Indiana vs Northwestern – Fall bliss in Bloomington…

Filing out of the Runcible Spoon with a distended belly, it was, as they say, a great day for a good stretch of the legs. It was a pristine and crisp fall morning in Bloomington, one of the quintessential college towns in the country. I fell in line with the crimson herd shuffling along the sidewalk on Indiana Avenue for a leisurely stroll up to Memorial Stadium. The Halloween contingent was out in full festive force, many students garbed in garish and clichéd costumes, toting boxes of beer alongside. Predictably, a couple of bearded “Allen” from the Hangover characters passed by one another, chest bumping in their baby bjorns.

At the approach to Memorial Stadium a sea of lush grass parking lots open up, flooded with cars parked beneath the hardwood canopy overhead. Dotted with massive oaks and maples ablaze in full autumn splendor, tents and grills smoking away beneath, the Indiana tailgating scene in late October is magnificent. The picturesque fall backdrop was eerily reminiscent of the infamous Grove at Ole Miss, minus the opulence and Southern mannerisms of course.

Heading further east on 17^th street towards Woodlawn, the tailgating scene takes on a decidedly more rowdy atmosphere. Thousands of students were jammed into a muddy field, packed in tighter than an all night rave, the ground littered with empty solo cups and aluminum cans. A handful of trucks were scattered haphazardly throughout the mob, loaded over the sideboards with beer, doors flung wide open with hip hop music bumping away. Naturally, the Bloomington cops were perched around the perimeter like eagles scanning for prey, glassing the riot for brawlers or the unruly. They had a gated tent set up nearby as ad hoc drunk tank, a couple of cherub faced undergrads sat handcuffed, whimpering dejectedly in metal folding chairs as they were processed.

I’ve seen a lot of tailgating in my travels, but nothing as dense and intense as this particular student scene at IU. With that level of raucousness, it’s no small wonder why most of them never make it into the stadium.

With game time approaching, I sauntered across the street and swooped up a quick ticket for twenty bucks. With the uninspiring IU vs Northwestern matchup, the scalpers put up little fuss at the negotiating table. As I walked past the west side of Memorial Stadium, displayed on the concrete stood a couple of WW2 era anti aircraft guns and a towering ship mast draped with Big 10 flags. It turns out the mainmast came from the decommissioned USS Indiana, a South Dakota class Battleship that served in the Pacific theater of the war, and now enshrines the football stadium.

Predictably, the game itself was a side note on the day. Similar to Kentucky, Indiana fans make it clear that basketball is the real season in Bloomington. The stadium barely filled up halfway, and I retreated back a row to spread out across a row of cushioned seats left unoccupied. The PA tried to pump some energy into the aloof crowd, belting out an exaggerated “First down Hoooooooooosiers” after Indiana moved the chains, punctuated by a brassy military band march straight out of the inspection scene from The Dirty Dozen. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to will the Hoosiers to a victory on this day, in typical Big 10 doormat fashion they were drubbed by the Wildcats 59-38.

Interestingly, Indiana was the first venue I have been to that doesn’t have a tawdry school mascot dancing around on the sidelines. It was refreshing to see a school that doesn’t feel compelled to send a giant inflatable “Hoosier” costume fumbling away behind the bench.

Following the game, I took a leisurely stroll around the IU campus, reputed to be one of the more picturesque campuses in the Big 10. Decked out in resplendent fall color, the classic gothic architecture and iconic Indiana limestone are the standard for collegiate campus architecture. Football aside, Indiana University in the late fall is a magnificent place to visit, and Bloomington one of the all time great college towns.

Special thanks to my friends Gordon and Ken, both esteemed IU alums, for their excellent recommendations during my Bloomington experience.

The Little Zagreb - That's a spicy meat-a-ball!

“Order the garlic rolls, the spicy meatballs and the petite filet. Don’t get the full size filet, it’s just not as good. Use a full pad of butter for each of the garlic rolls, and get sour cream with the spicy meatballs, you’ll need it. I know it sounds weird, but trust me.”

My recommendation to the Little Zagreb came with those precise directions courtesy of my friend, and loyal Hoosier alum, Gordon. While many folks might bristle at blindly following such a directive, I tend to be grateful for informed recommendations. When those recommendations include house made meatballs and tender slabs of beef, little additional persuasion is needed. I repeated Gordon’s words verbatim to Katie, the cheerful waitress, before she even got a chance to hand me the menu. She ratified my decisive selections and tottered into the kitchen, menu in hand.

