Annoying Overly Sensitive Leftists Since 1934

Al the Wop’s
13943 Main St.
Locke, CA




I’m a sucker for any place with a colorful history and scruffy charm.

Even more so if the name of the place includes an ethnic slur.

Apparently “wop” is a politically incorrect term for someone from Southern Italy.

I had no idea.

Can I be accused of insensitivity for reviewing a place with “wop” in the title, even if I didn’t know what “wop” meant?

Just wondering.

In California, the answer is probably “yes”.

That’s one good reason right there to buy the shirt, I guess.

Locke, California is a forgotten Chinese ghost town of ramshackle wooden buildings lined up either side of a dusty little street deep in the heart of the Sacramento River Delta.

Chinese immigrants came into the delta originally to help build the levees that contain the Sacramento River in its banks.

Later, more Chinese came here to work on the farmland that spills out across the fertile plains of the Delta.

Wanting a place of their own, in 1915, several Chinese workers laid out and built this one block town.

In its heyday, as many as 600 Chinese lived in the wooden shacks lining Main Street and patronized Locke’s infamous brothels and gambling dens.

Famous as the only town in America built by Chinese for Chinese, there’s not much left of Locke to look at.

Only ten of the remaining 70 residents are Chinese.

Strolling by the dilapidated buildings, a lady painting pictures on the hood of her car put down her paint brush and just stared at me.

Don’t worry. I’m used to this.

I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re alwul overdressed for Locke! Nobody around here dresses like that,” she said.

Mistaking me for some big city lawyer or consultant, she began a ten minute description of how she has been victimized by the local corrupt town counsel.

“I paid $22,000 for one of these run down shacks and then three days after the deal closed the city told me I couldn’t buy because the original Chinese landowners must be given first right of refusal.

“So I can’t buy a building in America because I’m not Chinese?!?”

I sympathized as she told me the tiny town had spent $50,000 of its $60,000 budget suing her for “breach of contract” simply because she tried to purchase one of its run-down buildings.

While I felt sorry for her, immersing myself into the politics of a 70 person Chinese ghost town was a bit above my pay grade, so I excused myself as I strolled into Locke’s most famous establishment, Al the Wop’s.

In 1934, an Italian named Al Adami opened his saloon with money he earned from taking the rap and serving jail time for a bootlegging family member.

Al the Wop’s was the only non-Chinese place in town.

At 11:30am the bar stools were already filling up with a fun-loving crowd of local farmers and fishermen.

As usual, I was the only one in the place wearing a suit.

And the only one the bartender didn’t know.

And the only one not knocking back shots of Crown Royal on a Monday morning.

I ordered a water as I pulled up a rickety stool and tried unsuccessfully to position myself comfortably in the middle section of the bar that sloped downhill at a ten degree angle.

Apparently those Chinese in 1915 didn’t know how to use a level.

Farm paraphernalia and deer heads decorated the bar, along with a few hundred bucks worth of one dollar bills mysteriously stapled to the ceiling.

The juke box was blasting out one great cowboy tune after another as the lady behind the bar hummed along to “Tight Fittin’ Jeans.”

Conway Twitty. Dwight Yoakam. Townes Van Zant.

At least someone in the place had good taste in music I thought as I told my bartender I’d take the famous Al the Wop’s steak sandwich.

It is a sandwich only in the sense that the bartender served me meat and bread -- on two completely separate plates.

My steak came out cooked to a perfect pink, nice and juicy but devoid of any seasoning or smoky flavor.

A standard issue sirloin, Al’s isn’t going to threaten any of the top-notch steak houses further south in Santa Maria, that’s for sure.

On another plate came five thick-cut slices of Italian bread still warm and crisp from being griddled on the flat top.

To be honest, that bread was the highlight of the meal.

And a perfect delivery vehicle for Al the Wop’s other famous delicacy -- peanut butter.

Peanut butter?

Yeah, for decades, folks have been spreading peanut butter and marmalade on Al’s good Italian bread.

I was expecting some sort of homemade, hand-churned Al the Wop special peanut butter.

Nope.

