The Grove Cafe - Proprietary Pancakes

I had to have breakfast at least once during my trip to Iowa, and fortunately there is a little downtown café along Main Street in Ames that has been dishing out the classics since 1949. The Grove Café would be the perfect morning fill up prior to my run out to Field Of Dreams, and they were rumored to serve up some rather legendary pancakes.

John and I sauntered in early on Sunday morning to beat the game day after crowds, took an obligatory glance at the menu, and promptly ordered up traditional egg breakfasts. I also tossed in one of their famous pancakes with some peach preserves to see what all the fuss was about.

A few minutes later the food arrived, simply and efficiently, and my picture taking soon drew the attention of the owner Larry. I was curious to hear about the trade secret to these renown pancakes. They are nearly a full inch thick, yet incredibly fluffy, and have a deeper orange hue to them and some spice notes that I couldn’t quite key in on. Certainly distinguishable from your typical Bisquik sawdust pucks at a regular diner, I figured Larry might be willing to impart some of that pancake wisdom to a polite stranger.

I figured wrong.

Although extremely friendly and welcoming to an out of towner, Larry was pretty tight lipped about the secret sauce in his pancakes. Evidently, when he bought the place some years ago, the pancake recipe came with the building, and he’s not about to give it away. To this day, it stands as a closely guarded company secret that only a select handful of people know about.

Perhaps the mysteriously addicting pancakes add to the allure and intrigue of the Grove Café, but the food stands on its own. And breakfast always seems to taste better in a Main Street café…

Iowa State vs Northern Iowa - Cyclone Sirens Wail

After meeting up with John and consolidating vehicles, we hustled over to the tailgating scene outside Jack Trice Stadium hoping the rain would hold off for a few more hours. With the stadium surrounded by a sea of parking, Iowa State has a robust tailgating atmosphere, punctuated by colorful red and yellow tents, RV’s and converted school busses decked with red striping. Shuffling through the parking lots, the aroma of charcoal smoke wafted through the air, that delightful harbinger of fall afternoon festivities.

After a quick search, we met up with John’s friend Derick and his family, who may be some of the most die hard Cyclone fans in Ames. The entire family decked head to toe in full red and yellow regalia, they warmly welcomed us to their tent, offering up all manner of tailgate favorites and sharing some of the understated Cyclone passion and tradition. Derick himself has earned quite a reputation in the stadium for routinely smuggling in a vuvuzela, one of those plastic noisemakers that sounds like a pack of angry hornets.

“Doesn’t security confiscate it”? I asked inquisitively.

“Oh yeah. Pretty much every week. But I go pick it up after the game, and bring it right back in next game” Derick responded matter of factly.

I saluted the dedication to their craft, and watched curiously as Derick and a friend went about the elaborate subterfuge of hiding the horns beneath their shorts and track jackets. (Hint: the collapsible versions of vuvuzelas are far easier to camouflage). After watching the Iowa State marching band pass through the parking lot, that was the signal for John and I to make our way over to the entrance gates.

(I would find out later that during this game security tried snatching the vuvuzelas once again from Derick and his cohorts. The security tactics backfired, however, when this caused such an uproar among fans in the section that they started booing security, and actively chanting the horns be returned. This ruckus attracted the attention of police and state troopers who entered the section – taking up Dericks cause, and ordering security personnel to return the vuvuzelas to their rightful owners. The horns happily sounding for the remainder of the game in Jack Trice.

I give credit to those Troopers for doing the right thing and making an exception for the horns – it’s little nuances like this that make up the subtle traditions unique to College Football. Policy need not exist in a vacuum.)

Entering Jack Trice Stadium, we were greeted with the ominous wail of tornado sirens as part of the pre game introduction for the Cyclones. Given the menacing black clouds perched above, John wondered aloud what would happen if there were an actual tornado. Unfazed, we proceed to a couple of spots against the rail in the lawn sections of the stadium corners.

