Celebrating Cultural Diversity in Cleveland (Sort Of)

Sokolowski’s
University Inn
1201 University Rd.
Cleveland, OH




The city I grew up in wasn’t exactly diverse.

I had to move away to college before I ever met a black person.

Hispanic? I had no idea what that even meant. Somebody from the island of Hispaniola?

Maybe?

Everyone I knew was either Catholic or just didn’t go to church.

But sometimes looks can be deceiving. There was more diversity than initially met the eye.

After all, we had all the flavors of Catholic.

Irish Catholic. French Catholic. Italian Catholic. Polish Catholic.

Yep. All four.

And most of us had at least something to brag about.

Being Irish Catholic was cool. We had our own holiday to celebrate in March.

Nobody of French decent ever has any self-esteem issues.

The Italians had cool sounding names, moms who knew how to cook well and their darker skin (relatively speaking) seemed to grant them magical athletic abilities on the basketball court (relatively speaking).

It was the Polish Catholic kids who seemed to bear the brunt of the nationalistic jokes.

To this day I’m not sure why. Does anyone really know how these things originate?

But after a recent trip to legendary Polish Restaurant Sokolowski’s in Cleveland, I think it’s past due that the Poles get some credit for their top notch cuisine.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Polish food will never compete with the flavorful creativity that comes out of the kitchens of Southern Europe.

But pierogi and kielbasa beat the heck out of Irish mashed potatoes. That’s for sure.

Let’s just say Polish food is cultural diversity I’m happy to celebrate.

Pierogi have humble origins -- a staple of Polish peasant food -- simple dumplings stuffed with mashed potatoes.

But now pierogi have gone all Hollywood on us.

In Pittsburgh, also home to a large Polish community, the Pirates entertain their fans with “pierogi races” at PNC Park where costumed cheese, onion, sauerkraut and jalapeño pierogi race each other for doughy supremacy.

Thanks to Mrs. T’s, you can now buy frozen pierogi by the box in the freezer section of every grocery store in North America.

But it’s here in the Midwest where you have to go to get the real thing.

Once you’ve tried the real deal, you’ll never go back to the frozen microwaved imitation.

That’s because real pierogi are fried in butter with onions.

Oh yeah.

I’d eat my Johnston and Murphy’s if they were fried in butter with onions.

Here at Sokolowski’s, pierogi are served piping hot with a side of sour cream, their soft potatoey insides perfectly complemented by the sweet buttery onions.

On the side, I asked the cafeteria lady for the “noodles and cabbage”.

Unfortunately, the noodles and cabbage looked more intriguing than they tasted.

That’s the danger of cafeteria-style restaurants like Sokolowski’s. I end up tasting with my eyes instead of my mouth.

Buttery but devoid of any seasoning, I livened up my side of noodles and cabbage with some salt and pepper.

The kielbasa was a thick link of smoked meat, hearty but still tender.

Kielbasa, also known in the U.S. as “Polish Sausage” is like a snow flake. It seems that no two versions are exactly alike.

Sokolowski’s has nurtured a well-earned reputation over the past nine decades for its excellent kielbasa.

I certainly wasn’t disappointed.

To wash it all down?

While the selection of Polish beers was tempting, Suit757 was in the middle of his work day.

So I opted for the next best choice on draft -- Vernors Ginger Ale, a Midwestern tradition aged in oak barrels for three years.


Spicier, sweeter and gingerier than modern day ginger ales, Vernors is a poor substitute for a frosty Okocim but not a bad alternative to Cleveland municipal tap water.

But the best part of dining at Sokolowski’s might not even be the food or drink.

It’s the old world/old school ambiance.

A Cleveland landmark since 1923, Sokolowski’s has long been cut off from the mainland of the city by Interstate 90.

Sokolowski’s is now a virtual island perched high above the Cuyahoga River, overlooking the Cleveland skyline, smog-belching factories and riverfront gravel pits down below.

Winding your way through the middle class residential streets to Sokolowski’s is like an adventure back to a different time and place in America.

A time and place when folks of similar backgrounds would gather over hearty meals and cold beer to reminisce about their shared culture.

Reminders of that Polish culture surround you as you dine at Sokolowski’s.

Paintings and photographs of all the Polish heroes are prominently displayed -- everyone from Carl Yastrzemski to Pope John Paul II.

I enjoyed my meal under the watchful eyes of two of our last three popes, including an official “Apostolic Blessing” to the Sokolowski family from Pope Benedict.

And I guess that’s why even though I may not have a trace of Polish blood in my veins, dining at Sokolowski’s in this diversity-obsessed age still felt like home to me.