Just opened jars of Jif with spoons planted into the standard grocery store peanut butter scattered along the bar top.

Well, that was a letdown.

Young Suit757 was a picky eater. I literally had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every single day of my life for lunch from first grade through junior high. And probably every other day during high school and college.

And you know what?

I haven’t had a one since.

I got my lifetime’s supply of peanut butter in my first 22 years.

But being a good sport, I played along and slathered some Jif and marmalade onto my bread and took a bite.

Not bad. I’m not saying I’m turning in my suitly credentials and going back to the diet of an eight year old, but I can kind of remember the appeal now.

Then again, maybe it’s just that good bread.

I bet California tofu would taste decent on freshly griddled Italian bread.

Don’t worry. I’m not trying that anytime soon.

As I polished off my last bite of steak to the sweet sound of John Fogerty crooning about being “stuck in Lodi again,” I wondered whether I liked this place or not.

This is something that we world famous restaurant reviewers have to contemplate. We can’t just pay our bill and hit the I-5.

Some sort of deep philosophical analysis of Al the Wop’s was in order.

But how do you rate a century-old dive bar with ordinary food and a good juke box?

I mean, Al the Wop’s can’t be famous for its stovetop steaks.

Or it’s jars of Safeway-bought Jif.

There has to be something more that draws folks to this remote Delta dive.

I think that something is authenticity.

Like the overall-wearing locals knocking back Monday morning whiskeys…

…like Townes Van Zant crying on the juke box “for the sake of the song”…

…like the weathered signs dangling from the dilapidated porches on Main Street…

…like the politically incorrect name of this joint that has graced the front window for 80 years…

Al the Wop’s is a unique slice of authentic America that is getting harder and harder to find in our homogenized franchised world.

That’s still worth a few points in Suit757’s book.

Besides, how cool would it be to walk around Berkley sporting an Al the Wop t-shirt?

Yeah, I’m a sucker ever time.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying Shirt (just to annoy some overly sensitive leftists).

Emigrating from the People’s Republic of Boulder

Mountain Sun Pub and Brewery
1535 Pearl St.
Boulder, CO




What the hell is Suit757 doing in Boulder, Colorado -- the most leftist city in the country?

Except, it’s not, really -- because I don’t consider Boulder to be part of America.

That’s the life I live.

Tuesday I’m in Fort Worth, Texas, home of cattle, oil barons and the world’s largest honky tonk, Billy Bob’s Texas. Where liberty reigns and men are still men.

Wednesday I’m in Boulder, where eco-freaks reign and the women are still men -- and don’t shave their armpits.

Trust me. If it’s hot chicks you are after, go to Atlanta, Dallas, L.A. or Oxford, Mississippi.

But do NOT come to Boulder.

My eyes are still bleeding from the painful aesthetics.

But that hip leftist lifestyle goes far beyond a stubborn rejection of mascara and Daisy razors.

Being a true blue leftist requires a fanatical devotion to every form of diversity -- except diversity of abilities.

You see, it is just not fair for some people to be better than others.

Clearly, any diversity in outcomes must be a product of America’s capitalist, oppressive, racist biases.

This philosophy is on full display at Mountain Sun Pub and Brewery, where every employee does every job in the restaurant.

Every waiter is also a busboy, hostess, brewer, cook and toilet scrubber (I hope they wash their hands frequently). And all the employees pool their tips at the end of the night to be distributed equally.

How egalitarian.

It certainly wouldn’t be fair if one exceptionally good waiter received bigger tips than the rest of the staff.

Talk about not facing up to the facts of human reality.

I’m pretty sure this experiment in leftist utopia would fall apart in the real world, as soon as one good waiter got tired of handing over his hard earned tips to his slacker colleague.

Eventually, Atlas will shrug.

But it seems to work fine here in Boulder where everyone cheerfully buys into the Communist Manifesto.

From the moment I walked in the front door until I made my way to the bar in the back of the packed dining room, at least four different members of the Mountain Sun staff offered to put my name on the wait list and serve me a beer.

