Keeping the American Dream Alive One Steakburger at a Time

Western Steakburger
2730 University Ave.
San Diego, CA





It says right on the awning over the entrance to Western Steakburger “Serving the best BBQ Burgers in San Diego.”

I think they are being WAY too modest.

Western Steakburger should be in the conversation for best burger IN AMERICA.

Yeah. This monstrosity is THAT good.

I have an unyielding philosophy when it comes to burgers.

Meat is good. Huge slabs of meat are better. Lots of meat piled on top of huge slabs of meat is HEAVEN.

Well, 2730 University Avenue in the blue collar North Park neighborhood of San Diego may not look like heaven to you, but it sure tasted like it to me.

“Gus” Anastasiu, the Greek-American owner of Western Steakburger, isn’t afraid to mix it up.

Literally.

His most famous creation, the restaurant’s namesake burger, the Western Steakburger, is topped with that quintessential Greek specialty, gyro meat.

Now that’s thinking outside the box!

Add a little Greek flavor (and a quarter pound of dead sheep) to the top of the all-American burger and you’ve got the best of American assimilation sitting right there in front of you on a big bun.

That’s why I don’t have a problem with legal immigration. I mean, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for great-great-great-grandpa Suit757 coming over on a famine ship from Ireland 150 years ago.

If you are willing to come here, bust your butt, risk your meager savings on a good idea and assimilate into the American culture, my door is always open to you.

Especially if you feed me this well.

I was pretty excited when Mr. Anastasiu slid me my “Wild West Steakburger”, a relatively new creation of the owner.

Like the Western Steakburger, the Wild West is a full half pound mammoth slab of beef topped with marinated gyro meat.

But why stop there? See above.

If meat on top of meat is better, then even more meat on top of even more meat is even better than that.

Right? Are you following me?

This upgraded version of the Steakburger adds strips of high end thick bacon to the gyro meat and half pound of cow.

I mean, loyal readers know the Suit757 mantra by now. Everything good in life can be improved with bacon.

Even an eight ounce slab of burger that’s already covered in marinated slow-roasted lamb.

The meat alone on this mountain of a sandwich had to tip the scales close to a full pound.

But we’re not done.

I paid an extra fifty cents for cheese. Plus the Wild West Steakburger comes with BBQ sauce, mayonnaise, ketchup, tomato, half a head of lettuce and a whole pile of sautéed onions.

Holy crap!

I could not begin to wrap my mouth around the thing, hard as I tried to squish the ingredients between my hands and open my ample jaws.

How did it taste?

Like heaven on a bun.

The burger was cooked more well done than I normally prefer, but it didn’t affect the taste or juiciness.

Grease and condiments dripped onto my paper plate in a joyful mess.

The well-seasoned gyro meat added a touch of exotic flavor while the bacon served its crunchy, savory purpose. Meanwhile the BBQ sauce and mound of slippery onions added a touch of sweetness that made my taste buds smile.

One of the most epic burgers that has ever graced my stomach.

And that’s saying something. As Suit757, I consider myself something of a burger expert.

Western Steakburger is a simple local hangout. The décor consists of pictures of John Wayne and Ronald Reagan, true American heroes.

The crowd was almost entirely locals chatting amongst each other and joking with Mr. Anastasiu about the Olympic Games being broadcast on the overhead television.

One customer of Mexican descent was bragging about his native country’s soccer team and gigged the owner about where all the Greek medal winners were at.

“We can’t win anything because Greece doesn’t have any money!”

As his countrymen back home on the Mediterranean sink into an economic abyss built upon government dependency and debt, Gus Anastasiu lives out every day the best American values embodied by the heroes like John Wayne and Ronald Reagan that decorate his little restaurant.

Dream big, work hard, think outside the box and do it better than everybody else.

It ain’t easy. But it beats the hell out of sitting around helplessly in poverty waiting for the Germans to bail you out.

And that, my friends, is why gyro meat on top of a burger can be the prefect embodiment of the American dream.

America. What a country!

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Meeting Up with Dirty Sanchez in the Gaslamp Quarter

Nicky Rotten’s
560 5th Ave.
San Diego, CA

The Gaslamp Quarter is to San Diego what the French Quarter is to New Orleans…

What Beale Street is to Memphis…

What Ybor City is to Tampa…

What the River Walk is to San Antonio.

It’s where the fun is.

Where local party girls in skin tight mini skits and wide-eyed tourists alike flock to after the sun goes down.