The kids I grew up with, regardless of our nationalities, were all white and attended the same church.

What’s wrong with that?

In a crazy world full of zealots who want to blow us all up in the name of Allah, history demonstrates that too much diversity often leads to hatred, death, destruction and genocide.

Maybe diversity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I mean, a little diversity is fine. It makes lunchtime in Cleveland interesting.

But I’m not exactly looking to become the next Salman Rushdie or Daniel Pearl.

Sokolowski’s pierogi and kielbasa were just the right amount of diversity for me today.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Taking on the Thurmanator

The Thurman Cafe

183 Thurman Ave.
Columbus, OH 43206


 

Ohio...

Never thought that I'd live to see the day that I lived in the state of Ohio.

Being surrounded by Cleveland Indians fans and constantly having to explain to indignant Buckeye fans that all because I am from Michigan does not mean that I am a fan of that terrible liberal institution that resides in Ann Arbor, is not exactly what I had in mind as a young Suit.

Alas, here I am, fighting for liberty in yet another state. And, boy, does Ohio need a heavy dose of freedom.

Red light cameras, forced unionism, and a certain governor's desire to expand an already disastrous welfare program is enough to drive any liberty lover mad...

But, I digress...

We are here to talk about the happier things about Ohio, such as good beer and good food. And, boy, did I hit a home run in visiting The Thurman Cafe, a Columbus staple.

Known for their 3/4 pound burgers, this place often has dinner time waits lasting over an hour. In fact, Suit757 once tried to visit this place and had to give up, so I was commissioned with the task of visiting and writing the review.

It didn't take much arm-twisting...

After an early morning of helping a friend get his moving truck loaded, Mrs. Suit317 and I decided to hit up the Thurman Cafe for lunch. I can tell you, for sure, that lunch is a much better time to come to this joint. We had no wait. Immediate seating.

The beer selection was not overwhelming, but good enough. I had Great Lakes' Oktoberfest. It isn't my favorite of their's, but it was still a high quality beer. For anyone who doesn't know, the Great Lakes Brewing Company is based out of Cleveland and it is a high quality company. If you are ever in Ohio and have a high standard for the kind of beer you drink, and are not a "Bud Light only guy", it is a safe bet that you'd like something from Great Lakes. If you are a "Bud Light only guy", get with the program and drink good beer like Great Lakes Brewing.

Sorry, done with that rant.

Having looked at the menu before hand, we already knew what we were going to order.

The Thurmanator.

This burger is a monster.

There is no way that I could have finished this thing on my own, hence why it was a good thing to have Mrs. Suit317 along to help.

Here's the description of the burger: Bottom bun, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle, banana peppers, 12 ounce burger, bacon, cheddar, another 12 ounce burger, sautéed mushrooms and onions, ham, mozzarella & American cheese, top bun.

Oh, and in case you are still hungry, it comes with fries.

Does it taste as good as it looks?

Most definitely.

The only problem that I had is that my mouth was not big enough to take a full bite out of this burger to get a full blend of all of the flavors. It was definitely a knife and fork kind of meal.

I finished my half, she didn't and now has leftovers for lunch for the next three days.

Although, those leftovers might magically disappear by some other cause...

Thurman Cafe definitely has character and fits right up there at the top of the list of places to eat in Columbus.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Making a Mess in Room 225

Hot Sauce Williams
3770 Lee Road
Cleveland, OH






We call this website Suits in Strange Places.

Because when you are a business traveler combing the back woods and back alleys of America to find the coolest places to eat, drink and have fun, you have to be willing to push yourself a bit out of your comfort zone.

With this gig, you just have to accept the fact that you just aren’t always going to fit in.

Especially when you are a white guy in a suit in the ghetto of Cleveland.

It’s not like I’m going to pass myself off as a local at Hot Sauce Williams.

Sometimes you just have to get your food, snap a few clandestine pictures and take it back to Room 225 at the Clarion.

So, I hope, my dear reader, you’ll grant me special dispensation this one time.

Tonight, Suit757 was doing carry out – the cop out of every solo business traveler.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how important and profound this review could become.

Every business traveler in America can relate to the perils of motel room carry out.

After 250+ reviews on this website, it’s about time we broached this important issue.

It’s time someone stood up for the rights of the solo business traveler.

We’re tired of being treated as second class citizens. Persecuted business travelers should unite for more napkins, better utensils and a table to eat at in the motel room that faces the TV!

Is that too much to ask for?

I think not!

From my research, I knew Hot Sauce Williams probably wasn’t going to be a “dine in” kind of place anyway. And I heard it was on the seedy side of town.