Within moments, eager employees were pushing free samples of their fresh brewed beer into my grateful hands. Each one enthusiastically described their various homemade brews while dashing back and forth across the dining room.

“Go with the F.Y.I.P.A.”, one particularly cheerful employee advised when I mentioned I like hoppy brews.

Good call. Hoppy, but not overpowering, the F.Y.I.P.A. had a nice sweet flavor.

I had barely taken a sip when yet another young lady led me to my table. She helpfully described the various culinary concoctions on the menu. Just when I was about to give her my food order, Mr. F.Y.I.P.A. appeared tableside and announced he would be my waiter.

I was so confused. I had only been in Mountain Sun Pub for five minutes and I had already interacted with the entire staff. A bit overwhelming for an introvert like Suit757.

Going for one of Mountain Sun’s gourmet burgers was tempting. But that would mean four nights in a row of burger consumption.

Maybe a bit much, even for Suit757.

So I opted for my dead cow in a slighted altered configuration -- the Speakeasy Steak Sandwich accompanied by top notch hand cut French fries.

Thin sliced marinated beef was tender as butter and smothered in camelized onions and melted mozzarella cheese. Horseradish and garlic mayo and giardiniera provided just a hint of spicy kick to keep my attention -- and keep the high alcohol beer flowing into my bloodstream.

The only downside to my delicious hoppy F.Y.I.P.A. was, where do I go from here?

My waiter brought out several samples of their other high potency concoctions. But none of them lived up to the hoppiest beer on the beer menu.

Then I noticed the term “nitro” listed next to a few select beers on the list.

Yes. Mountain Sun nitrogenates, rather than carbonates, several of their beers.

Anyone who has ever won a beer chugging contest knows that nitrogenated brews like Guinness go down much smoother than their carbonated brethren.

But most nitro beers tend to be mild and bland like stouts and cream ales.

Just the thought of trying a hoppy beer like Mountain Sun’s XXX Pale Ale on nitro was enough to get me excited.

Sure enough, it looked like a work of art.

A thick foamy head white as Boulder’s famous snow capped peaks on top of a golden body of hoppy deliciousness, this was one of the greatest beers that has ever graced Suit757’s liver.

Without the distraction of carbonation, the full flavor of the XXX shined through. And smooth as a baby’s bottom, this 7.5% alcohol beer slid down easy.

Real easy.

Two beers in (and so many free sample that I lost count), I was thanking myself for making the decision to walk, rather than drive, the one mile from my Room 255 at the Best Western.

Which made my next decision that much easier.

When asked, I said, “Hell, yeah”, to one more beer.

My night capper of Dropkick American Stout was well named. 6.5% alcohol, this was one manly black stout.

My head was spinning by the time my waiter brought the check and informed me they don’t take credit cards.

How fashionably anti-capitalist.

I may have been in an altered state of mind after so much high octane craft beer, but I still wasn’t buying into Mountain Sun’s collectivist vibe.

However there was no questioning the top notch service and enthusiasm displayed by the Mountain Sun staff.

But how can the good vibes thrive in the long run as long as individual initiative and achievement is squelched?

Just as I was peeling off the twenties to pay for my evening of fun, I noticed a few cracks in the Communist façade.

My chipper waiter was exchanging his contact information with the customers.

“Boulder is great, but I need to get out of here,” he said. “I’m looking for a job in finance in Washington DC. I’d really appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me.”

And you know what? That’s the beauty of the free market.

Everyone -- even liberals -- eventually gets tired of scrubbing toilets and want to be recognized for their individual abilities.

But you are going to have to leave Boulder for that.

Welcome to America, my friend.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Loading Up on Liquid Courage at Buffalo Bar & Grill

Buffalo Bar and Grill
311 S. Beeline Hwy.
Payson, AZ





I guess I’ve been a suit in so many strange places, I’ve become immune to it.

As a younger suit, sometimes it would bother me. Now, with so many miles behind me, I take it as a sure sign I found the right place in town.

The collective head swivel. That’s what I’m talking about.

No hat, no boots, no coat, no gloves. No socks, even. I trudged through the ankle deep slush in the parking lot in flip flops and swung open the door to the Buffalo Bar & Grill in Payson, Arizona.

