pile of tortilla chips.

The tiny portion of chili was good enough to make me want to come back and order a whole bowl next time.

Ah, next time.

The Dogfish Head Alehouse is definitely a place you want to come back to. Again and again.

Next time I’ll try one of the pizzas. Or the firewood smoked ribs.

And can you imagine what kind of new crazy beer concoctions those boys in Delaware will come up with next?

My head’s already swimming with anticipation.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.