I Like Big Buns and I Cannot Lie

Smitty’s Tenderloin Shop

1401 SW Army Post Rd.

Des Moines, IA 50315

We’ve talked quite a bit about the importance of buns on SuitsinStrangePlaces.com.

After all, who wants to bite into an enormous sandwich -- filled with all kinds of wonderful stuff -- and then face sheer heartbreak as a soggy, wimpy bun self-destructs and sends meat-and-cheese ooze dripping down your wrists onto your freshly dry-cleaned Suit?

That’s why I’ve always thought buns are like the offensive lineman of sandwich ingredients. 

They don’t get a lot of notice, but they’re absolutely critical to the success of the “team.”

And like offensive linemen, buns have to be BIG right?

I mean how are little tiny buns going to hold up with an enormous slab of meat shoved between them anyway?

Little did I know my whole bun outlook would be changed at Smitty’s Tenderloin Shop in Des Moines, Iowa.

The pork tenderloin sandwich is a Midwestern staple you can find from Indiana to Minnesota – just one not quite as famous as Chicago’s deep-dish pizza or Cincinnati chili. 

It’s also one of those must-try foods I’d never had the pleasure of sampling and was really looking forward to as I rolled up to Smitty’s that Friday.

Smitty’s has been serving Des Moines, Iowa since 1952. 

And walking in the door, I immediately noticed that the place absolutely reeked of wholesome.

It was as if I walked into a Norman Rockwell painting in the middle of the prayer.

Beside me was an elderly couple sitting quietly eating their fries who looked like they had been coming there since the place opened. 

They were being served by a perky, cute high school girl wearing jeans, and a Smitty’s t-shirt and hat. 

For some reason, she didn’t have any tattoos, or “extra” piercings and she wasn’t “sagging” or otherwise trying to add her personalized rebellious stamp to the Smitty’s uniform.

The cook manning the grill behind the counter was clean-cut, clean-shaven and looked like he probably hadn’t ever done any drugs.

I know what you're thinking . . .

"But I thought drug use was one of the main requirements for being a cook!!!"

True.  So did I.

For this reason, I wasn’t sure what to expect of the food.

When the waitress made it over to my table, I didn’t take long to decide what to order.

I was there for the "King Tenderloin" -- a pork tenderloin sandwich which I ordered basically straight up minus the ketchup.  At Smitty’s that means it comes with mustard and onions.

They also had a version with chili, but I needed to see what the plain Jane was like first before I drifted into the exotic.

I also ordered a size of onion rings which turned out to be fantastic.

To drink, iced tea. 

Of course, this being Des Moines, Iowa, it came unsweet. 

When my pork tenderloin sandwich arrived, I was taken aback.

I’d seen one in photos before, but seeing it in person just boggled the mind.

The fried and breaded meat was so big and so stiff . . . how could the small buns handle it?

Putting the sandwich up to my mouth and biting into it, Suit 69 had a revelation.

This sandwich was totally about the meat.  It wasn’t about the buns.  It wasn’t about the condiments.

It was solely about the meat.

And what can go wrong with fried and breaded pork?

Nothing.

Improvements Suit 69 would recommend?

Given the choice, I’d probably want mayo and a pickle instead of mustard an onion for this bad boy.

Some drippy coleslaw might be a nice touch.

But all that would just be window dressing.

This is pig.  Fried.

And in my book, that’s always going to equal awesome.

Walking out of Smitty’s, I felt like a changed man. 

Maybe, when it comes to buns, it’s not really about the size.

Maybe, just so long as the bun is warm and soft and has the firmness to keep a gigantic slab of meat stiff, maybe they don’t have to be huge after all . . .

Maybe sometime small is juuuuuussssstttt right.

Rating:  Bought the Shirt!

Das Boot Was Made for Drinking

Hessen Haus 101 4th St
Des Moines, IA 50309-4741
(515) 288-2520

You've been in this situation before.

You're a suit wandering the strange city your employer temporarily sentenced you to (in this case Des Moines, Iowa).

The days are long, even grueling at times.