So I figured I must have been lost as I cruised down Van Aken Boulevard in my rental Ford Focus past stately brick mansions and leafy suburban side streets on my way to Hot Sauce Williams.

But as soon as I turned left on Lee Road and rumbled over the railroad crossing, the neighborhood changed dramatically.

Within the span of a few hundred feet, the bucolic Cleveland suburbs transformed into chicken and waffle joints, pawn shops and pay day check cashing services.

I guess this is what they mean by “wrong side of the tracks.”

And to think, pompous Yankees accuse us Southerners of segregation?

We figured this stuff out a long time ago. Forget the federal government. Good food will always be the best desegregation tool.

I guess that’s why I thought it was strange that I was the only white guy to come or go in the ten or fifteen minutes I spent at Hot Sauce Williams.

For a place with barbeque and sausages this good, great food should transcend demographics, like it does in the South.

Speaking of desegregation, I found it ironic that one of the most famous items on Hot Sauce Williams’ menu is something called a “Polish Boy”.

That’s what I came for!

Cleveland has long boasted a large Polish population with top notch pierogies and kielbasa readily available.

But great Polish sausage at a black barbeque joint? I don’t have an explanation for that one.

A Cleveland Polish Boy is a kielbasa sausage on a hot dog roll smothered in French fries, cole slaw and that namesake hot sauce.

Yes. You read that right.

The French fries and cole slaw are squooshed onto the top of the sausage along with the hot sauce.

You get all four food groups in each bite.

Of course, as Suit757, I was concerned that most important food group of all might be under represented under that mound of carbs.

So I eagerly voted for the option of adding freshly barbequed pulled pork to my Polish Boy monstrosity.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself as I made my way back to the Clarion under the intoxicating spell of Hot Sauce Williams’ hot sauce saturating the recycled air inside my Ford Focus.

I just ordered pork on top of my pork!

Aren’t I clever?

That was the longest six mile drive of my life.

Nostrils tingling with the scent of dead pig saturated in hot sauce. Stomach growling in anticipation.

Forget that slow ass motel elevator.

I bounded the stairs three at a time to the second floor, fumbled for my plastic key, and flew open the door.

Didn’t even bother to bolt it. I had more important things to do.

I flipped the TV to the Indians game, cracked open my $12 “Hoppin’ Frog Goose Juice” and laid my aluminum foil Arch of the Covenant on my lap.

This was the moment I had been waiting for all my life.

I opened it up like a four year old on Christmas morning.

And there it was splayed out before me – an absolute freaking mess.

WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS???

Cole slaw, pork, hot sauce, fries, bun and sausage disemboweled like the carnage from an overly realistic war movie.

No fork. No knife. No plate. No bib. Two meager cocktail napkins.

If you’ve ever attempted to eat carry-out on the bed spread of a motel mattress, you can feel my pain.

I mean, every motel, no matter how cheap, now provides you with a coffee maker, iron and ironing board. Is it too much to ask for a few paper plates, plastic forks and paper towels?

I guess so.

I sacrificed a motel towel to mop up my inglorious mess.

Serves them right.

I quickly concluded there is no responsible, mature way to eat a Cleveland Polish Boy.

So I just went all cave man on it with my bare hands. And resisted the urge to use my gory fingers to change the channel between innings.

I was up to my elbows in cole slaw, hot sauce and pig remainders, dripping all over the well worn Clarion carpet.

And you know what? Alone in my motel room, with no one looking judgmentally at me, there was something liberating about devouring my meal like a Neanderthal.

I think my primitive conditions in Room 225 made my Polish Boy taste even better.

The sausage was dense and smoky but complimented by the creamy cool flavor of the cole slaw and starchy fries.

But the highlight was the pulled pork and sauce, which seemed more sweet than hot – surprising, considering the name of the place.

Best of all was my Goose Juice – the one clear cut advantage to motel room carry out.

When you can stop by the Whole Foods across the street to buy your own beer, you are not held hostage by the lame dine-in selection of beer taps.

That was especially important this evening considering that Hot Sauce Williams doesn’t even serve beer.

It would be a crime against man and nature to consume a pork and hot sauce-laden Polish
Boy with anything but good craft beer.

Granted, pouring it into the shrink-wrapped plastic Clarion cup is probably not what the brewers down the road at Akron’s Hoppin’ Frog Brewery had in mind when they carefully crafted this high alcohol rye IPA.

But, you know. See above about the plight of motel dwelling business travelers.

Come to think of it, I’ve had enough of these indignities.

I’m starting a national campaign right now with this review: beer-clean pint glasses in EVERY hotel room.

