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.

Big City Chaos on the Menu at the Carnegie Deli

 

Carnegie Deli
854 7th Ave.
New York, NY




Chaos. I’m not really a fan.

I deal with enough chaos in my life thanks to the collective criminal incompetence of America’s commercial aviation system.

I don’t particularly crave chaos for lunch.

But that’s what’s on the menu at Manhattan’s world famous Carnegie Deli.

The Carnegie is the perfect reflection of the city it calls home.

Intersections gridlocked with traffic.

Kamikaze turban-wearing cab drivers violently weaving through the city streets.

Sidewalks teaming with pedestrians.

A cacophony of every language known to man -- except English.

A nanny-state dictator for mayor telling us how much Coke we can drink.

A politician named Wiener who likes to email pictures of his wiener to college coeds -- and thinks this should qualify him to be mayor of America’s largest city.

Chaos.

It would be nice to step out of this big city chaos into an oasis of serenity -- if only for a brief lunch break.

If that’s what you are looking for, you might as well pass the Carnegie Deli by.

Chaos ensued as soon as I opened the front door.

In a narrow three foot wide entrance, dozens of customers are variously trying to get in, trying to get out, trying to pay their tab at the cash register, trying to order deli meat at the counter.

All I was trying to do was get a hostess to seat me.

“This way”, she barked to me and a family of seven in front of me.

Then she was gone. Weaving through the masses like a hot knife through tender pastrami.

“Am I supposed to follow her?”

The dining room was jam packed with tourists seated shoulder to shoulder on tiny little rickety chairs way too small for the supersized 21st Century diners who come to eat big at the Carnegie Deli.

Butt to butt, shoulder to shoulder, knee cap to knee cap with complete strangers all gorging themselves on massive quantities of deli meat.

When I finally caught up with the hostess, maneuvering so as not to whack anyone in the head with my brief case, she ordered me to sit at the table with the family of seven, in between a couple screaming kids.

“I don’t think so.”

Sometimes in the midst of chaos, you have to put your foot down.

“I’ll go back to the front and get back in line.”

Fortunately, that move scored me a slightly less chaotic seat crammed at a table with adult tourists and fellow business travelers.

No nonsense waiters take your order and almost instantaneously bring out plates of food piled ridiculously high as the tourist all “ooh” and “ahh”.

I couldn’t decide between corned beef or pastrami.

So I got both.

That would be the Woody Allen. Plus I asked for Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on the side -- two absolutely essential additions to any Jewish deli sandwich, in my humble opinion.

When my waiter plopped my Woody Allen in front of me, the oohs and ahhs turns to gasps of horror.

Two piles of meat each half a foot high teetered precariously, impaled with long sticks to hold it all together.

A couple slices of rye bread topped the mountain of beef, as irrelevant as a turn signal on a New York City cab.

The Woody Allen is a $25 culinary monstrosity, more than two pounds of corned beef and pastrami.

The tiny slices of bread make this a sandwich only in the sense that Suit757 is a marathon runner -- because I own a pair of sneakers.

It would be absurd to even consider picking it up and eating it like a sandwich.

But I can be stubborn about these things.

So I conducted a bit of sandwich surgery, attempting to gently remove about four of the six inches of sliced meat in the hopes that I might be able to eat what was left with my two hands and bread -- just like God intended.

The result was culinary chaos.

The tender meat just shredded into tiny pieces at the very touch of my fork.

The bread disintegrated under the onslaught of grease.

My ladling on of Russian dressing only contributed to the mess.

My waiter, looking disgusted, condescendingly threw me a few extra napkins to keep the chaos from spreading to my suit.

My table mate strangers just glanced in horror out of the corner of their eyes.

Eventually, I gave up on being stubborn and just attacked the pile of meat, cheese, dressing and bread remainders with my knife and fork like a civilized diner.

I have to say, while the Carnegie Deli may be known for the quantity of its food, the quality is outstanding too.

The corned beef was fatty and beyond tender. The pastrami peppery and hearty.