You're only respite is the hope that a new unique bar or restaurant with an interesting local flavor and numerous beers on tap sits around the corner.

You cruise the nearby neighborhood and all you find are strip malls with chain joints from "anywhere USA."

The only bar almost worth visiting is yet another Irish themed pub that looks like it came out of Froto's shire.

This Lucky Charms-esque establishment is complete with plastic cobble stones and a yuppie guy playing a horrible rendition of Piano Man in a fake Irish accent.

As your coworkers dig into their "Irish Buffalo Wings" and swig down that flavorless, overrated stout known as Guinness, you think to yourself, "there must be something other than this commercialized, commodified BS…salvation must be somewhere!"

Then, you begin to hear the faint sound of an accordion billowing out polka music.

You pick up the whiff of beer mixed with the smell of charred pig flesh.

The quiet roar of people get your blood pumping and your hopes high. Could folks, unlike yourself, actually be enjoying themselves?

After following the scent you turn the corner to see an old railroad station, sitting along rusty old tracks that run long into the midwest.

The building has a large wooden sign shaped like a beer stein.

Uplifting polka fills your ears and before you know it you're sitting at a large table with a liter of quality German beer and a beautiful cut of swine atop a bed of golden sauerkraut; to Hell with Irish-fakery, you've found Heaven.

Friends, I'm talking about the German Beer Hall known as the Hessen Haus in downtown Des Moines, Iowa.

What a great place!

The menu was large and diverse with all your German/Austrian/whatever favorites such as, Wilde Schweine Wurst, Jaegerschnitzel, Goulash, and Rind Rouladen.

The copious beer menu was mind blowing with not a single American puke beer to be found.

For appetizers Suit 69 and I decided to go off the beaten path with a little midwest favorite that had an interesting twist; toasted ravioli filled with rabbit.

Not amazing as far toasted ravioli goes but the addition of Thumper made the difference - if only for novelty sake.

Dinner brought me the delicious Wienerschitzel.

A tender cut of veal freshly breaded and fried to a golden brown, served with that unmistakably sweet and smokey German potato salad then topped off with pickled red cabbage.

Like a good beer garden, the table was long and we shared it with another group.

Small talk commenced and gradually got better after liters of imported beer were consumed to the sound of tubas and accordions.

Our friendly neighbors to the left (geographically and politically) where kind enough to share their SchweinsHaxe, or for those who don't speak Deutsch, a large, seasoned, mild flavored pork shank served with sauerkraut.

Good times where being had when the challenge came.

Our new friends began to tell us about "Der Stieffel" or otherwise known as "The Boot."

This 72 ounce glass, shaped like men's footwear is the desert of choice at the Hessen Haus.

So large, so intimidating, that they won't even give you one unless there's at least three people in your group.

This beast can be filled with any of their tap beers and if in a drunken haze you manage to break "Der Stieffel," it will set you back $50.00.

Since we're not known as people who always follow the rules, Suit 69 and I decided the try on this boot solo.

No group for us, no letting the boot travel the table clockwise, no flicking it before passing it along. We were going to have our very own beerfest.

I don't know about Suit 69 but as the barmaid began filling this monster, I was having second thoughts.

Did I have the sauerkraut balls to take that boot down?

The heaping Spaten Oktoberfest arrived at the table and it was time for me to hike-up my lederhosen and dispatch that behemoth.

After about an hour of steady chugging, I struggled to return my empty boot safely to the bar.

Suit 69 dropped his in 42 minutes.

Soon after, a freight train went by the bar and a whistle inside sounded, signaling half-price jager shots and bad decisions.

It wasn't long after that the night came to a close -- mostly due to our inability to put a sentence together and the fear that we wouldn't be able to keep our wienerschitzel down.

The next morning I felt like I had been kicked in the head by the giant beer boot.

But my headache was nothing compared to the pain every lame Irish bar in the United States feels after a swift butt kicking from Des Moines, Iowa's Hessen Haus.

Rating: Why didn't I buy the shirt?