The Stadium was named in honor of Jack Trice, the first African American athlete in Iowa State history. Trice’s legacy is a rather unfortunate one, as he died from injuries sustained during his first and only college football game against Minnesota in 1923. As a result of various student led campaigns throughout the years, the stadium was finally recognized officially as Jack Trice Stadium in 1997. Today it stands as the only Division 1 stadium named after an African American. (Astute readers of the blog will recall that last year we attended a game at Eddie Robinson Stadium at Grambling State University – technically Grambling is Division 1-AA)

The game itself was a tale of two halves. A complete snooze fest in the first half, both teams struggled to put together any momentum, routinely coughing the ball up and giving the Northern Iowa fans something to cheer for. It wasn’t until late in the fourth quarter that a fury of scoring perked fans out of their slumber. Trailing by six, the Cyclones stuffed in a touchdown with 4:30 left to take the lead 14-13. On the first play from scrimmage for Northern Iowa, however, they completed an 80 yard score to regain the lead 19-14, silencing the Iowa State crowd before their prior celebration had even settled down. Showing remarkable resolve, the Cyclones took the ball with 4:17 remaining and engineered a drive the length of the field – capped off with a touchdown score with only 40 ticks left on the clock. Holding on for the victory, the Cyclones snuck away with their first win of the season in an electrifying finish, regaled by the chorus of 54,672 fans and the shrill wail of the tornado siren.

Nothing like a little excitement to kick off the 2011 season…


Thanks to Derick and his family for the hospitality at the tailgate, and the entertainment. Next time I'll be sure not to eat 6lbs of meat before showing up...


Special thanks to my friend John, it's always great to catch up and conquer a few epic meals. Appreciate the hospitality for the weekend, and hope to catch you again this year somewhere. Glad I could be on hand with you to witness your first ever Iowa State game, maybe this will get you back to your alma mater for more...

Hickory Park - Barbecue in Iowa?

Iowa isn’t exactly what you would call a hotbed for barbecue, and when it comes to barbecue joints in Ames, pickings are rather slim. As I have come to expect from recent life in the Midwest, I temper my expectations when it comes to proper cue’ in these parts. Hickory Park, however, was a welcome reprieve from the strip of chain restaurants pervading downtown Ames, so I was eager to sample what the city had to offer.

The recommendation for Hickory Park came courtesy of my friend John, an Iowa State alum whom I spent a summer with in North Carolina. As such, he’d developed some savvy taste buds during our time in Raleigh, as we ate our way through some of the best swine in the BBQ laden Tarheel State. This experience, coupled with his prolific appetite, meant we were in for quite a feast.

Hickory Park as I learned, is an institution in Ames. Cavernous inside, the restaurant has been in operation since 1970 and shuffles hundreds of patrons over at a time. Typically, mass popularity and proper barbecue do not coexist. My skepticism was raised even further when the waitress couldn’t tell me what kind of wood they smoked with – not exactly a stumper when “Hickory” is on the sign out front…

Regardless, John and I rolled the dice and promptly ordered up the sampler platter featuring the full array of their offerings. A tray arrived a few minutes later, weighed down with hefty portions of chicken, ribs, brisket, sausage and pork.

To my surprise, the ribs were actually well prepared. Although a touch on the dry side (excusable given the busy weekend traffic), they were well smoked throughout and pulled easily from the bone. Chicken was equally satisfying, with beautiful color on the lightly seasoned skin. While the brisket showed signs of care, with a nice reddish smoke ring around the edge, it had been trimmed prior to cooking and perhaps spent a bit of time under a heat lamp and left to dry out far to long.

In the end, by Midwest standards, Hickory Park actually dishes out some pretty decent BBQ. It’s a game day institution in Ames, and one of the few non chain options in town, so certainly worthy of a stop next time you are in Ames. Finally, the portion sizes are approved by John himself, a truly rare honor, so rest assured you will not be leaving hungry…

Maid Rite - Just about right...

One of the oldest franchises in the U.S., Maid Rite is a quick serve chain unique to the upper Midwest with about 70 locations scattered throughout the area. They have been dishing out their signature “loose meat” sandwiches since 1926, and this particular location in Marshalltown has been in continuous operation since 1928. Little has changed in that time, as the menu has remained blindingly simple throughout the years, consisting of little more than a single beef sandwich option, drinks and shakes.

Stepping into the Marshalltown Maid Rite is a journey to a bygone era. Stools surround a U-Shaped vinyl counter, and the service is quick and efficient. Waiting customers line up against the windows, hovering over diners, poised to pounce on abandoned seats. At least half of the business caters to takeout orders too, I quickly surmise. I witness handfuls of standing patrons yelling out orders, scurrying off moments later with grease stained white paper bags tucked beneath their arms. Wanting the full serve experience, I straddled an open stool and flagged down the counter waitress in the midst of her busy hum.

