No Hand-Holding Naked Dudes at this San Francisco Dive

7 Mile House
2800 Bayshore Blvd.
Brisbane, CA





Sometimes I like a little history with my burgers and beer.

Especially if that history involves gangsters, hookers, gamblers and other shady characters of ill repute.

I definitely came to the right place.

San Francisco was about the last place in America I was expecting to find a blue collar dive like this.

This is the city more famous for public parks full of hand-holding naked men, taxpayer funded sex changes and roving gangs of tofu-munching yoga instructors.

Certainly not traditional American values like cheap beer and towering greasy burgers.

But that’s exactly what you’ll find here at the 7 Mile House just a mile or so south of the city limits in Brisbane.

The bawdy history of this dive bar began in 1853, when it was established as part of a chain of “mile houses” along the old stagecoach road that ran from the San Francisco Ferry Building to San Jose.

Later, 7 Mile become a post office stop along the Pony Express.

These mile houses located every mile or so along the dusty, bumpy, hilly journey gave the poor stagecoach horses and their drivers a spot to rest and take a drink.

You know. That whole “whiskey for my men, beer for my horses” thing Toby Keith and Willie Nelson sang about so eloquently.

The owners of 7 Mile (seven miles south of the San Francisco Ferry Building), discovered that meeting the needs of these rugged travelers could be a lucrative business.

Fresh water and horses.

Beer and whiskey.

Rooms for rent and female companionship.

That’s early American entrepreneurship.

But like many brothels and gambling halls, 7 Mile attracted a shady crowd of robbers, thieves and gangsters such as the infamous Hayes Valley Gang who cut a path of murderous destruction through San Francisco in the 1870s.

As recently as the 1980s, 7 Mile was a scary biker bar harboring the largest illegal gambling ring in the West until the Feds arrested everyone involved and spoiled all the fun.

Now days, 7 Mile still maintains some of that shady mystique without the fear of being stabbed.

An ethnically diverse clientele of local blue collar guys populated the bar by the time I strolled through the front door at 6pm on a Tuesday.

The smoking hot bartender knew every one of them by name -- except me of course.

As usual, I stood out like a tourist at a Hells Angels convention.

Everyone else was drinking PBR and Budweiser long necks.

I ordered the local 21st Amendment Brew Free or Die IPA on draft.

Nobody else at the bar was eating.

I ordered the infamous Cow Palace Burger and garlic fries.

The guy sitting next to me moved over a stool. I think he knew something I didn’t.

You don’t want to be too close to a stranger gorging on a pound and a half of greasy cow, pig and garlic fries.

The Cow Palace is epic. It’s even been featured on national television.

Two half pound beef patties topped with melted cheese, sautéed onions, barbeque sauce, onion rings, tomato and a quarter pound of bacon. All held together by a foot long tooth pick.

Whoa!

When the cook brought this monstrosity out of the kitchen and plunked it on the bar in front of me, a jolt of panic flashed through his eyes as the tower of meat tilted precariously to one side.

I grabbed it before catastrophe struck and then pondered a very profound question.

How in the hell am I supposed to eat this damn thing?

At seven inches tall, I quickly realized that the human anatomy was not designed for such challenges. There is no mouth known to the human race big enough to wrap around that much meat.

Not even Joy Behar’s big mouth.

So I opted for the squeeze and nibble strategy.

No. This has nothing to do with the nefarious activities in the 7 Mile’s upstairs room back in the 19th Century.

I just squooshed as hard as I could with my hands, opened my jaws as far as they would go and plunged my face into meat heaven.

My strategy worked pretty well. At first.

Then all the drippy grease, cheese and onions conspired to disintegrate the bun.

Why can’t a place that sells an epic, nationally famous burger contain its creation in sturdier, higher quality buns?

It was a minor criticism considering how outstanding the rest of the components tasted.

The beef was perfectly cooked to a nice pink medium as evidenced by the waterfall of grease spilling onto the 150 year old bar top.

The multi-layered bacon was thick, greasy and perfectly cooked, providing a nice porky flavor in every beefy, cheesy bite.

Much like the buns, the breading around the onion rings disintegrated robbing the burger of the expected fried crunch I craved.