Oh, and don’t forget the extra napkins.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

The Thrill of Cincinnati Chili is Never Gone

Camp Washington Chili
3005 Colerain Ave.
Cincinnati, OH





I can’t believe we’re up to 200 reviews on this website and no one has covered one of this country’s greatest regional delicacies – Cincinnati Chili.

Well, my dear Suits in Strange Places readers, Suit757 is just the man for the job.

And Camp Washington Chili in the old meat packing section of the city, not far from where the Reds played ball at Crosley Field for three quarters of a century, is just the place to start.

Like many of America’s great culinary traditions (think pizza, French Fries and cheap Chinese delivery), Cincinnati’s unique version of chili was originated by an immigrant.

When Tom Kiradjieff arrived in the Queen City almost a century ago from Greece, he brought with him a delicious recipe of ground beef, tomatoes and exotic Mediterranean spices that Cincinnatians have been lapping up ever since.

The city now has over 150 chili parlors ranging from big chains with dozens of outposts to small independents like Camp Washington. If you’re in Cincinnati and hungry and can’t find one, you’re not trying very hard.

In our homogenized information age we live in, I’m surprised Cincinnati chili hasn’t caught on nationally.

But in a way, I’m glad.

Nothing extinguishes a pleasant craving like too easy access.

Not to get all overly sappy about a pile of spicy ground beef, but you don’t want to end up like B.B. King where “The Thrill is Gone.”

Since I can only get it a few times a year, indulging in Cincinnati chili is one of those crave-worthy moments that still makes life worth living.

Worth getting up in the morning. And enduring TSA lines. And being fondled by blue-gloved federal agents.

First of all, the aroma of Cincinnati chili is like your grandmother’s kitchen on Christmas Eve.

Sweet and spicy at the same time. Your senses are immediately piqued by the onion, peppers, cinnamon and ground cloves.

Nope. The thrill is definitely NOT gone.

As delicious as it is, no one eats Cincinnati chili straight. You must get it served over spaghetti. With a mountain of shredded cheese piled on top.

That’s known at every chili parlor in Cincinnati as a “Three-Way.”

But why stop there?

A “Four-Way” adds onions. A “Five-Way” adds beans too.

Normally, Suit757 is a “Five-Way” guy all the way. Extra large.

But since I was hoping to save a little room for a Graeter’s double-scoop of chocolate chip at Fountain Square and a Great American Ballpark grilled Mett with peppers and onions at the Reds game in a few short hours, I decided to go a little easy today with a regular sized “Four-Way”.

I wasn’t disappointed. Never am.

Camp Washington’s version is a just a bit spicier than the big chain chili parlors like Skyline and Gold Star. The Camp’s spaghetti is a little thicker too, which reduces the catastrophic splatter effect Cincinnati chili always seems to take all over my Barry Larkin replica jersey (at least the color is right).

Almost as good as the “Four-Way” is the second most famous delivery vehicle for Cincinnati chili – the Coney.

These are little three or four bite hot dogs smothered in chili and buried under an avalanche of shredded cheese. And a few diced onions for good measure.

Hot dog heaven!

Camp Washington can’t claim to be the originator of Cincinnati Chili. None of the city’s parlors can.

Tom Kiradjieff’s original chili parlor, located next door to a strip joint called “The Empress”, is long gone.

But Camp Washington is the next best thing.

Founded in 1940, Camp Washington has been serving Cincinnati’s favorite meal here at the corner of Colerain and Hopple Streets since Hall of Famer Ernie Lombardi was crouching behind Crosley Field's home plate.

Johnny Johnson, another one of Cincinnati’s Greek immigrants, began making chili here in 1951.

And guess what?

He’s still here making that chili.

Unfortunately, the current building is not the original. That was torn down a few years ago and replaced with a gleaming, freshly scrubbed 21st Century chili parlor.

While comfortable and popular, the new version of Camp Washington lacks the nostalgia such a seven decade old chili parlor deserves.

The new atmosphere is more like highway exit ramp Steak N Shake.

But that’s OK.

When my senses are awakened by the aroma and taste of those ground cloves and my fork cuts through the top of that mound of finely shredded cheese and sweetly spicy pile of chili and spaghetti, I’m not even thinking about ambiance.

By the time I polished off the last bites of my “Four-Way” and Coney and took the last swig from my Amstel Light, all I could think about was how long it would be before I can get back to Cincinnati.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

The Grave Consequences of Food God Never Intended to be Fried

Ohio State Fair
State Fair Grounds
Columbus, OH

If you’ve been following this website for any length of time, you know there are at least three certified Suit757 ways to convert almost any food item from good into great.

Drench it in chocolate.

Burry it in bacon.

Or dip it in batter and deep fry it.

