The Virtues of Ignoring Seattle Hipsters

13 Coins
130 Boren Ave.
Seattle, WA





I have to admit, I was hesitant about checking out 13 Coins.

The on-line reviews just aren’t very good.

But then I thought, “What do people in Seattle know anyway?”

After all, this is the city that actually erected a statue just two miles from here to Communist Dictator Vladimir Lenin, the man who introduced to the world the most destructive and violent ideology of the 20th Century.

And of course Seattle is the city that replaced the testosterone-fueled rock n roll of my youth with Grunge.

Instead of Bon Scott and David Lee Roth singing about kicking butt and banging chicks, we get scruffy effeminate dudes staring at their shoes mumbling about suicide and their low self-esteem.

I’m taking advice on where to eat from these people?

Not a chance.

Good move.

My breakfast at 13 Coins was an example of what makes suffering the indignities of modern travel all worthwhile.

First of all the place is just cool.

Of course all the Seattle hipster Yelp reviews come to the exact opposite conclusion.

But I assure you, if you are seeking a discrete spot to rendezvous with that busty new blonde receptionist -- or to plot the overthrow of the federal government -- 13 Coins is the perfect spot.

As you walk in and your eyes adjust to the dim old school lighting, you notice a row of snug booths on the left that envelope their patrons in ten foot walls of black leather.

On the right is more black leather, this time in the form of enormous swivel bar stools wrapping each patron in a cocoon of privacy.

That is where I chose to ensconce myself with a perfect view of the flaming grill in front of me.

The primary reason I chose to ignore the lackluster reviews and give 13 Coins a try is because I heard they served a mean “Hangtown Fry” for breakfast, an elusive culinary delicacy I’ve been meaning to try for years.

A Hangtown Fry is an omelet of onions, bacon and oysters.

What’s not to like, right?

It is a West Coast specialty that originated in Placerville, California during the height of the Gold Rush in a town so rough and tumble locals just called it “Hangtown.”

As in “Hang him by the neck until he dies.”

Legend has it that some cocky miner flush from a big score walked into a Placerville saloon, threw his winnings on the bar top and demanded the most expensive entrée the cook could assemble.

In those days before refrigeration, eggs, bacon and oysters were rare luxuries.

I sat there mesmerized as the cook sautéed and flipped the onions, eggs, oysters and bacon over an open flame right in front of me.

The result is a decedent breakfast for the gods.

While I can always wish for a few more oysters, you could taste the briny crustaceans in almost every bite, as the salty oyster liquor permeated the entire omelet.

The bacon lended a smoky essence while the onions spiced up the well-seasoned fluffy eggs.

Omelets don’t get much better than this.

On the side, I requested 13 Coins famous hash browns.

Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, these hash browns benefited from a liberal dousing of oily, greasy goodness.

Clearly, the old school atmosphere gives this place its claim to fame, but the food doesn’t lack for attention either.

No doubt about it, hip isn’t an adjective you would use for 13 Coins or its throwback Hangtown Fry.

But I’ll take oysters and bacon, AC/DC and Van Halen over hip most days of the week.

Even in Seattle.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Buffalo Café: Montana’s Last Best Place for Breakfast

Buffalo Café
514 E. 3rd St.
Whitefish, MT





Stand on a mountaintop in nearby Glacier National Park and you begin to understand this state’s famous moniker. The blue Big Sky stretches from horizon to distant horizon seeming to crush the earth.

As the 4th largest state in America by land mass, Montana is a pretty diverse place.

From the oil field rough necks on the barren eastern plaines to the unemployed union workers in gritty Butte to the Blackfoot Indians across the flat north country to the celebrity Hollywood refugees in bucolic Bozeman and Helena, Montana means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.

But for those of us who don’t live here, when we close our eyes and think of Montana, an image of Whitefish is what comes to mind.

Whitefish is the quintessential small Rocky Mountain town.

Nestled in the shadow of Big Mountain carved up with high priced ski slopes, Whitefish’s Central Avenue is lined with quaint shops selling western gear and fun watering holes like the Great Northern Bar and Grill.

Sure, Whitefish is a bit touristy, but it still has the feel of a real place.