And Nicky Rotten’s, a San Diego Gaslamp Quarter institution known for good burgers and good times, just seems to fit right in.

Drunken “type A” personality traveling salesmen pour out of the nearby Residence Inn to belly up to the bar at Nicky Rotten’s to crack jokes with the bartendress and run up tabs of Jager Bombs on their expense accounts.

I know what you’re thinking: “Suit757, isn’t that kinda like the pot calling the kettle black?”

Well, yes and no.

I might be a “type A” traveling businessman, but give me a good microbrew, a game on the flat screen and a corner alone at the end of the bar and I am perfectly content.

Human interaction not required.

Trust me, the inebriated, butt cheek pinching loud mouths running up Herculean tabs on their expense accounts get on my last nerve.

Especially when I consider the fact that they probably work for some feeding-at-the-trough federal contractor and I’m going to end up paying for it all in the end.

But Nicky Rotten’s has something going for it all the other Karaoke bars and pseudo-Irish pubs with cleavage-bearing hostesses beckoning passersby on the 5th Avenue sidewalk don’t have.

World famous burgers.

Or so the menu says.

The menu also claims Nicky Rotten’s burgers have “no hormones & no antibiotics”, whatever the hell that means.

It’s soooo California.

Always a sucker for condiment overload, I ordered the Rotten's “Dirty Sanchez” Baja Burger, a medium rare (but organic and humanely treated) cow patty topped with chili, cheese, jalapeños, onion rings, salsa, guacamole, lettuce and tomato.

I wish I could say all that pampering this cow supposedly received paid off in extra delicious flavor, but how the heck would I know?

With all those ingredients piled on top, it was a like a D Day invasion for my taste buds.

Just squeezing it together with two hands and wrapping my mouth around the thing was challenge enough.

There was one thing all that chili, salsa and jalapeños necessitated.

Beer!

Fortunately, Nicky Rotten’s has an excellent selection.

I started with a local Green Flash “Hop Head Red”, a delicious and unique hoppy version of a traditional red ale. It was like taking the best elements of a Smithwick’s and an IPA and combining them into one great brew.

My next choice to douse the jalapeño burger flames was another local brew – Stone Brewery’s version of an IPA.

Maybe it was just a tough act to follow the excellent Green Flash, but I was a little disappointed with Stone’s version of a highly hopped beer. I guess I was expecting something more spectacular from the brewery that also makes such legendary brews as Smoked Porter, Arrogant Bastard Ale and Sublimely Self-Righteous Ale.

My bartendress said she really liked the newest offering from Hawaii’s Kona Brewing Company, Koko Brown, which is brewed with toasted coconut. She gave me a free sample to try, and I liked it, but it was very sweet, especially following two highly hopped beers.

I capped off the night with one last local San Diego brew, Yellowtail Pale Ale.

You never know what you’re going to get with a Pale Ale.

Traditionally, Pale Ales were only “pale” as compared to porters or stouts.

In other words, they aren’t pale at all. Often, they come highly hopped to the point of putting hair on your chest.

Sadly, this Yellowtail Pale Ale offers no such manly credentials.

More of a light pilsner, my Yellowtail wasn’t a bad way to cap the evening, but it paled (pun intended) in comparison to my previous beer choices.

After multiple beers and a couple pounds of burger and assorted condiments, it was time to relinquish my bar stool to another set of out-of-towners who clearly don’t get out enough.

For Suit757? It’s just another night of been there, done that, and will probably do it all again in another town tomorrow.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

Evangelizing For Fish Tacos

South Beach Bar & Grille
5059 Newport Ave.
Ocean Beach, CA

One of the great pleasures of being a Suit in Strange Places is trying out all the cool, delicious, quirky regional food unique to certain corners of our country.

Down here in the far southwestern-most corner of America, that would be fish tacos.

Now, I know what you are thinking – “Suit757, you can get fish tacos just about anywhere.”

And you’d be right. Heck even Taco Bell made an ill-fated attempt at selling Baja shrimp tacos last year.

That’s the blessing (or curse) of living in the information age.

But it wasn’t that long ago (a decade at the most) that my tales of delicious California fish tacos were universally greeted by friends and family with an up turned nose.

Despite my knack for utilizing the English language for describing good food, somehow my detailed pleadings to be open minded about fresh crispy fish piled with pico de gallo, cabbage and creamy white sauce tucked into a soft tortilla just weren’t winning over too many converts.

As Billy Joel once said, “You can’t get the sound from a story in a magazine.”

Sometimes you just have to try it.

