Citizen Steve's Stomping Grounds - Murphy's Pub

    The first thing they teach you at blogging school is "Show, don't tell."  So how, in one blog post, should one go about capturing the spirit of a dear place (say, Murphy's Pub), without simply drooling one's fondness for the locale all over one's keyboard?  How can one plop his reader into one of those old, carved-into bar stools, elbows rested firmly against the wooden bar top, staring one of the youthful bartenders in her kindly face?  Well, in the opinion of this author, one accomplishes this through a patchwork of precise detail- close looks at set pieces, quick quotes devoid of context, one-line anecdotes, et al.  You know, the kinds of things that escape my memory when it comes to Murphy's, despite my Norm-From-Cheers-like attendance record at the pub.

    Murphy's is, after all, decidedly unconcerned with detail.  The decor?  Random crap on the walls associated with any old brand of booze.  The daily specials?  A shot here, a pitcher there- none of which have any connection in theme or distributor.  The music?  Whatever that gaggle of drunk bar-crawlers has just picked on the digital jukebox.  Elvis, followed by ACDC, and, of course, Miley Cyrus rounding out the trio of tunes.  A tasteful combination of song.

    (One may wonder why I don't, at this point, simply amble across the street from my Mermaid Lagoon to Murphy's, and document its detail firsthand as I write this.  I am reminded of the time I brought a book to Murph's and posted up at the bar, the employees' faces being the only familiar ones.  I planned on mowing down a few chapters between sips of Budweiser.  When I resumed my reading the next day, I began thirty pages behind where I had left off before I entered Murphy's.)

    No, it's not the details of Murphy's that keep me and the rest of the bar's diverse clientele returning for food, drink, and company day after day.  And I don't think it's the lighting, either, although they do a swell job with that.  Rather, I'd wager it has something to do with the lack of pretension, coupled with a respect for the tradition of running a proper public house.

    Take, for example, the taps.  I tend towards dark ales, while my frequent companion, Cait, opts for tangier brews.  We're both obliged year-round at Murphy's.  Some pints currently available at the pub include New Belgium's 1554, a dark, malty ale that never overpowers its drinker; and Goose Island's 312, an "urban wheat ale" with layers of refreshing flavor.  While these fine beers are poured capably by experienced bartenders, most of the beer circulating around Murphy's comes in pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which are often ordered two or three at a time.  And there's no distinction to be drawn between the Pabst drinkers and the craft beer sippers.  For most patrons, it's a pitcher of Pabst one night, and a sampling of micro brews the next.  A young drinker can take a crash course in the many styles of beer over the course of a few nights at Murphy's, without leaving campus to duck into the world of grad student bars and the beer purists behind their counters.  Murphy's does beer right, without bragging about it.

    On the occasions when I bother to look beyond the unassuming pint glass in front of me, I examine the person who brought me that glass.  Most nights at Murph's, that person is Zach.  Granted, sometimes that person is Steph, Gaby, McGreal, Pete, Mary Jo, Emily, Matt, or any from a handful of others, but when I want a Manhattan, it's Zach who tells them how to make it.  And when I want to make my drink a double, it's Zach who knows not to upgrade to the bigger glass.  And when I don't know what the hell I want, it's Zach who knows to make me a double Manhattan.

    And as I sit on my stool at the north end of the bar at Murphy's, drinking my double Manhattan, or my 1554, or my Pabst, or whatever Zach puts in front of me, I sometimes cannot help but see myself as would a fly on the wall: a drunk at a bar.  A statue of me would have the glass molded to my fingers.  In these moments, I'm a stock character, conveniently used as the comic relief, or as the sad sap, the slouching premonition of what's to come should the hero lose his way.  It's a character defined by his own ineffectualness; his achievements distant, his soapbox a mockery.  It's almost enough to make me feel like nothing but a sad, sack of sh-

    What's that, Zach?  Oh, yeah, sure, one more pint.  Thanks.  Hey, did I ever tell you about my trip to Door County?  Well, me and nine of my friends...

