Discover the Corporate Greed of “Big Second Hand Smoke”

Fricker’s
3237 Chester Blvd.
Richmond, IN
Visited January 3, 2011

Beer selection: Dive Bar specialties like PBR on draft.

Food: Dive Bar specialties like hot “boneless wings”.

It’s a sign of the apocalypse for sure.

Is there no mom & pop enterprise left in America to be spared from the unencumbered advance of cookie cutter national chains?

First it was book stores and used car lots.

Then I thought it odd when I noticed my local dry cleaners being snapped up by national chain Martinizing. I mean, I’ve heard of Big Government, Big Labor and Big Oil, but... Big Starch??

Stranger still was seeing the local funeral home go national. Big Death? Cool.

But bizarre doesn’t begin to explain the phenomenon of Larry Flint turning the now downright ubiquitous Hustler Club into the Wal-Mart of strip joints. (So I’ve heard, anyway.)

So what would that be? Big…?

Never mind.

Oh well, at least we’ll always have the corner neighborhood dive bar.

Not so fast.

Welcome to Fricker’s. (The name Hooter’s was already taken.)

Motto: “More than a handful.” (“More than a mouthful” was already taken – see above.)

Now before you doubt my very premise that the local dive bar can be chained, let me assure you of Fricker’s divey credentials. (The fact that it is a chain is indisputable, as the front of the menu claims 18 locations in Michigan, Indiana and Ohio)

How about a wall of cigarette smoke to welcome your pull on the front door? (Apparently, Indiana is the last state in America to have yet to criminalize smoking in restaurants.)

How about a 20 year old unmarried pregnant bartender slinging drinks in the hazy atmosphere?

How about blue collar guys in paint-stained sweatshirts who have been perched precariously on their bar stools since quitting time nine hours ago?

How about a local family taking advantage of “Kids Eat Free Night” – at 11pm – to feed their couple of sweet little toddler holly terrors -- one with pierced ears and the other sporting a mullet -- while mom and dad burn through a pack of Camels and down a couple $6 Coors Light Pitchers?

Oh yeah, this place is well credentialed.

I can’t wait to visit the other 17 locations.

It was just serendipity that I stumbled across this one.

It was the night of the Orange Bowl.

And my luxurious accommodations across the street at the Comfort Inn apparently didn’t include ESPN. Something about how Comcast was supposed to come out two weeks ago to fix the cable, explained my Angelina Jolie look-alike desk clerk (Yeah, I know, I was a bit baffled by why she was working here too.)

Rather than demand a refund and check out, I decided to walk across the I-70 overpass to Fricker’s to watch the game.

Like any true dive bar, of course, even one advertising their plethora of TV’s, the entire HD thing seems to have bypassed Fricker’s.

So I watched the Virginia Tech Hokies get their asses kicked by those Silicon Valley nerds from Stanford on an old fashioned 9 inch TV with no sound.

Before you start to feel too sorry for Suit757, let’s dwell a moment on the one and only positive attribute of dive bars.

Why does ANYONE patronize these places of smoke, decay, mold, sketchy characters and tasteless décor?

One reason. And one reason only.

Because dive bars are CHEAP!

And that last most crucial of criteria cinches Fricker’s status in chain dive bar infamy.

The special of the night was “Forty Cent Boneless Wings”.

So, naturally, that’s what I ordered. Or so I thought.

What my four bucks bought me was a basket full of not chicken wings, but giant fried and breaded strips of tender white meat -- what Southerners refer to as Chicken Tenders, Zingers or Buffalo Fingerz.

Ten of them!

The same thing that would cost you $13 at a Zaxby’s drive-through.

Four bucks!

But here at Big Second Hand Smoke, they advertise them as “Boneless Wings”! These Midwestern boys could use a marketing class. Not that I’m complaining.

That was the most food I’ve bought for four bucks since Taco Bell ran their 39 cent taco deal back in 1989.

On advice of my pregnant bartendress, I went a notch above “Hot” to “Frickin’ Little Kicker”. I’m glad I didn’t go higher. Or I would have had to consume even more beer.

Which brings me to the only reason to even darken the doorway of a place like this.

The beer selection was typical dive bar – pathetic.

I have a bad beer selection theory I always try to live by. If it’s really bad, go REALLY, REALLY bad.

I mean, think about it.

Why settle for Bud or Sam Adams? You can get that crap at any hole in the wall. It takes a special kind of divyness to discover “The Champaign of Beer” or the beer “Selected as America’s best in 1893” on tap.

If you’re going to take nine months off your life by spending three hours watching the Hokies get ass-jacked in a smoke filled bar, why not go for something unique – something you can’t get at your half-way-self-respecting-neighborhood bar?

That’s why I asked for a PBR draft.

Ms. Preggers helpfully told me that they were only $2.22.