But the sautéed onions, cheese and BBQ sauce added plenty of condiment flavor to my messy mountain of meat.

Somehow I managed to eat almost the whole thing. By the time I surrendered, there was nothing left but a few random bits of beef here, soggy bun there.

Of course I made sure not to leave any bacon remainders. That really would be a federal crime.

I even polished off my mound of garlic fries that came on the side.

Garlic fries are something of a San Francisco Bay specialty, as Gilroy, the self-proclaimed “Garlic Capital of the World”, is just a short drive south of here.

But most Northern California inspired garlic fries I’ve tried in the past were nothing more than boring fries sprinkled with some garlic salt.

Not these.

7 Mile leaves no doubt about its garlicky condiment -- or the need for a breath mint.

Whole cloves of fresh-from-the-fields garlic are crushed and scattered across the oily fries. Every bite yields a pungent sweet flavor to bring the otherwise uninspiring fries to life.

Best of all was my Brew Free of Die! IPA from the brewmasters just down the street at 21st Amendment Brewery.

You know any brewery that names itself after the liberty-celebrating Constitutional Amendment that restored our rights as Americans to drink beer is going to take its task seriously.

I wonder if the folks at 21st Amendment have ever considered the irony that they located their brewery in a city that is considering banning everything from Happy Meals to circumcision to the sale of gold fish.

To crazed San Francisco leftists, no aspect of your life is too mundane or personal not to regulate.

You want to see men buggering in a public park? You’ve come to the right place.

You want to buy your kid a gold fish or a Happy Meal? You’re a heartless corporatist oppressor who must be stopped by government force.

21st Amendment celebrates one of the few freedoms remaining in this city with a wide range of kick-ass brews.

But Brew Free or Die! IPA is the best of the best, providing a hoppy kick of liberty in every patriotic sip.

Even if all the locals were drinking PBR and looking at me suspiciously.

It just seemed such an appropriate beer to down in a century old former speakeasy where illegal booze was probably the least objectionable activity going down within its confines.

But I can understand the suspicions of the locals.

7 Mile is a historic treasure in more ways than one.

If you are an all-American, God-fearing, hard working PBR man, there aren’t too many places to hang out in San Francisco.

7 mile just might be the only down-to-earth, blue collar refuge for men who actually still dress like men to down long necks for under a five spot in the entire Bay area.

They’re not going to take too kindly to some fancy beer sipping suit ruining the place.

Not to worry.

Trust me. I appreciate a hand-holding-naked-dudes-FREE zone as much as anyone.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

You Either Love Hot Dogs…Or You are a Communist

 

Superdawg
6363 N. Milwaukee Ave.
Chicago, IL





Some people don’t get my enthusiasm for hot dogs.

But if you don’t get excited about a trip to Chicago’s famous Superdawg…

…well…

…you just might want to consider the possibility that you are a Communist sympathizer.

How can you not love that legendary anatomical meat tube couple dressed in leopard skin and mini skirt perched high above Superdawg looking out over the corner of Milwaukee and Devon?

I get a flutter in my stomach reminiscent of my first childhood encounter with Mickey Mouse at Disney World when I round the corner in my rental car and catch a glimpse of Maurie and Flaurie mounted of the Superdawg roof.

The creepy red glow in Maurie’s eyes means my stomach is in for a treat unlike any other on Earth.

Chicago’s love affair with hot dogs and sausages can be traced back to the immigrants from Central and Eastern Europe who settled in the Windy City.

Superdawg is the quintessential hot dog joint in the quintessential hot dog city.

And an idyllic retreat on the way to that hell otherwise known as O’Hare International Airport.

Packaged in delightful red and blue boxes featuring whimsical bits of wisdom from Maurie such as “Your Superdawg lounges inside” and “From the bottom of my pure beef heart...thanks for giving me this chance to serve you…”

…the anticipation is almost unbearable as the old fashioned car hop delivers the tray of food to my rental car window.

While the convenience of rental car side service is appreciated, trying to keep the pile of condiments off of my suit proves more than a bit challenging.