And while my fish taco evangelism may have failed verbally, I’ve yet to see anyone who hasn’t immediately converted to fish tacology after that first bite.

San Diego likes to claim to be the birthplace of fish tacos, but the truth is they originated south of here in Baja, Mexico.

But thanks to Mexican drug lords gone wild, I’m not about to make a run for the border when I can get great fish tacos right here in the good ol’ U.S.A.

The South Beach Bar & Grille is literally at the end of the road in Ocean Beach, the far and away least trendy of San Diego’s famous beaches.

Surfer dudes and homeless pot smokers hang out around the left coast’s longest pier, all waiting for the sun to set spectacularly into the Pacific at the end of the day.

The South Beach Bar & Grille from the outside has all the charm of a suburban office building.

Sitting at the bar, I got a nice view of the waves crashing on the beach through the closed windows. I thought this place would be really cool if it had a more open air beach vibe. Other than a token “smokers’ table” outside by the front door, there is no al fresco dining or drinking here.

The sunshine and ocean is right there in front of you, but you can’t feel it, hear it or smell it. It’s a shame considering the location.

But where South Beach falls short on ambiance, it more than makes up for it with good food and a large selection of local microbrews.

Unfortunately, my locally brewed Ballast Point Big Eye IPA was a major disappointment.

It just tasted bad.

IPAs usually pack a spicy flavorful wallop of hops. This one just tasted off – like the keg was bad or the beers lines needed to be cleaned.

Or maybe Ballast Point just makes bad beer.

Could be. The night before I was equally unimpressed with their lackluster Yellow Tail Pale Ale.

But the good news is my fish tacos were top notch.

I got one traditional “Baja style” with fried Pollock and one with grilled mahi.

Both came topped with an entire garden of pico de gallo and cabbage with a delicious mildly spicy and creamy white sauce generously ladled over the top.

South Beach distinguishes their fish tacos by adding a little melted cheddar cheese and by using flour tortillas rather than the more traditional corn.

In the on-going debate over fried versus grilled, I have to come down decisively on the side of fried.

I know, I know, that’s not exactly surprising, Suit757.

But in a way, it is. Grilled or blackened fish always has more seasoning and flavor than fried fish. But on a fish taco, with all that extra goodness piled on top, none of that matters.

When it comes to fish tacos, it is all about that crunchy texture.

It’s one of the great joys of life to wrap your teeth around a soft as a pillow tortilla and crunch down on a crispy hunk of fresh fried fish.

The sun setting over the Pacific. Hoppy California beers. And the joyful crunch of a perfectly concocted fish taco.

Life is good in Ocean Beach!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Studio Diner No Match For Snooze Button

Studio Diner
4705 Ruffin Rd.
San Diego, CA

“They” say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

What I want to know is who the heck are “they” and why are “they” telling me when and what I should eat?

Fortunately for “them”, I actually like breakfast.

Unfortunately for “them”, I like sleep even more.

So in the competition between sleep and breakfast, well, the snooze button usually wins out.

But some days when I’m on the road, lunch (and bathroom breaks) just aren’t an option. It’s racing the Ford Focus rental from one meeting to the next like Boris Said on a Watkins Glenn road course.

I knew today was going to be one of those days. So I set the travel alarm for an hour early and set out to find a good place in San Diego for breakfast – the only meal I’d get until 10pm.

An old fashioned diner is always a good bet for breakfast. And my research led me to the Studio Diner set smack dab in the middle of some godforsaken industrial park north of San Diego.

Of course “old fashioned” in California means circa 1985.

I’m pretty sure the Studio Diner doesn’t date back any where near that far.

Too clean and modern to be “retro”. Too pedestrian to be California gourmet. The Studio Diner lacks the pizzazz needed to be a true shirt-buying worthy diner.

Located across the street from Northrop Grumman and the corporate headquarters of Jack In The Box, the Studio Diner seems strangely out of place. Apparently some sort of second rate television studio is nearby, which explains the Hollywood motif.

I sat at the counter and ordered the breakfast burrito from my friendly waitress as she expertly took orders, bussed the counter and made fun of her overly talkative regulars.

The scrambled eggs, bacon and melted cheese wrapped in a tortilla with a side of salsa were certain to keep my stomach full until my next meal 12 hours later. The standard diner hash browns on the side weren’t bad either.

The real question after my breakfast at the Studio Diner was whether or not scrambled eggs, bacon and melted cheese wrapped in a tortilla was worth losing an extra hour of precious sleep.