“Perfect,” I thought, calculating the per ounce cost of a typical 10 oz. dive bar pull.

Except, she didn’t bring me a 10 oz. pull of PBR. She brought me an over-flowing giant 22oz. glass of 5.0 APV frugality.

Oh yeah.

That’s a better deal than drinking a Seven Eleven 40 in the motel room. And all the extra ambiance and companionship to boot.

After three hours of football watching, enough battered and fried and hot sauced chicken fingers to feed the lunch rush at Zaxby’s, the second-hand smoke equivalent to three cartons of Marlboros and 88 ounces of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the entire bill came to $12.88.

Contemplating the future of Bartendress, Jr., I left feeling guilty as hell leaving a 25% tip.

Maybe the Wal-Martification of dive bars isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Always the low price on chicken wings, PBR and second hand smoke – always. Coming to your town soon.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

The "Bird" IS most definitely the word...

The Penguin Drive-In

1921 Commonwealth Ave.

Charlotte, NC 28205

Food: Dive

After the near debacle I experienced in the Land of Lincoln (or as I know it “Land of Big Government Cronyism) I was relieved to be back below the Mason Dixon Line and in the mood for food that would erase my mid-west mind numbing experience.

Needless to say I found it. And it took less than 4.423721 minutes.

The Penguin Drive In, or “the Bird” as the locals call it, is a local institution in Charlotte North Carolina. It’s been around for 60 years and is steeped in tradition and history. I know that because the place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since then, and in my book, that’s a good thing.

Upon my arrival I was immediately at home. See… SuitOchoCinco can fit in anywhere. But he prefers the salt of the earth, real blue collar men and women that don’t sugar coat anything and are forthright in their opinion and unabashed about their food. The Penguin is such a place.

From the pre-historic rotating sign greeting you as you pull in; to the rust coated sign declaring “sandwiches and short orders” this place was my kinda joint. As I carefully navigated the abundance of potholes and pulled into the parking lot I knew I was in for a treat.

And I deserved it. After marinating in 3 hours of delays in the airport the night before, and dealing with the incompetent and rude Avis rent-a-car clerk, it was going to take more than the free upgrade from the sub compact to the full sized Impala to turn my mood around. I got barely any decent sleep and sat in meeting after meeting all day today and was ready to loosen my tie and have a beer.

I walked to the front door past the remnants of the prior life of this business when it was a full service drive thru over 45 years ago. There were still outdoor counters against long but-gone sliding ordering windows next to a water fountain from circa 1963. I entered thru the heavily armored front door blazoned by a neon “open” sign. See apparently after its hay days in the 50’s, 60’s the Carter administration had as much affect on this establishment as it did on America. It destroyed it. This area became seedy and overrun by a rotten element and before it closed temporarily for awhile the steel bars on the doors were a necessity.

That’s ok though, because its back, and with a vengeance I might add. As I walked in the door you couldn’t help but notice the nearly 50 “Best of” awards this place has stacked up in the past 9 years and I couldn’t help but smile, I knew this was gonna be good.

I sat at the rag tag barely put together bar and was greeted by a beautiful, but heavily tattooed, pierced and died haired barkeep named Lisa. The rest of the staff was pretty much the same… all of their skin was adorned in heavy amounts of ink and they all had holes where the good Lord didn’t intend for there to be them, and I’m pretty sure the dress code was ripped jeans and t-shirts… but it couldn’t get any better. The cook gave me a dirty look and I knew, I was in for a ride.

I opened the menu and immediately knew. I needed the Big Block Burger, 2 1/3 pound patties “Southern Style” (Chili, Fresh Cut Yellow Onion, Slaw and Mustard) Slathered in Cheese along with their signature and world renowned (literally) homemade pimento cheese melted between two pieces of toast and a pint of their local brew, Farmer Teds Pale Ale to wash it down.

A picture is worth a thousand words so instead of describing the food I’ll let you be the judge.

Yeah. I know… It was simply freaking fantastic, with my first bite I was drawn to proclaim, “Holy Crap!” and everyone looked at me and smiled, it had obviously happened before.

On a side note, I had obviously gotten there just in time (about 4:45) because a pile of prospective patrons began to flood the building as I was finishing up and I had to wade thru a sea of expectant guests just to reach my sleek black “free upgrade” Chevy “I took a Bailout” Impala to leave this Mecca of burger delight. (I was told by Lisa there is a 45 minute wait everyday at lunch and dinner and the ”wait” is forced out of this very tiny establishment into the sweltering heat the South tends to deliver, by the way….yeah they don’t care, it’s well worth it.)

PS Apparently they are also famous for their monstrosity of "Pig Pickin" every Fourth of July... which was basically the cherry on top of this already amazing experiance. Go to the "Bird"

Rating: Seriously thought about buying the t-shirt but it didn’t look like the case hadn't been opened in ten years and seriously the shirt was as grimy as the floor J