In Chicago, folks like their dogs “dragged through the garden” meaning topped with an unwieldy combination of mustard, peppers, onions, tomatoes and pickles.

Fortunately the tray of food included a generous supply of napkins which I used to construct a paper barrier between my mountain of meat and produce and my Brook Brothers tie.

The hot dog was an extra thick juicy tube of beef enhanced by the tang and spice of the onions and sport peppers and balanced with the sweet neon green relish.

This is the quintessential Chicago dog.

Tightly packed into the box with the hot dog comes a mound of crinkle cut fries -- a convenient vehicle to soak up all the scattered condiments spilling all over my Chevy Impala.

Not being a huge fan of French fries, I opted also for an order of “Superonionchips”, a towering red box of fried onion petals.

Too much bread. Not enough onion. Probably won’t order those again.

But I saved the best for last.

Whoopskidawg!

Oh. Yeah.

Thanks to the large number of folks of Polish descent who settled in the Windy City, Chicago is something of a hub for good Polish Sausage.

The Whoopskidawg just might be the most delicious version I’ve ever tasted.

Smothered in diced onion and tangy sweet BBQ sauce and nestled in a top notch onion roll, the Whoopskidawg is even more exciting than the Superdawg…

…as difficult as that is to conceive.

Smokey and sweet simultaneously, my Whoopskidawg just might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in a city known for world class junk food.

And I don’t think it is a coincidence that one of the most exquisite sausages on earth is named after a country that suffered more than its share from Socialist dictators.

First Poland bore the brunt of the Nazis -- and then the Soviets.

But neither Hitler nor Stalin could snuff out the popularity of a top notch tube of processed meat.

Of course none of this history has stopped Chicago native Michelle Obama from attempting to eradicate hot dogs from America’s school cafeterias.

So say what you will about Suit757’s love affair with hot dogs, Polish sausages and chopped up pig and cow parts.

I’m on the side of the long-suffering, freedom-loving people of Poland.

Whose side are you on?

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

A Texas Lunch Time Tragedy

Stone Werks
7500 Broadway St.
San Antonio, TX



I’m giving up burgers.

Yep. You read that right. Suit757 is swearing off burgers.

I know. That’s like the Pope giving up Catholicism.

Or Obama giving up Socialism.

Or John Mayer giving up snaking hot chicks.

But after choking down one of the worst burgers I’ve ever eaten in my life at Stone Werks in San Antonio, Texas…

…I’m done.

Finished with hamburgers. At least in restaurants.

Why is it impossible for restaurants to properly cook a slab of ground beef?

I know, I know. Some blood sucking lawyer out there will sue the restaurant if every microscopic trace of bacteria isn’t incinerated.

But if you insist on incinerating my meat into a dried up, hardened block of Texas sun-scorched cow dung, why don’t you just take it off the menu? Just stick to things that are supposed to be incinerated like chicken fried steak.

But don’t charge me twelve bucks for a burger and then ruin it.

You’ll just tick me off.

What especially ticked me off is I asked for it “medium.” You know, the way God intended a burger to be cooked -- a little char on the outside, pink on the inside and plenty of juicy goodness dripping onto my plate.

But almost no restaurant in our lawyerphobic American society serves burgers like that anymore.

It’s gotten so that I purposely order my burger rare -- even though I don’t want a rare burger. Just in the hopes that I can avoid a bone-dry hockey puck.

Of course even that doesn’t always work.

But here I am deep I the heart of cattle country and I make the mistake of thinking this place might actually know how to cook a mound of beef.

My “medium” bacon and smoked Gouda burger was nothing but a hard clump of grey meat.

Even the bacon was overcooked.

There is a fine line between the savory smoky flavor of good bacon and the bitter taste of burnt bacon.

The obnoxious flavor of charred bacon completely camouflaged the smoked Gouda. I’ll take their word for it that it was even on my burger.

Tasteless cheese. Burnt bacon. Dry overcooked beef.

This burger desperately needed some condiment salvation.

Unfortunately, none was provided. Except a ramekin of cocktail sauce.

Cocktail sauce?

Yeah, the bartender gave me cocktail sauce instead of ketchup for my fries. And then proceeded to run off and disappear for 15 minutes.