The top notch thick cut Swiss cheese broke up the meat monotony while the Russian dressing added a touch of spicy sweetness.

I surprised myself with how much of my Woody Allen I was able to consume. The meat is so light and tender, you can eat a lot more than you’d think.

In the end I ate almost the whole thing singlehandedly.

Now granted, I felt like I needed to go outside and lie down on the 7th Avenue sidewalk next to the bums and take a digestion nap.

The chaos of Manhattan was now replicating itself inside my stomach.

Meanwhile I was still facing a chaotic afternoon of two more meetings, a cab ride, three subway connections, a TSA fondling, a nine hour delay at JFK Airport and a flight home that touched down at 4:32am.

You know what?

The sliced meat at the Carnegie Deli may be fantastic, but Anthony Wiener can have the chaos of New York City.

Sometimes I'd rather just stay home.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Yankee Stadium – The House Ben Bernanke Built

Yankee Stadium
1 East 161st St.
Bronx, NY




Damn Yankees.

I hate the New York Yankees.

I hate the pompous attitude. The lack of shame.

I mean wouldn’t you feel just a bit sheepish if you flushed $150 million down the toilet on worthless pitchers like Jose Contreras, Jaret Wright and Kevin Brown?

But the Yankees? Not at all.

What’s $150,000,000 in this Helicopter Ben Bernanke economy when you can charge twelve bucks for a watered down Miller Lite – and your fans readily show up to stand in line night after night to pay it?

“We’re the Yankees. They’ll pay it.”

And if Contreras, Wright and Brown produce a combined ERA over 5 and start less than 100 games between them?

Just go out and spend another $80 million for Carl Pavano and Kei Igawa to replace them. And get even worse production in return.

“We’re the Yankees. We can afford it.”

Then the Yankees have the audacity to force the taxpayers of New York to spend over one and half BILLION (that’s with a “b”) dollars on a Greek columned shrine to the bubble economy.

The most expensive stadium in the history of the world.

“We’re the Yankees. We’re worth it.”

You’d think for the billion and a half the taxpayers coughed up and the $100, $500 and $1,000 tickets those same taxpayers have to pay to get in the place, the Yankees wouldn’t treat them like Osama bin Laden.

But no. I suffered abuse victim flashbacks to my TSA gropings as the Yankee Stadium security team ensured that my Quality Inn room key in my front pocket wasn’t a device to blow up Derek Jeter.

Every Yankee fan dutifully lined up for the privilege of being groped as we pushed our way into the unironically named “Great Hall.”

“We’re the Yankees. They’ll put up with it.”

I began to question my negotiating skills when I finally located my seat in the upper reaches of the top section in Left Field.

The scalper whined like Alex Rodriguez when I told him I only had twenty bucks for a ticket.

“Are you kidding me? For the Yankees? This is Yankee Stadium! You’re killing me,” he cried.

I should have known that was a bad sign. Somehow, at the end of our little street corner negotiation, he managed to accept my twenty.

My seat was so high above the New York skyline, I think I could look DOWN at the top of the Empire State Building.

“We’re the Yankees. You’ll gladly pay too much just to be graced by our magnificence. Who cares if you can’t actually see the game?”

One of the positive aspects of going to a game alone is you can feel free to just wander the stadium at your leisure.

As my previous reviews of Citi Field, home of the Mets, Petco Park, home of the Padres and Citizens Bank Park, home of the Phillies, I’ve taken advantage of the standing room sections behind home plate.

You don’t get a seat, but the stadium thoughtfully provides a nice ledge to rest your beer and brat while taking in the close up action.

Makes sense. At the prices these ballparks charge for a beer and brat, they want to encourage more consumption, not less.

Unfortunately, here at Yankee Stadium, commoners like me aren’t allowed anywhere near field level. You have to be a personal acquaintance of Mayor Bloomberg to even get down to the 100 Level.

“We’re the Yankees. Just being IN the stadium should be enough of a privilege.”

So I descended down to the second level from my assigned perch up on Mount Steinbrenner and began looking for a decent beer.