That sense of Rocky Mountain authenticity hasn’t yet been subjugated to the tourist shops selling t-shirts that proclaim Montana “The Last Best Place.”

But that is an apt slogan for Montana -- and Whitefish specifically.

As I strolled through town on a sunny Saturday morning searching for breakfast, I couldn’t help but sense how fleeting Montana’s greatness can seem.

“You call something paradise, kiss it goodbye,” Don Henley once sang.

Whether it is the proliferation of Montana’s cheesy roadside casinos or the influx of California leftists like Henley, you can’t help but simultaneously admire the beauty of this small town while fearing it can’t possibly stay this quaint.

All I can say is enjoy Montana’s “Last Best Place” while you can.

When you do come to Whitefish, you have to stop by for breakfast at the Buffalo Café.

You’ll be treated to a vacation highlight Montana meal well worth the wait for a table.

While the gourmet specials on the blackboard such as the local huckleberry French toast were mighty tempting, I have a Suit757 rule about dining.

If a place is “famous” for something, order that something.

In the case of Buffalo Café, that “something” is their famous “Buffalo Pie”.

Since 1979, the Buffalo Café has been piling plates high with eggs, hash browns and various breakfast meats in delicious combinations.

The decision making was agonizing. They all sounded so good.

Sausage? Bacon? Ham? Fancy Kansas City bacon? Smoked cheddar? Green Chili? Cream gravy? Spinach? Onions? Peppers?

I was as conflicted as Barack Obama facing a foreign policy crisis.

Eventually I settled upon the Morning Glory Pie.

Epic.

That’s all I have to say.

Of course the Buffalo Pie is nothing like a pie.

There is no crust. I thought maybe the hash browns would serve as the base with the mountain of other ingredients serving as the pie filling, but that’s not the case either.

The base of this “pie” is a savory and slightly spicy patty of country sausage which added just the right amount of kick to the pile of goodness on top.

The next layer is the Buffalo Café’s famous hash browns, topped with grilled onions and spinach, topped with a couple eggs over easy, topped with a hearty covering of peppery cream gravy.

Holy heart attack, Batman!

This just might be one of the greatest breakfasts to grace Suit757’s taste buds.

The spice from the sausage, the pepper from the gravy, the sweetness from the onions, the crunch from the fried potatoes and the runny goodness of the eggs produced a kaleidoscope of flavors, textures and colors in every bite.

I even savored every bite of the buttered local nine-grain toast served on the side.

Normally I toss aside bread as a distraction to the main attraction. But not at the Buffalo Café.

Of course I couldn’t help but suffer a bit of buyer’s remorse -- not from dissatisfaction with my purchase. But from regret from just thinking about what else on the menu I might be missing.

I relieved a bit of my angst by ordering a side of Buffalo’s famous “Kansas City bacon”.

A Suit can never have too much meat after all.

Good call.

More like a cross between Canadian bacon and country ham, Buffalo’s Kansas City bacon was thick and smoky, an ideal accompaniment to a hall of fame breakfast.

I left Buffalo Café and Montana feeling like I had discovered something special.

You should too.

But hurry. It indeed just might be the last best place.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Egg-cellent

Beth's Café
7311 Aurora Avenue North
Seattle, WA

Hours: 24 hours
Alcohol: None
Cuisine: Diner Food, Especially Omelets

Suit603 is a charter member of the Clean Plate Club.

Leftovers just aren't as good, and it's another thing to carry through security.

And it’s just a waste of money to leave it on the plate.

But I thought I might need a doggy bag when I found out that omelets at Beth’s Café were as big as they are.

You see, the *small* ones are made with six eggs and come with a huge heap of hash browns that are all you can eat (meaning, you can get more) -- the large ones are made with a full twelve eggs and are served on a metal plate that would usually hold a medium pizza.

Some groups split them three ways, though some brave souls were trying to eat ‘em alone even though, as the menu says, there's no prize for finishing the twelve egg omelet aside from pride at a job well done.

Apparently Man v. Food couldn’t finish one, though that’s not really surprising, since that guy’s kind of the Derek Jeter of the big-eating world: all fame, no performance.

