Showing posts with label Suit1999. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Suit1999. Show all posts

Thursday, October 20, 2011

When I Became a Man

Tiffany Tavern
1116 King Street
Alexandria, VA 22314

In I Corinthians Saint Paul said, "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child…"

I remember the first time I visited Old Town Alexandria, Virginia; the veritable 19th century theme park resting on the Potomac River outside Washington, DC. 

It's that in that sad part of occupied Northern Virginia haunted by the memories and populated by the graves of revolutionaries and rebels. It's very streets were once walked by George Washington and Robert E. Lee; American history incarnate.

I was in college then and we were attending a conference in the area in late frigid February.

We took a long cold bus ride down brick sidewalks, among the old row houses and store fronts on the psuedo gas lamp lit King Street till we finally reached our stop.

Like most college coeds. We picked the bar that was most conducive to our place in life - plenty of hard drinking and skirt chasing.

While waiting for an underage friend to get in with his not exactly authentic ID we sang "Sweet Caroline" and downed the cheapest American puke beer on the menu.

But nearly ten years have passed and times for me have changed.

In my latest visit to Old Town I found myself drawn to different attractions. Namely visiting the numerous antique stores that dot the neighborhood while spending moments reflecting on the history of the locale.

Strolling down King Street I noticed the Tiffany Tavern. A small place stuffed in-between French restaurants and chain coffee shops.

The sign on the outside proudly advertised, "The best Bluegrass, Burgers and Open Mike in town!" 

This bold claim sounded like a place fit for a suit.

Upon entering, I was struck by how different it was from the bar I visited a decade earlier during my college salad days.

The cliental is older on average with grey hair abound.

It's a place you could picture your grandfather in. The music is even the kind your grandparents would have played on the clock radio in their kitchen during a Sunday dinner.

Like the scent of old spice or a neighborhood barber shop, there's something classic and comforting about the atmosphere at the Tiffany Tavern.

Pictures of what appears to be dames from the early 20th century grace the wood paneled walls. The only TV in the place, a now outdated CRT, sits on a shelf turned off.

The only entertainment is conversation and the abundance of live upbeat but sad bluegrass songs.

As a result, there's no drunk overzealous guys yelling at their team while a clearly bored girlfriend sits next to them. Or a groups of rowdy twenty-somethings doing the weekend drunken mating dance.

Just the shouts of "YEE HAWW" fill the air after a particularly good banjo solo.

The music prompted a lovely German girl sitting next to me at the bar to lean over and say, "This music is so American."

Upon hearing it, my chest momentarily filled with pride even though I'm not a particularly nationalistic guy.

Yes, it is very American! And sure, this could be the best bluegrass in town!

But what about the burgers?

After perusing the menu I settled on the Greek Burger; a "Tiffany Tavern special."

This burger featured 8 oz of ground Angus beef that was charcoal broiled and topped with with a large brick of feta cheese and finished off with sautéed mushrooms. Naturally, it had lettuce, tomato, and pickles on the side.

Now I'm no Greek, but upon first glance, I thought that other than the huge piece of feta cheese the burger didn't seem particularly Hellene.

A couple other initial downsides was the cold, untoasted bun and the meager portion of onion rings.

However, when I bit into the burger and friend onions I was struck by the familiar taste of down home greasy spoon diner fare. The kind of goodies your parents eat with their friends at the corner restaurant after Sunday church service.

In other words, I wouldn't come to the Tiffany Tavern expecting a gourmet burger made from a fine cut, aged, steak that they dropped into the grinder when you placed your order. 

You're not going to read news stories about Obama and Biden stopping by the Tiffany Tavern for lunch on their way to the Oval Office - there's no pretension here.

It's pretty simple, straightforward, good ol' boy type stuff. Food for when food isn't the only reason you visit a place.

I'm not sure at what point in a man's life he stops being that young pup who's eager to chase every stray cat he sees up a tree and becomes that content older dog laying on porch just watching the wind blow.

But when you've graduated to being that wiser, more deliberate dog or you're just in the mood for a slow refuge from the mayhem and moral corruption that is the US capitol, the Tiffany Tavern's good music, great atmosphere, nice people, and decent food is the place to go.