I’m glad I didn’t dump it on my burger. Of course, as bad as it was, it might have been an improvement.

The fries were a tedious bore -- even after the waiter reappeared and fixed his ketchup mistake a quarter hour later.

Okay. So far we have crappy, over-priced, over-cooked food. Lousy fries. And inattentive service.

Not a great way to earn a top Suits in Strange Places rating.

The only good thing about Stone Werks was the beer selection.

The place had a pretty decent range of tap handles from both national and Texas craft breweries.

The Lone Star State is not known for good beer, but being a good Suit, I knew I should try the local brews.

First up was Wild Hare, a pale ale by Shiner -- that little brewery in South Texas more famous for its bland Shiner Bock.

Unfortunately, Wild Hare is pretty bland too, confirming my theory that good breweries make good
beers across the board -- and vice versa.

Not that I want to slander Shiner Brewery.

I’ve done the brewery tour several times. It’s fun. Their beers are a nice alternative to the ubiquitous Coors Light cans decorated with the Texas state outline.

But, the fact is, Shiner just doesn’t make very flavorful beers.

Next I tried the locally brewed Ranger O.P.A., which stands for Oatmeal Pale Ale.

Now that’s something different.

I’ve tried oatmeal stouts. But never an oatmeal pale ale.

This one was smooth and creamy with sort of a fruity, bready aftertaste that pushed the hops normally associated with a pale ale to the background.

Not really a fan.

I guess I’m giving up on Oatmeal Pale Ales -- along with restaurant burgers.

I’ve never left a bar so depressed.

Is my backyard really the only place in America I can trust ordering a good juicy burger?

If I want my burgers done right, do I really have to do it myself?

How am I going to survive a burgerless life on the road?

How can I endure the indignities of modern day travel in America without my one redeeming red meat pleasure?

As I drove my rental car out of Stone Werks suburban hell parking lot and tried to make my way to the San Antonio Airport, I contemplated what a tragic experience this lunch had been.

I mean, it's not like Suit757 hasn't reviewed some pretty bad meals before.

But this was different.  The road ahead for Suit757 will never be the same.

Stone Werks -- you have ruined my life!

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Succumbing to the Self Righteously Hip Chicago Dog

Gene and Jude’s
2720 River Rd.
River Grove, IL





Chicago is famous for many things.

The world’s busiest airport. The country’s tallest building.

America’s first Marxist president.

And the Chicago hot dog. Of course.

Gene & Jude’s out here in the suburbs just south of O’Hare Airport was one of the earliest purveyors of Chicago’s topping-laden meat tube.

In Chicago, it’s become a hipster cliché to shun ketchup on hot dogs.

To a Chicagoan, someone who puts ketchup on hot dogs is like that drinker who prefers White Zinfandel. Or that tourist who won’t turn off his cell phone ringer on the “el”.

Or that Wrigley Field bleacher bum who refuses to throw back an opposing team home run ball. Despite the torrent of drunken boos and profanity.

In other words, ketchup is for the uncouth, unhip and unsophisticated.

Nobody wants to be THAT guy.

As a hot dog connoisseur who has been known to enjoy a bit of ketchup from time to time, I find this “holier than thou” hot dog ideology to be a bit tiresome.

It’s a freaking hot dog, for cripe’s sake.

It’s not high society cuisine.

I’m a firm believer that folks should be free to put whatever they want on their processed meat without fear of being damned to hell for an eternity of living off nothing but McDonalds Happy Meals.

That being said, I’m still a firm believer in “When in Rome” dining.

When in Chicago, go ahead and eat your hot dog as Chicagoans do.

Most of the famous Chicago hot dog joints serve them “dragged through the garden”, stacking peppers, onions, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, celery salt and other assorted condiments into an unwieldy pile of produce -- completely overshadowing the meat.

Gene and Jude’s sticks to a simpler -- and I believe better -- formula.

The condiments here are freshly chopped onion, relish, sport peppers and mustard.

Oh, and French fries too.

Yeah, the fries are piled on top of the dog just like all the other condiments.

But, no. You can NOT have ketchup.

Not even for your fries.