Glancing around the interior, the Little Zagreb is simple and unadorned. Pine paneled walls display a handful of bright crimson Indiana banners, a few IU basketball team pictures and red and white checkered tablecloths tie the rest of the unpretentious décor together. My order arrived a few minutes later, full family sized portions plunked imposingly on the table. Katie snickered at all the food in front of me, sarcastically plopping a “to go” box on the table before I even started. She would later return that same box to waitress station, empty and defeated. Learning the hard way that my appetite is nothing to be trifled with…

The garlic rolls were bursting with salty garlic, and, in a subtle act of brilliance, had been toasted on the grill before serving, picking up a hint of charcoal flavor. The spicy meatballs lived up to their fiery reputation. A healthy dose of cayenne pepper was the only secret Katie was willing to reveal, but the heat kept me dunking them in sour cream and reaching for the water glass regularly. Finally the filet arrived, perfectly medium rare, tender, and gently seasoned to perfection. The steaks here are imparted with a robust charcoal flavor from the open flame grill, a technique that forms the elusive and prized crust on a properly charred steak.

It’s not a cheap meal, to be sure, and expect to pay full steak dinner prices. But Janko’s Little Zagreb is a place not to be missed in Bloomington, and if you find yourself there now, you won’t even need a menu…

Special thanks to Ken and Gordon for the insider tip on the Little Zagreb, in addition to a handful of other recommendations in Bloomington that I hope to visit next time around…

Runcible Spoon - Irish Breakfast in Bloomington

Walking up to the Runcible Spoon on 6^th Street in downtown Bloomington, it looks like any other house lining the side street. A simple cottage in a residential neighborhood, a perennial garden out front and a flagstone patio, the “Spoon” has occupied the same converted home since 1976. An Irishman greeted me inside the door with a warm “What kin I do fer’ ya?” Not exactly the greeting I was expecting to find in Bloomington, Indiana but it turns out the guy was the owner Matt O’Neill, who has resettled to the Midwest from the mother land. He guided me to a small open table beside the aromatic coffee bar in what used to be the kitchen. A quick inspection of the bathroom revealed a cast iron bathtub still in place, now filled to the brim with water and plants, having been repurposed as a fish tank.

After a long ride, I ordered up a massive breakfast. Inspired by the Irish roots, I opted for eggs benedict, adding in side orders of extra eggs, home fries and, true to form, corned beef hash. Despite the influx of homecoming weekend business, my order arrived quickly. The bennie’ was pretty straightforward diner fare; a bit disappointing because based on the ambience I expected a more artisan spin. Thankfully, the corned beef hash delivered. It was packed with tender, real chunks of salty corned beef, and a far more crafted version than its factory canned cousin.

Although satisfying, the Runcible Spoon really isn’t my regular cup of tea. It was a bit too bohemian (read hippy) for my taste. While the food is pretty good, it’s also quite pricey, and my hefty breakfast tallied well over 20 bucks. I’m still puzzled how some of the ragamuffins that traipsed in and out of the place could afford it. Many readers might appreciate a place with a few dozen kinds of home roasted, 100% organic, free trade coffees, delicately sipped in eclectic mugs. And if that’s your thing, you should visit. But in the kinds of joints that I frequent, there is only one kind of coffee; black coffee. It comes in a white mug, and, if you ask the surly waitress nicely enough you might get a pack of sugar and some tepid cream with it. Not that I drink that hideous liquid of course, but it highlights my point.

Notre Dame vs USC

I generally don’t write much about Notre Dame home games, for obvious reasons. It’s an impossible task for me to capture it subjectively, and because I have spent so much time there, it’s difficult to convey the story through the eyes of a newcomer.

Despite the thorough drubbing on the field, however, an embarrassing and painful loss to USC, the trip last week was particularly special for me. For the first time, my mother made the pilgrimage out to the promised land of South Bend. Although loyally following the Irish on TV for many years and proudly displaying the myriad of Irish fan gear I had bestowed upon her for several Christmas’s, this would be her first visit to Notre Dame.

As one of my friends eloquently put it; you only get to take your mom to her first Notre Dame game once. The entire weekend was truly a blessing, and I was fortunate to finally share this experience, and what make the place so special for me, with my mother.

Love you Mom.