Like Saint Paul wrote, "…when I became a man, I put away childish things."

Rating:  Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt

Friday, September 23, 2011

I'll Buy that for a Dollar

Plymouth Fall Fest
Downtown Plymouth, Michigan

"Old Detroit has a cancer . . . the cancer is crime," lectured the CEO of Omni Consumer Products in the1987 sci-fi flick, Robocop.

Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of Robocop, not much has changed in the 24 years since the movie was made.

In fact, it may actually be worse than the distopian film made it out to be. Detroit remains the festering economic wound that threatens to rot off Michigan's famous thumb.

The cancer is obvious to anyone who drives into Detroit. Michigan's gorgeous countryside of green fields and grazing animals gives way to condemned buildings and the panhandling homeless.

You're soon greeted by police cars painted a welcoming shade of black.

Sadly, the sight makes me understand Robocop's villain Clarence Boddicker's quip, "You see, I got this problem. Cops don't like me, so I don't like cops."

So imagine my thought when I was recently invited by a friend to visit Plymouth, Michigan's "Fall Fest" -- the yearly festival that takes place in the town's downtown streets.

I quietly whispered in my head as I was accepting her invitation, "Great, decent food and an otherwise good time overshadowed by paramilitary style police along with throngs of teenage wannabe gangsters who eagerly have their eyes on my valuables while they loudly blurt out Eminem lyrics."

I thought this because I was going on the assumption that Plymouth is like the rest of the "3-1-3;" poetically dismal.

After all, a mediocre Government Motors (GM) car line is named after the place and how can that be a good thing?

Much to my amazement, Plymouth was far closer the the Utopian "Delta City" of Robocop lore than the unchecked playground of corrupt text messaging mayors.

The town was just damn pleasant!

Well-kept, nice streets, historic victorian homes built around old railroad tracks who a century earlier brought the wealth of the East Coast to town.

And in the middle, a park-like square compete with a fountain surrounded by restaurants, cafes, and an oh so trending cupcake store.

This was Detroit's donut effect in full glory. The empty center ringed by a thriving outside area.

However, I wasn't there for the fashionable bistros or even the Ferris Wheel. No, I came for one thing -- down-home Midwestern festival food!

You know the kind. Made lovingly by old church ladies, local philanthropic groups, and the ever present Mom begrudgingly filling her required volunteer service hours.

This is the soul that festivals on the east coast just plain lack.

Almost upon entering the blocked streets my companion spotted a discarded pierogi on the curb.

Clearly whoever was eating this must have dropped the tasty boiled then panfried dumpling, because who in their right mind would throw it away?

My escort and I decided then and there we were on a mission. Our prime directive was to find homemade Polish food.

The tent in question was (wo)manned by the mom's of the local "Polish Centennial Dancers." A dance group made-up predominately of teenagers.

We eagerly ran up to the table to order our pierogis and were up-sold on the stuffed cabbage. A blend of seasoned beef with rice, covered in a tomato sauce then wrapped in a tenderly boiled cabbage leaf.

You see, I have a soft spot in my heart for boiled food; call it the peasant in me.

Even my friend ordered one prompting me to ask, "Aren't you a vegetarian," and she sheepishly replied, "Yes, but . . . um . . . sometimes I eat meat."

And who wouldn't in this case?

We sat in the town square eating our Polish fare with plastic forks and bowls enjoying the first rain free day in a week.

The blues played on the stage behind us and the neighborhood congregated around the fountain. No cyborg super-cop patrolling the streets and only a few disheveled Insane Clown Posse fans lingering about.

Was it the best tasting meal I ever had -- not by a long shot. It wasn't even the best pierogi or stuffed cabbage I ever had due to their lack of spice.

But sometimes taste isn't the only thing that makes for a good meal.

Many times, it's the the overall surroundings, the company that's joining you and the new memories you're making or old ones you're recalling -- and as the creepy commercials in Robocop said, "I'll buy that for a dollar!"

Rating: I would buy the shirt . . . for a dollar!

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Das Boot Was Made for Drinking

Hessen Haus 101 4th St
Des Moines, IA 50309-4741
(515) 288-2520

You've been in this situation before.