The sandwiches are simple fare, little more than spiced ground beef scooped out of some kind of giant hot box, and piled onto a soft white bun. I ordered mine with the works, which included cheese, onion, pickles and mustard. After unwrapping the greasy paper and diving in, the taste was remarkably similar to a fast food cheeseburger – which is basically what Maid Rite is. It’s not going to change your life, but it’s a timeless classic in Marshalltown and for $3.75, pretty hard to beat.

Coffee Cup Cafe

After a five hour morning ride, I eased into the town of Sully, Iowa with an appetite for a late breakfast or early lunch, depending on the mood of the cook. Massive steel grain bins marked the end of the street, and I circled the grassy town square before parking. With a population scarcely over 900 people, pulling up to the curb with Texas plates drew a couple of raised brows from the two old timers settled into a bench out front. Donned in faded denim overalls, they chatted back and forth about the weather, one of them cradling a tiny white West Highland Terrier, oddly out of place in this otherwise quintessential Midwestern archetype.

“Are you fellas the valet”? I chided, approaching the door.

“Sure. Toss me your keys.” One of them shot back with a grin.

Returning the sarcasm, I double clicked my alarm dramatically and proceeded on into the tiny café. Originally built in 1917, the Coffe Cup Café has been a staple in Sully for nearly a century. The location as it stands now was built in 1970 after a handful of different fires and owners throughout the years, but the attention to home made classics remains.

On the recommendation of the waitress, I ordered up their staple hot beef sandwich. It arrived a few moments later, a tower of tender, slow cooked beef piled between two extra thick slices of white bread. The whole creation smothered in savory brown gravy, this was a fork only event (no knife needed).

Between the Texas plates and curious picture taking, the owner made a special trip out of the kitchen to say hello and chat for a few minutes. Despite normally eschewing dessert, during our short conversation she did a remarkable job of selling me on a slice of their home made pies. Made daily, completely from scratch, the Coffee Cup has garnered national recognition for some of their pies. With strawberries in season, and a fresh batch acquired from a few miles away, I opted for the strawberry pie. Remarkably fresh and simple, the flaky crust gave way effortlessly and the pie soon disappeared.

Unfortunately for you, they don’t mail order their pies (and yes I asked). So if you want a slice for yourself, you’ll have to make the trip to Sully on your own. And it might be worth it for the pie alone…

Beginnings...

Still dark, the early morning air is cool with the onset of September. I creak open the door and settle into the dusty seat of my Jetta, heaving my travel pack onto the passenger side within easy reach. Rubbing the weariness from heavy eyes, I wait a few seconds before cranking the tiny diesel over. The familiar chug and rattle percolates throughout the cabin and a spin of the radio dial searches for some morning jabber for background noise.

Cup holders on the dash beckon for a steaming cup of coffee, but I only take water. I picked up a fifteen pack case from the gas station for $3.99 the night before. The flimsy plastic bottles so thin they crinkle like aluminum foil, and I’m nervous they’ll explode all over the floor. Never did understand the allure of that black liquid. As a rule, coffee drinkers make terrible road trippers. Always fussing for their next fix, you inevitably have to pull over again twenty minutes later so they can relieve the borrowed fluid.

Creeping out of the parking garage, I lope onto the highway, thick yellow lines sparkling in the half moon glow of headlamps. Ribbons of blacktop and a season full of new adventure await. Into the morning black I go.

I make my way north on Highway 61 skirting the winding edge of the Mississippi River and passing through Hannibal, Missouri a couple hours later; birthplace of Mark Twain. The orange glow of sunrise streams in through the passenger window now, the roads remain silent. I turn the radio off in deference.

Eventually, the broad valleys of Missouri give way to the soft rolling hills of Southern Iowa. Great glaciers carved these valleys into the scarred plains, the hills the remnants of sediment deposits left behind as the ice retreated North. Erratic boulders the size of Volkswagens dot the edges of fields, abandoned by the glaciers to later be wrestled out of the way by early settlers.

Today, broad swaths of corn stretch across the undulating landscape as far as the eye can see. Oceans of gold tassels sway rhythmically in the wind, flamboyant seed company signs demarcating the different plots. Pioneer. Champion. The corn is high now, with harvest a few short weeks away. The blacktop walled on both sides by endless green pickets disappearing over the next rise.

A new odyssey begins…