Special thanks to Andrew and Julia as always, for their hospitality and putting on a first class tailgate. Looking forward to a couple of adventures next fall with you guys…first round is on me in Dublin.

Also, thanks to my new friend and loyal follower of the blog, Ron, for the ticket help and cold beers. Great to finally meet up with you Ron, and look forward to our paths crossing again in the future!

Fat Shirley’s in South Bend – The end of an era…

The smell of grease and cigarettes hovers in the low yellowed ceilings like a fog. The galley counter is cramped, and patrons straddle spinning vinyl stools waiting. Stainless steel flashes behind the counter, a few corners covered with grime – looks like it’s been there for about twenty years. Who cares when the coffee is strong. Drunk chatter fills the air, interrupted by the sizzle of the grill, fatty strips of bacon popping away. Students slur clumsily about politics, turning green as they struggle to finish a midnight meal. The early old timers huddle around black coffees, jabbering on about local gossip, or such and such “dumb son of a bitch”.

Barb, the short order cook, goes about her work efficiently, turning only to holler at a couple of drunks getting mouthy with the young waitress. They assume their places, returning to silence. There’s a certain authority to a middle aged woman working the graveyard shift waving a greasy masons trowel. She goes back to her work, ladling butter onto the cooktop for the next order. Everything gets cooked in butter here; eggs, potatoes, even the bacon. It sits melted in a steel tray on the grill, refreshed every few minutes with another yellow brick.

My roommate and I watch our breakfasts being cooked, strips of bacon dancing away in the heavy handed butter. I ordered the “Truckers Special”; three eggs, toast, bacon and a pile of home fries. All of it cost four bucks. Paid for up front and in cash only, per the faded paint menu board posted bluntly above the grill. Probably the only place left in America you can get a full breakfast cooked to order, flip the cashier a five dollar bill, and leave with change. With the clock tilting towards 4AM we shuffle the 100 yards home from the diner, stripping on the porch before entering the tiny bungalow we’re renting. The stench of cigarettes and grease is so strong we don’t dare bring the clothes in the house, leaving them to air outside in the cool fall morning air.

Depending on who you talk to in South Bend, that iconic 24 hour diner was known as “Fat Shirley’s” to some, and the “Gag and Heave” to others. Officially, the name was the White House Restaurant, and stories like the above were the typical ending to weekend nights during my tenure in South Bend. I rubbed elbows with a few Notre Dame Football players there, and a truck once hit the building while I was eating. Once I was sure the rickety structure wasn’t coming down, I resumed the assault on my potatoes.

Unfortunately, however, the restaurant as I knew it closed down a couple years ago. After shutting the doors for a while, it has now been reopened as Jeannie’s House. It’s no longer 24 hours, the prices went up a bit, and there are a couple new faces in the room. Fresh pine paneling abounds inside, the ceiling is a crisp new white along with a myriad of updated cosmetics. The whole place it just feels – new. Different. You’re even allowed to use your cell phone now…

Trying to dredge up some memories, I trudged back in there on the Sunday morning after the game. While the glory in Notre Dame Stadium continues to fade, so to does the aura of Fat Shirley’s. Sure the food was fine at “Jeannie’s”, and still relatively cheap, so I have nothing to complain about. But it just didn’t feel the same anymore. Maybe I needed a few dozen beers to really appreciate it, or maybe some things are just better left to memory…

Rest in peace Fat Shirley’s.

(Sadly, I don’t have any pictures of the old place…)

Polito's Meatball Subs - Still perfect...

I wrote extensively about the virtues of the meatball sub at Polito’s two years ago HERE. With changes afoot seemingly around every corner of South Bend, I’m happy to report that is not the case at Polito’s.

The meatball subs here remain the same gooey treasures they were two years ago, overflowing with spiced meat and mozzarella. Untarnished by the meddling hands of change, they’re worth the trip every time. I don’t know why this place even has a menu...

Iowa vs Northwestern – Striped Out…

Originally scheduled for a Penn State trip this weekend, some last minute cancellations sent me rifling through the schedule for a last second substitute. Fortunately, the Hawkeyes were in town, and another premier Big 10 school would be a more than suitable alternative. The magnetic allure of Iowa came calling once again.