Bud Light and Miller Lite was all I could find at stand after stand.

Surely Yankees fans consume something more sophisticated than this mass-produced watered-down piss water.

Hell, even Mets fans have better taste than that. Citi Field sells Brooklyn Lager.

“We’re the Yankees. Why would we need to sell good beer?”

Finally, all the way down behind the batter’s eye in Center Field, I found a booth selling imports for twelve bucks.

Ouch.

The selection included fancy, exotic options like Yuengling, Heineken and Blue Moon (insert sarcasm here).

By order of Mayor/Third World Dictator Michael Bloomberg, the menu board even listed the calories next to the $12 price tag.

I opted for a Guinness – the least bad choice offered.

After tipping the slow-as-molasses beer girl a buck and missing one and a half innings of baseball in the process, I came to the stunning realization that I just paid nearly seventy cents per ounce for a beer that I’ll probably chug in less time than it took to order it. (Guinness is a gulping – not a sipping – beer).

“We’re the Yankees. We know you’re going to buy a beer, no matter how much we charge you.”

At this point, I needed some food.

Surely, Yankee Stadium offers some interesting options like Shake Shack burgers or Blue Smoke barbeque, like at Citi Field. Right?

“We’re the Yankees. Did you come to eat or to watch our magnificence?”

Yeah, right.

I couldn’t even find a sausage or hot dog stand that offered grilled onions.

Plain, foil-wrapped, preheated dogs for six bucks.

“We’re the Yankees. The mustard is over there at the end of that line if you need it.”

But I refused to give up my search.

When I finally made it all the way around to the other end of the stadium, I found one stand behind the home plate luxury suites selling “Bronx Bomber Dogs” with onions for eight bucks.

The dude spooned onto my dog a dabble of wet, greasy onions which immediately reduced the bun into a sticky disintegrated paste.

Since the only import beer stand was over a mile a way, I decided I should suck it up and pay eleven bucks for a 24 ounce Miller Lite.

Quickly doing the math in my head, I realized that is an even WORSE deal than my $12 Guinness!

It must be that super nifty “Souvenir cup” it comes in that explains the mark-up for the yellow colored fizzy water. Immortalized in bright blue plastic was an image of every one of the Yankees’ 27 World Series rings.

“We are the Yankees. You will gladly cough up $11 (plus obligatory tip) for a plastic cup you can keep (!) to forever stare longingly at our championship rings.”

Wow. I just paid twenty bucks for a hot dog and a beer. I better enjoy this.

Obviously I had no intention of returning to my seat in the upper atmosphere.

So I wandered over to the standing room ledge and plopped down my twenty dollar dinner just in time to catch Derek Jeter at the plate.

No sooner had I taken my first bite, than some Yankee Stadium usher-Nazi came over to me and said, “You can’t sit here, eat here or stand here. You have to leave. These spots are reserved.”

Reserved? For whom?

Sure enough, the standing room rail was emblazoned with Yankee blue signs reading, in no uncertain terms: “RESERVED”.

Never mind that on this sparsely attended Tuesday night game against the last place Blue Jays, there was not a single person in the entire stadium using the standing room ledge.

“We’re the Yankees. Sit where you are told.”

When usher-Nazi wasn’t looking, I slipped into the top row of vacant seats to try to enjoy my eight dollar hot dog.

Barely room temperature and no more than four or five bites, that was the least satisfying meal on which I’ve ever wasted eight bucks.

Not to keep you in suspense, but the Yankees and their $200 million per year payroll pulled out the victory against the last place Blue Jays.

As Yankees closer Rafael Soriano recorded the final out, I contemplated how spending an evening at a Major League Baseball game is one of the fun things you can do while traveling America on business.

Unfortunately, the Yankees try to squelch all the joy out of the experience at every opportunity.

But the Yankees don’t care.

Yankee fans will be lined up to file into their shrine to the Bernanke Bubble Economy to do it all again tomorrow.

“See you tomorrow,” said the usher as I walked out into the Bronx night.