I felt pretty lucky to run into the place when all I’d searched for was a 24-hour diner that wasn’t Denny’s to grab a late dinner at after a long day of meetings.

The menu’s really simple, and it seems like the main things people order are the omelets and then milkshakes.

I thought about getting eggs over easy for a moment, but at the end of the day, a Suit orders the specialty of the house, unless that involves green vegetables.

So I ordered the six egg “full house” omelet with ham, American cheese and mushrooms.

As I waited for my meal, I looked at the walls, which were absolutely covered with crayon drawings left by patrons. Evidently at year’s end, the staff votes on its ten favorite, which get put in a place of honor for the next year.

And it was a wait for food, and I found out why on the way out: this place suffers from a serious lack of grill space, given what they do.

A 12-egg omelet takes up literally half of their grill, while the hash browns take up the other half, meaning that if you get behind a few of those, you’re automatically going to have to wait 15-20 minutes for breakfast food, which is just way too long.

If I were the owner, I’d at least double the size of the grill -- their hung-over clientele probably isn’t moving all that fast anyway (the place was voted the best place in Seattle to cure a hangover), but a diner still needs to turn out food reasonably fast for the occasional late-night road warrior looking for a quick bite.

But when my food came, it was worth the wait. The chunks of ham in there are clearly from a real ham that they make themselves, and the egg’s fluffy enough that you know that they beat the eggs themselves (well, if you don’t see ‘em doing it on your way in).

But a problem with the sheer size of these omelets is that large parts of them don’t have any filling in them at all. I don’t know if there’s something they could do with sprinkling the fillings out more instead of dumping them in the middle on the grill (this would probably mess up putting the omelet together), but the reason you order an omelet is to get fillings + eggs in every bite, and this omelet didn’t deliver.

But that wasn’t such a problem that I didn’t finish the omelet -- no, this was far too tasty to let it slip, and I even finished my hash browns too: kind of hard not to have at least most of them, since they’re right under the omelet.

Somehow, I managed to get through the whole omelet and didn’t even feel that full at the end, so I decided to order a piece of their friendship bread that I saw a couple other patrons eating.

It was definitely worth it: still warm, with the cinnamon sugar on top tasting just about perfect.

By this time, the bar crowd was starting to file in, and service was much, much slower. I had to flag down a waiter to get a refill on a drink (it took a solid five minutes), and I was disappointed that they didn’t even offer me seconds on hash browns.

Not that I would have taken ‘em, but given that they're allegedly “all you can eat,” I was a little disappointed.

So I sat for a little bit and then went to pay -- again a belabored process because the people in front of me were trying to figure out split tickets, but I left happy, even if my 9 AM the next morning was half an hour closer than I really wanted it to be.

Summing it up, this is definitely a place I’m happy to have gone to, and one I’d go back to again if I’m famished and have time on my hands in Seattle.

But only under those two conditions.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt

Greeting A New Day With Graffiti, Grease And Neck Tattoos

Frank’s Grill
1915 Mangum Road
Houston, TX





Diner. Hash house. Greasy spoon.

I just call this uniquely American roadside genre the “dive breakfast joint”.

Frank’s Grill up here in this decidedly blue collar corner of northwest Houston fits the genre to a tee.

The popularity of dive breakfast joints has always amused me.

Normally prissy folks who wouldn’t so much as drive by a redneck bar with their windows rolled down on Saturday night happily pile into the local hash house Sunday morning.

Waffle House and Huddle House have turned the concept into billion dollar national chains.

Hard as it is to believe, even lowly old Frank’s has managed to transform into a small constellation of four or five locations in and around Houston.

But fame and fortune aren’t about to go to old Frank’s head.

This particular Frank’s wears its divey credentials proudly.

It’s almost as if the management has decided that if they pick up the trash and empty cartons littering the parking lot, fix the broken front door and paint over the numerous scratches and graffiti, the good folks of Houston will stop flocking here for biscuits, gravy and nine buck New York strips.

I mean, as soon as you pull into the litter strewn driveway, you can’t help but notice this place gives about as much thought to ambiance as I do to Snooki, whatever the hell that is.