Yes, I said Arizona.

While I brushed the snow out of my eyes from this freak spring snowstorm, every head in the place turned in my direction.

“I may not have dressed for the weather (this IS supposed to be Arizona, after all) but thank God I had a chance to change out of my suit at the Best Western,” I thought to myself as every eyeball in the place gave me a curious stare.

My courage to ignore the head swivels and stride purposefully toward the bar may come from years of life on the road. Or perhaps it came from the fact that I had another suit with me this time.

Yep. We suits almost always travel alone.

Except tonight. Which came in quite handy as the evening wore on. (Keep reading.)

It turns out we didn’t need to be wearing our suits to stand out like Mitt Romney at a Ted Nugent concert.

That’s because we were the only guys in the place not wearing cowboy boots. Not wearing cowboy hats. And not dancing.

Suit757 DOES NOT dance. Period.

Don’t get me wrong – the band was awesome!

Johnny Cash. Merle Haggard. Waylon. Willie.

One classic country hit after the other – on a Monday night in Payson, Arizona.

“We came to the right place in this town, my friend,” I gleefully told my fellow Suit, hoping that my grizzled experience as a road warrior might some day rub off on my rookie colleague.

Just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, the friendly bartender suggested a Lumberyard Flagstaff IPA draft from a microbrewery about 60 miles on the other side of the Mogollon Plateau.

Good music AND good beer. Nice!

Smooth, but with a strong hoppy kick, this microbrew was perfect for a cold snowy evening.

Especially paired with a cup of chicken tortilla soup.

A house specialty, the spicy soup warmed me up from the inside out. The tortilla strips somehow managed to keep that crunch all the way to my last spoonful.

As good as the soup was, that was merely a warm up for my “Sirloin Steak Melt”, a sourdough bread sandwich piled with shaved steak, onions and melted cheese.

Cheesy and tender, the sirloin in this sandwich puts the entire city of Philadelphia to shame. That is steak and cheese done right!

By the time I hit my third IPA, I was just part of the crowd. Chatting up the bartender, getting (unsolicited) local strip joint tips from the construction worker next to me and singing along to a near perfect rendition of David Allen Coe.

My fellow suit on the other hand didn’t seem to slip into quite the same comfort level. He was still peering nervously at the saddles, boots and antlers hanging from the ceiling while keeping a wary eye on the dance floor.

Might have something to do with the fact that he was perpetually two beers behind me.

Big mistake.

Just as the band launched into a Charlie Pride toe-tapper, one of the local ladies sitting nearby jumped up, lunged in my direction and grabbed my arm, slurring something about “dancing”.

I reluctantly informed her that Suit757 DOES NOT dance.

Under any circumstances.

No matter how many Lumberyard Flagstaff IPAs have come out of that tap.

Since she looked a little dejected, I immediately decided to do the gentlemanly thing.

“This guy would LOVE to dance with you,” pointing to my panic-stricken fellow suit on the bar stool next to my left.

As she dragged him, forearm first, onto the dance floor, I turned to the strip joint connoisseur to my right and we both exchanged a knowing glance of relief.

I know it’s rude to stare, but I couldn’t quite get myself to turn away from my poor fellow suit being dragged around the dance floor.

Like a bad wreck on the interstate, I knew I shouldn’t look. But I couldn’t help myself.

Even managed to snap a couple pictures.

But don’t worry. I’m saving them for when I really need them.

Even the female bartender moseyed over and commented to me in a sympathetic tone, “At least she’s leading.”

Then it dawned on me. Of course I’m immune to the collective head swivels. And the blank stares. And the not so original “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”

And it’s not just my road-hardened experience.

It’s something more tangible than that. More satisfying. More tasty.

I ordered up another IPA and tipped my glass to my fellow deer-in-headlights suit gyrating stiffly to Charlie Pride.

It was at that very moment that I think he figured it out too.

This is why God invented beer. Liquid courage.

Drink up!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt (but we got the hell out of there before she asked again).