Struggling With Barbecue Bigotry at Smokey D's

Smokey D's BBQ
5055 NW 2nd Street,
Des Moines, IA 50309
(515) 243-2747

I don’t like to talk about it much, but I’ll admit it.

Deep within in the recesses of my heart, lies something I’ve been holding back from Suits in Strange Places readers.

I am a bigot. A barbecue bigot.

The thought of finding good – really good -- barbecue in a state that wore navy blue in the War to Prevent Southern Independence sounds about as likely to me as finding a spine in Tim Pawlenty.

Maybe it’s just a Southern Thang That You Wouldn’t Understand.

But that’s how I feel.

To my surprise, my travel-tested and informed “ignance” got tested at Mr. D’s Barbecue in Des Moines, Iowa when I stopped in for lunch recently.

The place is nice, newish, big and packed.

And it’s also right next to the Harley dealership which is kinda like running across a weasel in Washington, D.C.

Despite being in Iowa, this barbecue joint was in its natural habitat!

Nice.

Entering Smokey D’s, you can’t help but notice the trophy wall . . . and the trophy floor for all the extra awards they just didn’t have room for.

Before ordering at the front counter, I decided to ask the friendly girl at the register what she recommended.

I ended up going with the ribs and brisket basket, potato casserole and coleslaw at her direction.

To drink, sweet tea.

Sitting down at my table, waiting on my order to come out, I couldn’t help but notice the large bar area.

It was lunch, and I wasn’t drinking, but it did appear that the bar area was a pretty happening place with several large TV’s.

Just a couple minutes later, my food was ready.

Both of the sides were very good, but that’s not what Suit 69 rolls up to barbecue joints to eat.

I was there for the meat.

I tried the brisket first.

While it had a nice smoke ring and decent seasoning, it was incredibly dry.


Rule #1 if you’re making brisket is not to dry it out.

Dousing it with sauce helped a little, but it only confirmed my inner bigotry.


“Ha! Is this the best we can get out of a Yankee barbecue joint?” I thought as I quenched my brisket-created thirst with a swig of iced tea.

But then I tried the ribs.

And the moment these ribs hit my taste buds, it sent my head spinning.

They weren’t good.

They were GREAT.

Smokey D’s uses a dry rub and serves their ribs without sauce. It’s slightly sweet, peppery and it allowed the meat to really shine, so I didn’t bother to sauce them.

And unlike the brisket, these ribs were far from dry. In fact, every bite delivered a pop of juicy, smokey pork flavor.

When I started to get full, I just kept on eating until I finished every bite.

I sat there looking at my empty food basket with some regret, I noticed something.
I’ve only had this experience a few times in my life, but after a really good barbecue meal, I’ll often sit there with a stupid smile on my face in a complete sense of utter euphoria.

And on this day, my barbecuegasm came courtesy of Smokey D’s.

The only issue I had now was the rating.

Would I really give a northern barbecue restaurant Suits in Strange Places top rating and put them on par with the soufland’s best?

I looked at the t-shirts on the wall. They were really cool looking.

But then I remembered the brisket.

Would I let the dry brisket slide simply because the ribs were so great?

I’ve done it before.

After all, Suits are never in one place for very long, so we simply can’t rate every item on the menu.

We’re about finding out what a restaurant does best and sticking to it . . . and if I had just ordered the ribs, I never would have known the brisket was dry . . .

But the girl at the register did recommend it.

And everybody needs a crutch.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt

Serendipity Strikes in Des Moines IA

I feel like this review has been a long time coming. I've been a Suit at heart long before I got invited to join the team and was assigned my Suit number. A Stranger in a Strange Land, I've found myself traveling around the world, trying to fit in and make a go of it wherever life took me.

So it's serendipitous that my first write-up would be of The Royal Mile pub in Des Moines IA, a haven I desperately needed when I was indeed a Strange Suit in a Strange Land.

The one good thing about the British Empire (perhaps the only good thing other than bringing curry out of India) is the spread of "The Pub" mentality and lifestyle. "The Pub" is a magical, mythical place where the lights are dim, the music is low, new friends are made, good pints are poured, and more than a few laughs are shared.