But as I learned after a recent visit to the Ohio State Fair in Columbus, the key word in that opening statement is “almost”.

For centuries now, fairs have been ideal locations to roll out fun, experimental takes on tasty junk foods.

Some of man’s greatest inventions – everything from the hot dog to the hamburger to the ice cream cone (stuff right up there with polio vaccines, bikinis and dollar beer night at the local ballpark, as far as I’m concerned) -- have been credited with being invented at fairs.

And like any truly extraordinary breakthrough in human development, these one-time experimental foods have become ubiquitous pillars of American culture.

Who knows? Maybe some crazy sounding concoction like deep fried Kool Aid served up at the Ohio State Fair will one day lead to fried Kool Aid stands at every busy intersection in America.

Or maybe not. But I was determined to find out.

The annual Ohio State Fair has been a quintessential all-American country-comes-to-town celebration since the 19th Century.

Salt-of-the-earth folks from all corners of the Buckeye State have flocked to this same identical spot just north of downtown Columbus for more than a century to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl, check out blue ribbon winning chickens and walk around under the blistering sun carrying various meats-on-stick.

Unfortunately, despite the desperate need traipsing through the steaming fairgrounds under the 90 degree sun, there was no beer to be found.

The disappointment was soul crushing.

What’s the point of gazing upon an 826 pound pumpkin or a life-sized cow made entirely of butter without a plastic cup of cold beer in hand?

Attempting to make lemonade out of lemons (literally), I decided to try some food items that wouldn’t have worked with beer anyway.

Like chocolate covered bacon.

I actually had high hopes for his one.

Sometimes savory and sweet work well together.

I mean, I love the salty, porky taste of good thick bacon. And who doesn’t like chocolate?

Unfortunately, I had to spend three dollars to discover that bacon will not be replacing peanut butter any time soon as a marriage partner for chocolate.

Like a poorly constructed bathing suit, the dark chocolate exposed the not-so-attractive “burnt toast” flavor of the bacon while completely covering over the good parts.

Conclusion: chocolate, good; bacon, good.

Chocolate covered bacon? Not so much.

Next up, an assortment of deep fried Oreos, Nutter Butters and Buckeyes all covered in chocolate syrup and powered sugar.

This experiment was a life altering (and stomach churning) experience for me.

Up until this fateful moment at the Ohio State Fair, I truly believed that any food could be improved upon with a quick dip in sweet batter and bubbling grease.

The deep fried Oreos seemed to hold up best under the carb and grease onslaught. Since Oreos aren’t really made of any natural substances, they don’t melt or disintegrate under such extreme conditions. And the sweet batter adds a distinct taste addition to the Oreo components.

But still, I couldn’t help but wonder – why bother? Oreos are pretty good straight up.

The deep frying of the Nutter Butter was even more pointless. It was hard to tell where the batter, cookie and peanut butter fillings began and ended. It was just kind of a hot, mushy, sugary mess.

But it was the deep fried Buckeyes that had me fantasizing about a giant jar of Tums.

First of all, if you are from Mars (or Michigan) you may not know what a buckeye is. It’s the official tree of Ohio – with leaves that look like pot and nuts that resemble acorns.

But that’s not what I’m talking about.

I'm talking about Buckeye candy. Chocolate candies that have a peanut butter center, made to look like the nuts from a buckeye tree.

They are quite tasty. (See above about chocolate and peanut butter as marriage partners).

I watched as the lady manning the fry pit punctured three Buckeye candies with tooth picks, dipped them in an industrial sized plastic bucket of batter and then tossed them into the grease. Bobbing up and down in the bubbling cauldron of grease, the batter-encased Buckeyes quickly turned from tan to brown as the heat and oil did their trick.

After heeding the fry master chick’s warning to let them cool for a few minutes, I took my first bite.

An unappetizing drool of hot grease immediately poured out as soon as my teeth punctured the batter.

Inside was a sloppy liquefied mess. Most of the chocolate seemed to subliminate away or seep into the batter. The molten peanut butter gushed onto my fingers -- and then the ground.

After just one and a half deep fried Buckeyes I was ready to curl up on the blistering fairgrounds blacktop in the fetal position to nurse my ensuing stomach ache.

It was indeed one of the more humbling experiences of my life.

As my innards convulsed like a caged rat, I realized Suit757 had finally met his match.

Deep fried alligator? Sure.

Deep fried frog legs? Of course.

Deep fried corn on the cob? Sublime.

Even, dare I suggest…deep fried vegetables? Suprisingly delicious.

But please! Do not EVER ask me to eat another deep fried Buckeye.

Rating: Clean Grill With Shirt.