An Indoor Cook-Out Means Summer’s Never out of Reach

LDR Char Pit
4753 Lake Ave.
Rochester, NY



If somehow you really ticked off the gods and are sentenced to live the remainder of your life in up-state New York, you could do a lot worse than settling here on the shores of Lake Ontario.

Just think, for an entire five or six weeks per year you could enjoy the sand, sun and fun of this beachfront enclave 15 miles north of downtown Rochester, NY.

Just don’t even think about jumping into that water – I’m pretty sure Lake Ontario doesn’t ever warm up to wetsuitless temperatures.

Of course my visit to Rochester didn’t coincide with that five or six week interval of sun-splashed frivolity.

Of course not.

Try early November.

It was cold down along the beach and I couldn’t help but feel like I was living through a Springsteen song on the Jersey shore with the wind whipping down the boardwalk.

Or maybe it was like Santa Cruz in the off season with nobody on the road and nobody on the beach. I could feel it in the air. The summer was out of reach.

Empty lake and empty streets, the sun goes down alone in November on Lake Ontario.

Yep. Henley’s “Boys of Summer” were long gone (not that he was singing about Rochester, NY anyway).

All the arcades and custard shops might be “closed for the season”, but there is one institution here at the shore’s edge that has a loyal enough following that it stays open year round.

LDR Char Grill.

This place is like an indoor cook-out.

The scent of the marriage of charcoal and beef permeates the entire restaurant.

The thing to get here is the steak sandwich. With onions.

What makes this sandwich so amazing is its simplicity. Thin sliced beef, char grilled for a minute or two, at the most, on each side, folded onto a bun. With a few sautéed onions, if you want.

That’s it.

Tender, beefy, delicious.

It doesn’t need any seasonings or sauces.

The greasy drippings from the charcoal-kissed meat produce this sandwich’s own condiment.

I admired the pool of brown grease on my tiny paper plate and the flame-kissed meat being flipped on the grill in front of me and dreamed about my backyard grill.

Why is it that charcoal-seared beef tastes so good at home, but is so hard to find in restaurants?

Could it be the neighbors don’t want to deal with commercial-sized plumes of charcoal smoke?

What is wrong with these people? I could smell that for eternity. In fact, I’m pretty sure I will. I have it on good authority that heaven (if I make it) for Suit757 will smell like char-broiled burgers.

But that’s what makes LDR Char Grill such a shirt-buying-worthy destination.

The meat grilled here is almost as good as in my back yard; the only difference being Suit757 has beer on tap at home.

Listening to the sizzling meat made me crave one of LDR’s delicious-sounding burgers. Those have got to be good!

And their char grilled “hots” – a distinctly Rochester term for hot dogs. And their red, white and blues plates of various sausages piled on top of home fries and macaroni salad – LDR’s version of another Rochester hang-over staple – “The Garbage Plate”.

And what about those homemade pies?

Ah, so much good food to try and so little stomach vacancy.

I did manage to find room for a cup of LDR’s pumpkin soup.

Sweet enough to qualify as dessert, this soup wasn’t just a thin runny pumpkiny kin to a more traditional tomato soup.

No. This soup was chock full of chunks of sweet gourds.

Topped with a swirl of whipped cream, the brown sugar and nutmeg brought me back to visions of a fresh-from-the oven pumpkin pie being passed around the Suit757 dinner table on Thanksgiving.

After paying my $10 tab for my soup and sandwich, I walked a block down to the beach.

As the ice cold waters of Lake Ontario lapped against by bare feet, I slipped into some pretty deep philosophical thoughts.

Like, why do people live the way the do?

I mean, if you like the sand and sun and water, why live here by the shores of Lake Ontario, where you can only enjoy it for 10% of the year?

Why be 90% miserable?

Sure, Ontario Beach beats the hell out of downtown Buffalo, I suppose. But why bother? In this ever more mobile society of ours, why not just hop the ‘Hound and move to Florida?

Then I caught a whiff of the charcoal smoke wafting down the beach.

I suppose some things are worth sticking around for.

And just think, only 34 more weeks until summer’s back in reach.

Rating: Bought the 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