Archive for June, 2012

@ Five Guys burgers and Fries

I like it here, for several reasons.

They name their current potato farmer on a whiteboard at the entrance. They have a giant sign inside, wherein they claim to be the “Willy Wonkas of burgercraft.” They keep their groceries in the middle of the dining room. Their fries are both greasy and magical, and taste of potatoes. And almost everything you’ll see is eatable, edible. I mean, you can eat almost everything.

Maybe not the grilled cheese, though. It’s an inside out hamburger bun, with some american cheese falling out of it. If you close your eyes for a minute, I expect you already know exactly what this tastes like. So, I’m not even going to go through to motions, and insult you with a lot of snarky wordplay.

Ok, fuck it. I wrote a haiku.

my palate is sad

how many guys does it take

to make a grilled cheese

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@ Club 45, in Conover

Day two of my weekend: “Grilled cheese on texas toast with beer battered fries.” (+pickles)

Club 45 is your typical lakefront, northwoods tavern, and a seemingly popular fish fry destination. It’s a nice spot, with a patio over looking the water, a swing set for the kids, and more video gambling than you can shake a stick at. There were six of us, and our collective order was probably something like, “five fish frys, and a grilled cheese with pickles.” Right off the bat, my zany request is met with a raised eyebrow and dubious look from our waitress. (I don’t know why this annoys me so much, but it does.)

Delightful pickle placement aside, this was an expected disappointment. Sandwiches made with texas toast are almost always a big, fat let down, and this was no exception. (“Hey, guys. Know what would be even awesomer than boring white bread? THICKER boring white bread!” – Some guy in Texas.) The bread was dry, the cheese was ample but unmelted, and the pickles were super skunky – no doubt, fished from a giant jar opened sometime during the Bush administration. I was a few bites in before I identified the source of the foul infraction, and I promptly fished them all out of there. I wound up dissecting it, eating a few bites out of the middle, and leaving the tragic remains in the basket for the waitress.

She, later, observed in a hushed exchange with the other bartenders:  “Pickles??!”  “Yes,” she says, deadpan. “PICKLES.”

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