Highway 61 beckoned, the same route north I had taken earlier this year to Iowa State. In a month, the rolling hills of southern Iowa had turned from green to gold, the corn frayed and exhausted, pleading for the mercy of the scythe. It was harvest season now, stout combines carving great swaths into the landscape, billowing clouds of chaff behind like a yellow mist. Eighteen wheelers awaited on the edges of the fields, the bounty hauled off and deposited into countless steel corn bins gleaming across the Iowa landscape.

Rolling into Iowa City, I park a half mile or so east of town, beyond the metered parking and expensive garages, squeezing into a free street space across from College Green Park. Curiously, a couple dozen tents are pitched in the small grassy patch, the gazebo cocooned in plastic, and boxes of food stacked neatly nearby. Evidently the “Occupy” movement has gained a foothold in Iowa City. The 99% are everywhere it seems…

I meet up with an old friend, Holly, and we shuffle down the crowded sidewalk towards Kinnick Stadium. Behind the field, we roam up and down Melrose Street, the bustling heart of the Hawkeye tailgating scene. Food vendors line the sidewalks with trails of blue charcoal smoke spiraling into the sky. Tacos, burgers, and brats are some of the typical fare offered, but “big ass Turkey legs” are the signature item Iowa is known for. After two lunches, I regretfully have to decline. Up and down Melrose both sides of the street are swarmed with yellow and black fans spilling out of party houses. Cars, trucks, busses and tents are crammed onto the tiny lawns for a pre game block party, the atmosphere festive and robust.

Eventually, I snatch up a quick ticket outside the stadium on the 30 yard line. Despite a lackluster matchup with Northwestern, tickets are in surprisingly short supply and the security guards annoyingly overzealous. They hassle me about my small string backpack, the same one I have carried unobstructed into well over 40 stadiums, by citing some nonsensical “rule” that seems to pervade a lot of stadium security these days. I disappear behind a bus, put on the few extra layers and whistle past security, promptly returning the contents to my bag moments later as I head towards my seat.

Emerging from the portal, I had unknowingly fallen into a “stripe out” game at Kinnick Stadium. In a unique show of Hawkeye solidarity, 70,000 fans color coordinate their outfits dependent upon the section. Alternating entire sections of yellow and black, the crowd forms “stripe” patterns in the stands, an effect few other fan bases would be able to pull of with such dazzling precision. I’m one of the few who didn’t get the memo, my black fleece a shameful eyesore among the ocean of yellow around me.

Additionally, for this particular contest, each seat was issued a paper placard, held aloft during a pregame ceremony that decked the stadium in two unique patterns.

Unfortunately, tonight there was no flyover to accompany that patriotic pattern or Star Spangled banner after the Iowa 25^th Flying Training Squadron had been reprimanded for their stunt last year. During the 2010 Ohio State game, the group channeled their inner “Top Gun” and quite literally buzzed a mere 16 feet over the press box, a maneuver which cost the lead pilot his military career. If you ask me, he should have been promoted. The closer the better in my opinion…





I spent the entire game seated next to a friendly guy named Eric and a few of his buddies cramped alongside into the tight rows of Kinnick Stadium. A lifelong Hawkeye fan and alum, Eric schooled me in the finer points of Iowa football, noting some of the players to watch and exchanging a few road trip stories during the breaks. A dedicated follower, he flies in from Atlanta for every home game, and catches a few select road games whenever possible. I can only imagine the toil of being an ardent Big 10 nut living in the heart of SEC country. It’s always pleasant to have knowledgeable seat mates, and Eric’s hospitality made the night that much more enjoyable.

On the field, the Hawkeyes prevailed, but struggled to put the plucky Wildcats away. Iowa never delivered a knockout blow to put the contest out of reach, allowing Northwestern to remain close the entire contest, finishing with a tenuous 41-31 victory. With the brisk Iowa night settling in after the final whistle, I left impressed by the Iowa experience. It’s a quintessential Big 10 atmosphere; a festive and robust college town, hard hitting fundamental football and ardent, knowledgeable fan base. All the right ingredients for a great experience, and next time I’ll be sure to pack a yellow shirt too…

Thanks to my friend Holly for meeting up and saying hello on such short notice in Iowa City, maybe next time I'll give you more than 12 hours notice and we can make an entire day of it.

Special thanks to my friend Allison for her thorough list of all the hot spots in Iowa City, and a run down of the gameday attractions around Kinnick. You made my first visit to Hawkeye nation a great one, and certainly left me ready to head back for more!