***Murphy's Pub is located at 604 E. Green Street, in Champaign, IL***

  

Citizen Steve Writes Fan-Fiction: The Thickburger Saga

    ***Editor's note:  This blog post was inspired by a Hardee's Thickburger™ that Citizen Steve once ate, and the packaging that it came in.  The Citizen was still in his usual, post-Thickburger™ state of delirium when he wrote it, so it is pretty confusing.  In an attempt to minimize your confusion, I will re-print here the tale that inspired this work of fan fiction: The Thickburger™ Story.

    

    "Fellow Burger Lovers,

        A few years ago when I became president of Hardee's™ Restaurants, we were selling so many things that we had truly become a 'Jack of all trades and master of none.'

        Unfortunately, in today's competitive fast-food world, that wasn't cutting it.  The chain needed to become known for doing something really well again; just as it did in its early years when people could 'hurry on down to Hardee's™, where the burgers are charco-broiled.'

        So, I challenged my menu development folks to come up with a new line of burgers that would make people say, 'Wow!  I can't believe I can get burgers that good at a fast-food place!'  And they did.  They came up with the thick 1/3, 1/2, and 2/3-pound burgers, every one char-broiled to order and made with 100% Angus beef.  They made the buns heavier and a little sweeter, and then they buttered and grilled them like you'd find at great burger joints.  They used sliced red onions, which no other chain was doing at the time, and they even used better pickles.  And, they called them 'Thickburgers™'.

        I truly love a great burger and I can honestly say that Thickburgers™ are not only as good as any I have had at any restaurant, but they are even better than I can make at home.  If you don't agree with me that these are the best-tasting fast-food burgers you can get anywhere, just let me know and I'll happily refund your money.

    Sincerelely,

    Andy Puzder

    President"

Now, without further ado, I present...***

The Thickburger Saga

A Made-for-Blogging Series.

by: Citizen Steve

written in the first-person point of view of Andy Puzder, President, Hardee's Inc.

    Three months ago, I was sitting in my office at Hardee's™ corporate headquarters, staring through my spotless floor-to-ceiling window at the Gateway Arch, imagining that it was half of a giant onion ring, when I grew restless.  Oh, hell, who am I kidding.  I had been restless for months.  Ever since I had flipped the Hardee's menu upside-down, the Thickburgers™ were flying out the drive-thru window like McDonald's hotcakes before 10:30 am, and the cash was pouring into my bank account, not unlike country gravy pouring over a Loaded Biscuit 'N Gravy Breakfast Bowl™.  And yet, the restlessness grew.  I knew I had to get out of that office.  Hell, out of St. Louis altogether.  I had been slouching in that cozy Midwestern lifestyle for too damn long.  I needed to break loose; I needed to sin.

-----------------

    Las Vegas can be pretty damn hot come late July.  And boy, when you're spending ten-hour shifts over the Natural Cut Fry™ machine, your ass can get hotter than a Southwest Chicken Salad™ with extra chili pepper sauce.  It didn't help that Slim Valentino and his goomba suits were in the shop breathing down my neck two times a day.  My assistant manager, sweet little Carla, would ask why I don't just duck back into drive-thru station #1 when Slim's boys came barking.  Sweet Carla.  She was always looking out for me.  She could never understand that a man stands behind his Thickburgers™, no matter how many greasy wops the family sends his way.

    The arrangement was supposed to be simple.  Slim and his posse keep John Law away from my Hardee's™, and in return I have one hundred Thickburgers™ delivered to the Paisano Room every night by nine o'clock, no exceptions.  That way I could hawk my new specialty menu item without the Nevada Gaming Commission running me out of town, and Slim's boys could enjoy the finest and most satisfying burgers in the fast-food industry every night, free of cost.  A simple plan, agreed upon by two very complex men- myself, and Slim Valentino.