Probably not.

So I say, to hell with “them”. Tomorrow I’m sleeping in.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

Buy Me Some Peanuts And Cracker Jacks…And A $13 Hot Dog

Petco Park
19 Tony Gwynn Dr.
San Diego, CA

“A hot dog at the ball park is better than steak at the Ritz”
-- Humphrey Bogart

Ah, yes. A warm spring evening at the ball park with a cold beer in my left hand and a hot dog in my right.

I have to agree with Humphrey on this one. That’s as close to perfection as you can get.

Most business travelers throw their luggage on the hotel bed and immediately head to the nearest expense account steak house.

Of course, Suit757 doesn’t have an expense account.

So on those rare evenings I get to town before opening pitch, you’ll find Suit757 at the local ball park.

From the big leagues to low A ball – it doesn’t matter.

Major Leagues. Minor Leagues. Instructional Leagues. If there is a game in town, I’ll be there.

What else am I going to do? Sit in the Comfort Inn watching American Idol?

I don’t think so.

As luck would have it, it just so happened that my trip to downtown San Diego coincidently coincided with a three game Padres homestand against my beloved Cincinnati Reds. And my room at the Comfort Inn was only three blocks from the ball park.

How lucky is that?

Well, as they say in Ireland, “The lucky make their own luck.”

I was especially excited because Petco Park was one of the few major league parks I had yet to visit.

Opened in 2004, Petco lacks the cozy, retro atmosphere of slightly older ballparks in Texas and Baltimore. And it can’t boast of the spectacular skyline and waterfront views of parks in Pittsburgh and San Francisco.

But Petco is not without its own quirky charms and personality.

For example the historic Western Metal Supply Company building was incorporated into the design of Petco Park.

I think that’s kind of cool. Especially when Johnny Gomes and Chris Heisey launched home runs into the building’s balconies during the first game of the homestand.

But this is supposed to be a blog about good food and beer – not baseball.

And I’m happy to report a little of all of the above can be found at Petco – if you look hard enough.

The corporate triumvirate of puke beers – Bud, Bud Light and Miller Lite – is ubiquitous at Petco. And at $7.75 for a 24 ounce draft, it’s no bargain, but still better than you’d expect at a big league ball park.

You’d think in a sparkling new ball park in a state like California that takes so much pride in good microbrewed beer would offer something more interesting.

Sure enough I found two lonely beer stands that sell San Diego’s own Stone Pale Ale for $8.50 for a 20 ouncer. Definitely well worth the extra coin and effort.

While you can get your standard peanuts, Cracker Jacks and hot dogs at Petco, the park also offers some interesting culinary diversions – like fish tacos.

Okay. Fish tacos might not be exactly traditional ball park fare, but they are traditional to San Diego.

Always on the look-out for something unique, I shelled out $4.75 to try one.

The lonely fish taco concessions girl acted like I was the first fan of the season to order one.

Not a good sign.

The best I can say about my Petco fish taco is that it didn’t give me food poisoning. But let’s just say Wahoo’s and Rubio’s have no fear of being put out of business any time soon.

As soon as I polished off my fish taco, I stumbled upon perhaps the most ambitious specimen of ball park fare ever conceived – a $13 “Sonoran Hot Dog”.

Would you pay $13 for a hot dog?

Well, I’m here to testify, you would for this one.

Worth. Every. Penny.

Sonoran hot dogs aren’t exactly native to San Diego. Rather, they come from the Sonoran desert of Mexico and Arizona.

Devouring Sonoran hot dogs at a road side stand in Tucson while wearing a suit in the 100 degree desert heat ranks as one of my life’s premier junk food experiences.

If opening up our southern boarder to a flood of Mexican immigrants means more Sonoran hot dogs for me, I say bring ‘em on. The more the merrier.

These babies are that good.

That being said, Petco’s $13 monstrosity is a roided up Barry Bonds version of the traditional Sonoran dog served in southern Arizona.

Is it possible for a spicy half pound tube of meat to be an after thought?

It almost is when you consider that this giant hot dog is grilled, stuffed into an immense catcher’s mitt of a potato roll and then smothered in raw onions, tomatoes, spicy jalapeño verde sauce, pinto beans and tortilla chips.

And did I mention that this mammoth dog is wrapped in bacon?

Oh, yeah.

Let me repeat.

A half pound hot dog wrapped in bacon. And buried under an avalanche of spicy goodness.

Like I said. Worth every one of those 1,300 pennies.