A good Irish pub is a second living-room to the locals - a home away from home. For the weary traveler, the pub is a place to take refuge from the harsh realities of the road, the airport, the crowds, the noise, the boss, etc. And for a Suit, it's all of these things wrapped into one.

In the case of The Royal Mile, they have plenty of good pints on tap, and 117 bottles of single malt Scotch whisky on the shelf... so you know the laughs are hearty and there’s plenty of craic.

Sometimes I think it's every Irish kid's dream to own a pub. The Royal Mile is the kind of place that every Irish kid who dreams of owning their own pub aspires to. The bar staff is friendly. The pints are fresh and strong. The banter is cheery. The locals are quick to introduce themselves. And so it goes with The Royal Mile.

On one of my first forays into Des Moines nightlife, I was so disgusted with a shall-not-be-named German beer hall (I refuse to spend any more of my hard-earned money there, so another Suit will have to review that craphole) that I needed a refuge.

"Aren't there any Irish people in this God forsaken town? Where is The Pub?!” I asked to nobody in particular. Thankfully, a kind stranger pointed up the street and told me there was “some kind of Scottish bar” just two blocks up the street.

From the sidewalk, The Royal Mile isn’t much to look at. It’s a meager storefront with a few neons in the window. “Oh look, they have Guinness!” I heard one sorority-looking girl proclaim as she stumbled by. Guinness, Smithwicks, and Bass… If they respect The Holy Trinity, how bad could it be? So I opened the door and hoped for the best.

As soon as I walked in I was greeted by a giant Welsh flag and the sense of familiarity that only a real, true Irish pub can welcome you with. Like a big bear hug to a wayfaring, road-weary stranger, the pub enveloped me in its warm embrace.

The Royal Mile has plenty of character and plenty of characters, from barmen named “Willy” and “Eric The Brave”, to regulars like “Big Ern”. Nobody judged me for wearing a suit. In fact, Big Ern bought me a Jager Bomb as soon as he walked in the bar. This is my kind of place!

The Royal Mile claims to have the largest collection of Single Malt Scotch in Iowa, but as Willy was quick to point out, the distinction of having the largest collection in the midwest (and maybe the country) goes to “some bar in Omaha, Nebraska”. It’s that kind of unpretentious attitude that gives The Royal Mile its charm.

The staff is courteous and patient, which was refreshing both because it’s a “local” pub, and because of their rather large collection of beers on tap and single malts.

The waitresses, Whitney and Amanda, were knowledgeable about the beers, and were quick to refer to the barmen, who were equally knowledgeable about single malts. Willy and Eric The Brave were friendly, interesting, and eager to engage me in meaningful conversation and introduce me to their regulars.

It’s the kind of place where you can easily see yourself going native.

Don’t try to order a Budweiser here; you’ll probably get thrown the hell out. They have a food menu, but I’ve never seen it. With a full beer menu - front and back - and a separate one for Scotch whisky, I wouldn’t have had the brain power to compute it anyway.

I ordered a few real ales from their decent selection of hand-pulls, and my expectations were met: perfect temperature, perfect head (or lack thereof), and it tasted great. You can tell that they sell a lot of pints because if the beer sits in the keg lines for a while, it gets stale.

After knocking back a few pints I was pretty hungry and since the kitchen was closed, I went for a bag of potato chips when I needed a quick snack. At $1 each they’ve got quite a selection. I settled on Mesquite BBQ – one of my favorites - and it hit the spot.

For dessert, I had to try one of the single-malts. I settled on Bunnahabhain 12, “The Octave”, which is bottled especially for The Royal Mile. I won’t bore you with the tasting notes, I’ll just say that it was delicious. If I wasn’t driving, I’d have ordered two.

The prices at The Royal Mile are in line with other places that serve high-end single malt Scotch whiskys, and the pours are right on the money: not stingy, but not sloppily generous, either.

The Royal Mile is my new local pub whenever I’m in Des Moines, and I can only hope that they remember me as a regular when I come back!

Rating: would pay to wear the t-shirt!