    The condiments came first.  A few weeks into our arrangement, I start getting messages like, "Lips Clamato don't like no mustard," or, "Don't you try gettin' Chucky Febreezy to suck down mayo."  So I obliged.  But when those guineas started ordering specialty burgers, I was about ready to send them to Burger King.  How's a man supposed to keep track of which of these degos wants two Six Dollar Thickburgers™ and which one just wants a 1/3 lb. Low-Carb Thickburger™?  Slim was putting on the pressure.  And when I start feeling the pressure, I get cooking.  Fast.

***Will Andy take a stand against Slim and his gangsters?  And what is his new specialty menu item that would have the NGC up in arms?  Find out in the next installment of The Thickburger Saga!***

Citizen Steve Eats - A Trip to Howbowda Bagel Company

    I ate a bagel sandwich today at Howbowda Bagel Co., located on Green just East of 6th in Champaign, IL.  The sandwich was called "The Wall Streeter".  Hot roast beef, horseradish, and some other good stuff like that.  It was supposed to be served on an "everything" bagel, but they were out of those.  In fact, they were out of all seeded bagels.  Damn.  I like seeds.  Ah well.  I got it on an egg bagel.  I've always thought that eggs deserve more stage time in the hours past noon.

    The egg bagel worked.  What was most striking about it was its smell, which overwhelmed the smells from the beef and the horseradish (no easy feat).  That egg smell can take you back a long way, eh?  Sunday breakfasts after church, packed diners in the city, and a few other rather nostalgic scenes.  I think it was that smell that made the sandwich go a bit further than the average beef panini.  And Dustin, the owner, hadn't been so ready to make my sandwich on the egg bagel.  He had recommended plain or whole wheat in leu of my beloved seeded bagels.  I guess this sandwich was what the afro-donning "Joy of Painting" host Bob Ross would have called a "happy accident".  And happy I was, indeed.

    Dustin says that business has been ok.  October is a good month, he says.  I think he means that it's a good month for any campus business, not for bagels in particular.  I've heard rumors that Howbowda hasn't been doing too well since it opened last year.  For one thing, some fellow capitalists opened a Dunkin Donuts right next to the place.  And a few months later, a Panera opened up across the street.  Now, I'm not the type to bitch about big corporations making it hard on the little guy.  Rather, I'm the type to buy my stuff from the little guy.  Unless the little guy sucks.

    And Howbowda Bagel don't suck.  It's the only place on campus where you can get a sandwich, and have it freshly made, and not think to yourself "I've eaten this exact same thing in Chicago, and Kankakee, and Charleston..." (I'm looking at you, Subway.)  And that's the joy of eating at an independent restaurant.  Dustin here has used his expertise to write up a menu, pick out quality ingredients, and make me a sandwich right in front of my eyes.  Then, he asked if I had any suggestions for the place, telling me that he prefers negative feedback.  "I don't wanna hear the positive stuff," he says.

    Bar Giuliani, the only campus coffee shop without billboards all over town boasting its many locations, has closed its doors.  I smell a gap in the local coffee market.  Guiliani was a favorite among hipsters and grad students- those who had ideals involving coffee shop ownership, and who were put off by transparent attempts to seem worldly (I guess "venti mocha frap" is Seattle-ish for "a ton of sweet shit").  Where are these socially conscious caffeine addicts to browse digg.com now?

    Next time I stop in Howbowda, I'll give Dustin my negative feedback: You only have one type of coffee, and you call it "coffee".  That won't cut it in 2009.  Maybe (God-willing) 2010 will usher in a coffee revival, when Americans can just sip a cup of joe without imagining they're trilingual French skiers.  But for now, Howbowda needs to diversify its brews, and maybe add an "-ino" or a tilde (as in "sweeteñer") to its drink menu.  Until they do, try the pesto cream cheese on a spinach bagel, and chug from a glass bottle of Nantucket Nectar.  Makes for a hell of a lunch.