“We’re the Yankees. You’ll be back.”

Don’t bet on it.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Stimulating Beer Sales Since 1837

Schwabl’s
789 Center Rd.
West Seneca, NY





You’ve got to love any food item invented solely for the purpose of stimulating increased beer drinking.

I guess that’s why I was so excited to try Schwabl’s world famous “Beef on Weck”.

That’s a stimulus plan even I can support!

According to Buffalo mythology, this unique roast beef sandwich on salt and caraway seed-studded buns was invented by enterprising bar tenders in this blue collar city who wanted to encourage their patrons to drink more beer.

The powerful punch of salt and caraway on the big yeasty rolls definitely makes you thirsty.

Fortunately for Suit757, my weekend started early after my final meeting of a long week wrapped up at 11 on a Friday morning.

Despite the AM hour, I felt it was my duty to order a locally brewed Flying Bison Aviator Red to accompany my Beef on Weck.

A sweet, malty brew with a dark red color, my Flying Bison slid down easily – just like it should.

Schwabl’s is considered one of the oldest restaurant operations in America, dating back to 1837.

Of course it has changed locations many times over the past two centuries, but this location in West Seneca dates back to the 1940s.

It stayed in the Schwabl family for most of the past 185 years until a couple long-time employees bought it a few years ago.

But it doesn’t look like much has changed.

The atmosphere is definitely old school.

Stepping through the creaky screen door is like stepping back in time.

An old timey cash register, leather bound menus and old men sipping 11am martinis and cracking jokes set the mood.

Waitresses dressed in all white uniforms look like nurses from a 1950s soap opera. They know every customer by name.

Except me, of course.

I barely even glanced at the menu.

Anyone coming to Schwabl’s for the first time orders the specialty of the house, Beef on Weck with German potato salad.

The bar tender – also dressed in a white apron and tie – opened up the beef steamer right behind the bar and meticulously carved off several slices of the roast and neatly piled them onto a half of a kummelweck loaf, made here in Buffalo specifically for this sandwich.

Not to be a downer, but I just wasn’t that impressed.

Maybe Beef on Weck is just a little TOO old school for me.

I mean, this sandwich could use a serious bout of modern creativity. Some sautéed onions maybe. Or melted cheese. Or greens. Or spicy homemade mayo.

It needed something.

As it was, my Beef on Weck was just some slices of dry boring roast beef on salty bread.

Part of the problem may have been my early arrival. My very professional waitress warned me that since it was a new roast, my slices were going to be “medium-well”.

Pinker, juicier meat might have elevated this sandwich to a higher rating.

The only condiment provided was a little tableside ramekin of horseradish.

A little of that goes a long way. It only conspired with the salt and caraway seeds on the bun to make me drink my Flying Bison even quicker.

Those clever bartenders.

The cole slaw and pickled beet on the side were saturated in salty vinegar. Not really my thing.

The highlight of the meal (beside the Flying Bison that is) was the German potato salad.

Garnished with bacon bits, celery and other fun, tasty ingredients, the potato dish was served warm, as is customary with this Old World version of potato salad.

So the potato salad and beer were good.

The rest of my $22 lunch (including tip and tax)? Not so much.

I guess I just don’t get the concept.

You don’t need to feed me tasteless roast beef on a salty bun to get me drink beer.

Beer drinking requires no excuse for Suit757.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if You Paid Me.

My Ode to the Hot Dog

New Way Lunch
21 South St.
Glens Falls, NY




“Suit757, what is your obsession with hot dogs?”

I’ve actually gotten that question from a few loyal Suits in Strange Places readers.

If one of my fellow suits posed that question, their suit credentials would be immediately revoked.

Are you kidding me?!?!

The hot dog is one of man’s greatest inventions. Right up there with dollar beer night, Goody’s headache powders and that outfit Scarlett Johansson wore to the Golden Globes a few years ago.

If you don’t believe me, check out the wieners being served at New Way Lunch way up in the frozen tundra of Upstate New York.