You're a suit wandering the strange city your employer temporarily sentenced you to (in this case Des Moines, Iowa).

The days are long, even grueling at times.

You're only respite is the hope that a new unique bar or restaurant with an interesting local flavor and numerous beers on tap sits around the corner.

You cruise the nearby neighborhood and all you find are strip malls with chain joints from "anywhere USA."

The only bar almost worth visiting is yet another Irish themed pub that looks like it came out of Froto's shire.

This Lucky Charms-esque establishment is complete with plastic cobble stones and a yuppie guy playing a horrible rendition of Piano Man in a fake Irish accent.

As your coworkers dig into their "Irish Buffalo Wings" and swig down that flavorless, overrated stout known as Guinness, you think to yourself, "there must be something other than this commercialized, commodified BS…salvation must be somewhere!"

Then, you begin to hear the faint sound of an accordion billowing out polka music.

You pick up the whiff of beer mixed with the smell of charred pig flesh.

The quiet roar of people get your blood pumping and your hopes high. Could folks, unlike yourself, actually be enjoying themselves?

After following the scent you turn the corner to see an old railroad station, sitting along rusty old tracks that run long into the midwest.

The building has a large wooden sign shaped like a beer stein.

Uplifting polka fills your ears and before you know it you're sitting at a large table with a liter of quality German beer and a beautiful cut of swine atop a bed of golden sauerkraut; to Hell with Irish-fakery, you've found Heaven.


Friends, I'm talking about the German Beer Hall known as the Hessen Haus in downtown Des Moines, Iowa.

What a great place!

The menu was large and diverse with all your German/Austrian/whatever favorites such as, Wilde Schweine Wurst, Jaegerschnitzel, Goulash, and Rind Rouladen.

The copious beer menu was mind blowing with not a single American puke beer to be found.

For appetizers Suit 69 and I decided to go off the beaten path with a little midwest favorite that had an interesting twist; toasted ravioli filled with rabbit.

Not amazing as far toasted ravioli goes but the addition of Thumper made the difference - if only for novelty sake.

Dinner brought me the delicious Wienerschitzel.

A tender cut of veal freshly breaded and fried to a golden brown, served with that unmistakably sweet and smokey German potato salad then topped off with pickled red cabbage.

Like a good beer garden, the table was long and we shared it with another group.

Small talk commenced and gradually got better after liters of imported beer were consumed to the sound of tubas and acco
rdions.

Our friendly neighbors to the left (geographically and politically) where kind enough to share their SchweinsHaxe, or for those who don't speak Deutsch, a large, seasoned, mild flavored pork shank served with sauerkraut.

Good times where being had when the challenge came.

Our new friends began to tell us about "Der Stieffel" or otherwise known as "The Boot."

This 72 ounce glass, shaped like men's footwear is the desert of choice at the Hessen Haus.

So large, so intimidating, that they won't even give you one unless there's at least three people in your group.

This beast can be filled with any of their tap beers and if in a drunken haze you manage to break "Der Stieffel," it will set you back $50.00.

Since we're not known as people who always follow the rules, Suit 69 and I decided the try on this boot solo.

No group for us, no letting the boot travel the table clockwise, no flicking it before passing it along. We were going to have our very own beerfest.

I don't know about Suit 69 but as the barmaid began filling this monster, I was having second thoughts.

Did I have the sauerkraut balls to take that boot down?

The heaping Spaten Oktoberfest arrived at the table and it was time for me to hike-up my lederhosen and dispatch that behemoth.

After about an hour of steady chugging, I struggled to return my empty boot safely to the bar.

Suit 69 dropped his in 42 minutes.

Soon after, a freight train went by the bar and a whistle inside sounded, signaling half-price jager shots and bad decisions.

It wasn't long after that the night came to a close -- mostly due to our inability to put a sentence together and the fear that we wouldn't be able to keep our wienerschitzel down.

The next morning I felt like I had been kicked in the head by the giant beer boot.

But my headache was nothing compared to the pain every lame Irish bar in the United States feels after a swift butt kicking from Des Moines, Iowa's Hessen Haus.

Rating: Why didn't I buy the shirt?