The rusted, wind battered sign teeters precariously over head. A half demolished, half rusted drive-through menu board betrays Frank’s prior life as some abandoned fast food joint.

But the real divey credentials can be found once you manage to get through the broken set of double front doors.

As I sat at the counter two feet behind the well-worn griddle, I couldn’t help but notice the decade old black clumps of grease that have settled under the grill and caked every nook and crevasse in the kitchen.

That grill hasn’t seen the business end of a scrub brush in years, let me tell you.

But that’s okay.

Most people think an egg is an egg is an egg. But there’s a reason they taste better in a dive like this. Health scores are overrated. It’s decade old grease that gives scrambled eggs their flavor.

As I looked around at the late breakfast crowd I began to wonder if I was the first guy in a suit to ever sit at this counter.

As if a sign from above, a jolly suit-clad local sat down two stools next to me.

“Man, I love this place,” he said as he grabbed a fistful of napkins and did his own sanitary cleansing of his corner of the counter.

“Look at that!”

Mesmerized by the sausage patties, rows of good thick bacon and mountain of shredded hash browns piled up in front of us on the griddle, we both agreed the skilled dude with the Mexican flag neck tattoo in front of us was the Michelangelo of cheap breakfast fare.

“I need to bring my kids here to see this,” he said. “Those guys are working hard!”

He said you can’t get more good food for less money anywhere else in Houston.

I certainly wasn’t going to doubt him.

My scrambled eggs came on a plate with enough hash browns to have staved off the entirety of the Irish potato famine and two giant biscuits I couldn’t even think of finishing.

I know what you’re thinking.

What about the meat?

While my view of the sausage and bacon sizzling on the griddle gave me a bit of meat envy, my meat choice was decided for me before I even sat down.

I’m in Texas. At a dive breakfast joint.

Is there any question?

Chicken. Fried. Steak.

The cool kids call it CFS.

CFS. Absolutely buried in an avalanche of white cream gravy.

For you naive Yankees -- no, chicken fried steak has nothing to do with poultry. It is a tender piece of steak (this is cattle country, after all), breaded and deep fried like a piece of Southern fried chicken.

Chicken fried steak is one of those dishes you have to be careful with. Unlike scrambled eggs, CFS can have a lot a variation in style and quality depending on where you get it.

First of all, I wouldn’t recommend ordering chicken fried steak outside of the great Nation of Texas. (Unless you are in Virginia Beach at Mary’s, where it is called “Country Fried Steak”.)

The meat itself can be tender or tough. The crust thick and well seasoned or thin and bland. The gravy can be white or brown, creamy or clumpy, studded with sausage or not.

Great or godawful.

See what I mean?

You can’t be too careful with CFS.

But I was confident Frank wouldn’t let me down.

Maybe over-confident.

Don’t get me wrong, my breakfast was good. And a downright steal for seven bucks.

But not great.

The hash browns had that nice crispy brown texture on top thanks to Frank’s special griddle grease. But with no seasoning, onions or other accompaniment, the bite after bite of shredded potato got a bit monotonous.

The biscuits also were huge, but tedious. These are the dry, yeasty, roll-type biscuits, not the soft, buttermilk with much higher grease-to-carb ratio varieties I prefer.

The chicken fried steak was tender and tasty, but the crust was emasculated by the overflowing river of gravy. And with no seasoning or sausage to liven it up, even the cream gravy was a bit of a let down.

Look. I realize no one comes to a place like Frank’s for culinary experimentation.

But the claim to fame here is decidedly about the quantity, not the quality. You know what they say about big and Texas?

My neighboring suit certainly wasn’t disappointed. Polishing off a mountain of a breakfast in nine minutes, he pushed back from the counter and exclaimed, “Wow. That’s takes care of breakfast AND lunch. I won’t have to eat again for another four hours.”

Geez. I won’t be able to even think about food again for another 24 hours, I thought to myself.

But therein lies the popularity of the dive breakfast joint.

Whether a suit facing a long day of meetings, a third shifter recovering from a night at the refinery or some hung over “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt wearing hippy, everyone can appreciate a decent hearty breakfast consisting of decade-old grease.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.