Legend has it that a Gene and Jude’s employee once smuggled a few packets of ketchup into the kitchen, probably because he was tired of saying no to all those uncouth out-of-towners asking for it.

Once the owner discovered the contraband ketchup packets, he tossed them all into the dumpster out back.

Okay. I won’t make that mistake.

Definitely don’t want to be THAT guy.

The fries are fresh cut every day and top notch -- even without any ketchup.

I’m still not sure if the fries are meant to be eaten separate or as a hot dog topping, like a Primanti Brothers Pittsburgh sandwich.

When you first unwrap your hot dog, you can’t even see it under the mountain of fries.

Eventually, I put enough of a dent in my French fried mountain that I could find my hot dog and lift it to my mouth for my first bite.

Delicious.

The relish and onion add a nice tangy crunch while the mustard compliments the meaty snap of the freshly steamed dog.

Then every few bites you get an eye opening jolt of crunchy spice when you bite into one of those famous green “sport” peppers.

It’s a lot of simultaneous flavor action, no doubt. But the star of the show – the famous Vienna Beef Chicago hot dog -- never gets lost in all the commotion.

Here at Gene and Jude’s, you can order a single or a double dog.

I got both. Of course.

The double is a bit cumbersome, but it does, if you can manage it, provide a nicer meat-to-condiment-and-fry ratio.

Inexplicably, Gene and Jude’s also sells processed industrial corn tamales.

Even more inexplicably, I ordered one. On top of my orgy of hot dogs, fries and Chicago condiments.

Produced by the Supreme Tamale Company, Inc. here in Chicago and served in a mass-produced plastic wrapper, the tamale was barely edible.

Slimy on the outside but dry as corn meal on the inside, it tasted like an oddly meat-flavored hunk of dough.

After a few bites, I tossed it in the trash. Definitely not the house specialty.

Ninety percent of the business here is take out.

If fact, there is no place to sit. Just a ledge along the window facing the expansive parking lot.

Perfect for Suit757.

I’ll be doing enough sitting the rest of the evening while crammed into seat 14A on a United Express regional jet.

After polishing off my last bite of dog and fries, I felt pretty good about myself. I just consumed several genuine Chicago hot dogs. Didn’t deviate on a single condiment.

Now I see why Chicagoans get so smug about their hot dogs. They are pretty darn good done the Chicago way.

Particularly the Gene and Jude’s way.

I walked out into the parking lot feeling hip. In the know. An insider.

The thought of that sweet tomatoey paste never even crossed my mind.

Nope. I felt darn near self-righteous. No ketchup for me.

Suit757 will never be THAT guy again.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Good Food A-Plenty at the Beacon Drive In

Beacon Drive In
255 John B. White Sr. Blvd.
Spartanburg, SC





There is nothing subtle about the Beacon Drive In.

That’s what’s made it one of America’s most famous restaurants.

This sprawling 66 year old drive-in smack in the heart of Spartanburg, South Carolina serves over a million hungry customers every year.

And I do mean HUNGRY.

You have to be. The menu is as sprawling as the dining rooms.

Red trays groaning under the weight of mountains of food fresh out of the fryer slide down the rail in a steady procession line from early in the morning to late into the evening. Seven days per week.

Like a well oiled machine. Literally.

They say the Beacon churns 26,000 pounds of onions through its burbling vats of grease into onion rings every month.

Over 16,000 gallons of sweet tea – and 3,000 pounds of sugar. That’s more sweet tea than any other restaurant in the United States of America!

And they have the sign to prove it.

I don’t doubt it for a minute.

This place has operated at peak capacity for nearly seven decades.

Most customers are greeted by J.C. Strobel, who shouts out in an obnoxiously loud voice “Let’s move on. Come on, come on, come on down the line!” Just like he’s been doing for fifty years.

Maybe J.C. retired. Or he had the day off. Because I didn’t see him today.

Then again, it might have been the weird hour I showed up – ten minutes past ten on a Wednesday morning.

Is that hour too early to gorge on a pile of beef, pork and fried carbs?

Of course not. Especially when you have to get up at 4am to catch an early morning flight to Spartanburg.

Even though I have to get up at that ungodly hour to catch oh-dark-hundred flights at least once or twice per week, I assure you, Suit757 is no morning person.

In fact, after being up and wearing a suit for six hours already, my internal biological clock was telling me it was the Suit757 equivalent of 4pm.

Time to eat!

The dilemma coming to the Beacon is always the same for me.

Burger or barbeque? They are both equally world famous.

The Beacon is the only restaurant I know in the nation that makes the list of best burger joints in America AND best barbeque joints in America.

As anyone who has dined here knows, the Beacon’s mammoth “A-Plenty” portions make the idea of getting both completely ludicrous.

Well, call me ludicrous.

“I’ll have the Outside Chopped Pork A-Plenty,” I declared to the counter lady.

She immediately called out some code language to the army of chefs behind the counter.

Wait. I’m not done.

Just as she turned to focus her attention on the next customer, I blurted out, “And a Chili Cheeseburger.”

She looked past me quizzically like she was searching for my non-existent dining companion.

Hey, don’t judge me. I’m hungry.

And a world famous restaurant reviewer. “I’m doing this to myself for the sake of my loyal readers,” I rationalized to myself.

Within 30 seconds, she plopped the burger on my tray. Ten seconds after that came a mountain of greasy glistening onion rings and French fries.

I had to dig down a few inches to find a fully loaded barbeque sandwich at the bottom of the pile.

It’s there at the bottom. I think.

I began shoveling onion rings and fries into my mouth two and three at a time, hoping to put enough of a dent into my mound of “A-Plenty” to get to my barbeque.

The fries reminded my why I don’t normally order fries with my meal.

Kinda boring. And a total waste of perfectly good stomach vacancy that could be better utilized for meat.

The onion rings on the other hand were top notch.

Lesser onion rings, like at Burger King, are nothing more than rings of fried dough with a barely discernable trace of shriveled dehydrated onion in there somewhere.

Not here at the Beacon.

These onion rings put the emphasis where it belongs – on the sweet Vidalia onions.

These rings are onions first – with just a bit of nice crispy breading delicately clinging along for the ride.

With a dash of salt, Beacon’s onion rings are addictive.

But no matter how many fries and rings I devoured, I still couldn’t seem to make any headway toward uncovering my barbeque sandwich buried somewhere underneath.

So I decided I better start with the Chili Cheeseburger.

Beacon’s chili is tasty but unlike the traditional tomatoey runny stuff you might expect.

This chili was more like seasoned, finely ground beef – reminiscent of the “loose meat” sandwiches you might find in the Midwest.

So what I really had here was ground beef on top of ground beef. Like a double cheeseburger.

Nothin’ wrong with that.

Loose ground beef on top of a ground beef patty – separated by a slice of melted cheese.

The result was bite after bite of ridiculously tender beefy, cheesy goodness.

By the time I consumed at least the top pound or so of fries and onion rings, I was able to lift my barbeque sandwich out of its tomb of grease.

I requested “outside” meat, which means the darker, more flavorful part of the pig, closer to the skin.

Topped with vinegary slaw and Beacon’s unique sweet BBQ sauce, this was porky heaven.

The sauce was more like a tomatoey relish – like a Southern chow-chow.

Different. But delicious.

The pork was soft, tender and dark. While the slaw and sauce added the tang and sweet kiss to every bite.

The Beacon will never eclipse the legendary barbeque shacks of the Carolinas in barbeque perfection, but there is a reason this place still manages to make all those top barbeque joint lists.

These folks here in the land of The Marshall Tucker Band know what they are doing.

How else do you attract crowds of 5,000 or more every single day for 66 years?

The answer: quantity AND quality.

It was only quarter to eleven by the time I waddled out to my rental car parked on the asphalt sea surrounding the Beacon. But I still left at least half a pound of French fries behind.

I was done. And tempted to curl on the bench seat of my Chevy Impala for a much needed digestion nap.

No chance of that, unfortunately. My day of meetings hadn’t even begun.

Oh well. That’s the life of Suit757.

But I looked on the bright side. At least I won’t have to worry that pesky eating thing again for at least a couple more days.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.