Simple pink little dogs smothered in that wonderful symphony of flavors that is raw onions and meaty chili, the lowly hot dog has been the main attraction at this little lunch counter since 1919.

Hot dogs get a bum rap.

Food elitists see them as nothing more than pre-formed nitrated processed scraps of meat deemed not worthy enough for more well-connected meat products.

But we 99 percenters, who appreciate the inner beauty of these tubes of meat, recognize the versatility of America’s favorite culinary pastime.

My hot dog obsession started when I was a kid.

This won’t come as a big surprise to you, but young Suit757 wasn’t a big fan of fruits, vegetables or anything my mother might consider remotely healthy.

When I was hungry, a hot dog or two wrapped in a paper towel, zapped for a minute in the microwave and stuffed into a soft bun with a squirt of ketchup was mealtime nirvana.

While modern science might reject the possible survivability of a pure processed meat diet, it is a fact that my hot dog intake actually increased substantially in college.

Free from the shackles of parental oversight, a two dollar pack of hot dogs, a 99 cent package of buns and a case of cheap Keystone Beer (non-union) was an ideal college kid grocery list, considering my priorities at the time.

But as satisfying as a nuked Oscar Myer can be in a pinch, there is no doubt that hot dog cuisine can be elevated to a much higher plane depending on such variables as cooking method, toppings and even location.

Everything tastes better roasted over a charcoal grill, hot dogs especially. Fire, danger and the great outdoors instantly transform a functional exercise like lining your stomach with processed meat prior to a night of beer drinking into a festive backyard event.

Hot dogs just taste better sitting outside in the sunshine, beer in hand, whether it’s your backyard cookout or behind home plate at Spring Training.

I think it was Humphrey Bogart who once said, “A hot dog at a ball game is better than a fillet at the Ritz.”

Well, said, Humphrey. Well said.

Part of the appeal of hot dogs is that they are so convenient and fun to eat.

One of the greatest moments of my life was at one of my friend’s bachelor parties that began with a Washington Nationals game at old RFK Stadium. Somehow one of the attendees knew someone who knew someone who knew the guy who owned the company that catered the ballpark.

Within moments of the last out, this fellow party-goer appeared with a wide grin on his face – and a box of four dozen unsold ballpark hot dogs that moments earlier had been selling for five bucks a piece. Free!

I’ll never forget my euphoria. Just like winning the lottery.

I spend hours each day dreaming about sitting at the ball park devouring that hot dog of my dreams.

But here I was with a virtual limitless supply splayed out on RFK concrete floor right before my eyes!

“Now that’s a cheap dinner,” I kept exclaiming as we all stood in the concourse devouring our newfound honey pot of RFK wieners, which conveniently allowed us all to bypass that annoying “getting something to eat” exercise before moving on to the evening’s more exciting planned activities.

Cheap, convenient, portable.

But what really elevates the hot dog to roadfood destination dining is its diversity as a delivery vehicle for delicious topping combinations.

Cheese, chili, onions, mustard, ketchup, peppers.

Even bacon and pastrami. I mean, what could be better to add to your processed meat -- than even MORE processed meat?!

The delicious options are almost limitless.

But not at New Way Lunch. Your options are limited to mustard, raw onion and a chili that is really just of concoction of finely ground beef and spices.

But it’s a formula that has been working for nearly a century.

The crunch of the onions and the spice of the meat sauce help to camouflage the fact that the tiny pink dogs served here aren’t anything special.

On this frigid winter day, I ordered a cup of chili on the side, which is nothing like the topping on the dogs.

Infused with tomato, beans, big chunks of meat and just enough spice to warm my frozen bones, the chili is bright red compared to the dark brown hot dog topping.

Unfortunately, the new modern lunch room built in 2006 lacks the century old charm of the original location across the street.

But I guess living up to its name, New Way had to change with the times, even if its most popular menu item never does.

That’s the beauty of hot dogs. It’s something those one percenters will never get.

Like Scarlett Johansson’s fashion sense, hot dogs will never go out of style.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.