So it may not be as traditional as peanuts and Cracker Jacks. And I may have taken a significant portion of my $13 meal back with me to the Comfort Inn in the form of stains on my Barry Larkin T-shirt, but Petco’s Sonoran hot dog is part of what makes a night out at a major league ballpark such a dogone fun splurge.

Especially when the Reds win in the 11th inning.

Humphrey is right on. It beats the heck out of the Ritz every night of the week.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

California Dreamin' at Cass Street Bar & Grill

Cass Street Bar and Grill
Pacific Beach, CA

There’s a street in Pacific Beach where you’ll find a hole in the wall . . . and I don’t mean figuratively.

Want to find the best spots for food and drink in town? Walk into the bar or restaurant of the nicest hotel you can find and ask the bar back or busboy where they hang out. Of course, you can save yourself the trouble and just read Suits in Strange Places.

And so it is, on the advice of a hardworking denizen of San Diego’s hotel industry that I find myself scurrying through the streets of Pacific Beach in search of Cass St. Bar and Grill.

Every now and then, when I find myself in throws of that rare luxury that is time to spare, I cast off chains modern technology. GPS be damned; I’ll find my own way.

Being a master orienteer, I find the place with ease. It’s not like it isn’t on Cass Street.

It’s a semi open-air joint with dormers drawn open – giving locals perch to command passersby – and neon signs. It beckons from a block away, seeming to say please come in, but remember this is our spot.

Which, given that California has one of the only “secure” portions of southern border in the United States, seems to reflect the native’s attitude.

This is indeed a local hangout. A spot the boys come to after a surf down at Crystal Pier. A place to throw down a few with buddies over a couple of rounds of pool or foosball.


In other words, my kind of place.

Entering Cass, I’m greeted with a smile by the cute girl stationed at the door. She proves to be the sole waitress on duty – she must have been one of the jobs “created or saved” – and it turns out she only serves drinks.

The walls are lined with fish, both taxidermies and black and white photos of patrons with their catches. Some of the fish in the photos are rather unimpressive, but they’re the ones being held up by scantily clad girlfriends, and that’s a combination that’s hard to beat.

Making my way to the bar, I find two old favorites on the TVs: baseball and an old surf film circa ’78 called Freeride. The beer selection is fairly impressive; there are about twenty craft and regional brews on tap, in addition to the familiar staples. I order an Alaskan IPA from the moderately attractive, if pregnant, bar tender.

Don’t know why, but pregnant girls working in bars always both pains and reassures me. While on the one hand, behind a bar isn’t an ideal place for an expectant mother, it’s nice to know another child is spared from the Planned Parenthood monsters. And you have to admire the determination to stay off the government dole.

Half way through my drink, I decide it’s time for a menu. Asking the bartender, I’m answered with a curt “we don’t do that here” as she points at the wall beside me. “Menu’s on the wall.” Indeed it is, and underneath is the aforementioned hole in the wall.

The options are somewhat limited. And, they’re somewhat common fare – at least in these parts. But, they’re done up with uncommon touches. I opt for the teriyaki steak sandwich.

With mild apprehension, I step to the 2’ x 2’ window; you never know what’s waiting on the other side. I’m taken aback when I find a raven-haired beauty rushing up with a smile to take my order. She’s not alone either.

Best I could count, there were 5 stunning girls running about the small kitchen. Which gives me the only complaint I can mount – they need a bigger window. Such assets shouldn’t be hidden. That and the girl taking my order asks if I’m from Jersey.

In about five minutes, one of the girls is out with my food. The sandwich is amazing. It’s like a Philly cheese steak on steroids – chunks of teriyaki-marinated beef grilled to perfection and stuffed into a hollowed out French roll with gooey cheese and grilled onions. Dill pickle and chips to boot.

Sandwich devoured, I order another Alaskan and kick up a conversation with one of the locals that’d joined me at the bar.

Before long the guy wants to talk politics; I can’t resist and hope for the chance to tell the guy why his state such a disaster. Surprisingly, and I admit somewhat disappointingly, I find we disagree on little. Seems Californians understand how they’ve damned themselves. The guy’s opening salvo was actually aimed at the NEA. There may be hope for the state yet.

I settle up and walk off into the sunset wishing I had more time to spend in Pacific Beach and at Cass Street.

I didn’t buy the Shirt – ‘cause they don’t have them. Even if they did, it’s not a place you want just one memory of and a t-shirt would be just a cruel reminder; there are meetings to make – cars, trains and flying things.

Rating:  Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt