Patrick Jacobs

To paraphrase an old quip from some unknown wit, the only things that will survive the impending nuclear holocaust are cockroaches, Cher and Hudson’s Hamburgers. Eventually, all situations must go pear-shaped and come to an end, and so is the sad fate of this humble little local section of the newspaper you hold in your ink-smeared fingers. You can put away that bottle of Jack Daniels and dry your tears – shameless plug alert – because new columns will continue to happen at www.getoutnorthidaho.com.

Fashion wise, different cultures bring in the New Year in a variety of different ways. For example, fancy panties are de rigueur for folks in Brazil, Ecuador, Bolivia, and Venezuela; red underpants are supposed to bode well for love in the new year, while yellow knickers indicate dreams of money. Here in North Idaho it doesn’t really matter what color your skivvies are, at least for the most part.

Over the last four or so years that I’ve been haunting local eateries with the intent of giving them a critical shakedown, I’ve committed to print probably more than a handful of things I would sooner or later come to feel a twinge of regret about. I look back now at some of the early reviews and it’s often apparent that I hadn’t yet learned the value of smoothing down painfully blunt snarkiness into more of a semi-pleasant verbal bruise.

Swing Magazine was a relatively short-lived but popular national magazine which was published during the early to mid-1990s and included the tag line “Life In Your Twenties” under the masthead on the cover. It was one of the very first publications geared heavily toward “Generation X,” a group of people who had begun to graduate from college and was just starting to make enough money to consider where they wanted to establish a career and settle down.

Several months ago, we took a look at which restaurants and nightspots made certain local residents light up with glee like a Christmas tree. Here’s the rundown on another three local movers and shakers. DJ Brentano (Baja Bargarita/The Torch Lounge)

To quote that great would-be novelist Snoopy, it was a dark and stormy night. It was the first major snowstorm of the season and all the local TV weather personalities were ablaze with the threat of an imminent blizzard that would add another deep layer to the fresh 6 inches of snow already blanketing the landscape. I drive paranoid-style in winter conditions, and cruising gingerly down Seltice Way, I’d managed to pick up a tailgating, four-wheel drive lunatic behind me, swerving, headlights blazing. I was positive I was going to have to brake suddenly for something, whereby I’d be neatly rear-ended and my car would go up in flames instantly like a 1978 Ford Pinto.

Trace your hand on a brown paper bag, cut it out, glue construction paper feathers on the fingers, and hang it on your momma’s fridge, because once again, Turkey Day is upon us. Despite the potential terror of distant relatives bearing mysterious Jell-O salads, most people like to celebrate Thanksgiving at home with their families. There’s comfort to be found in the sound of the Macy’s parade on the television, the scent of a slowly roasting domestic fowl heavy in the air, and the sight of your dear Auntie passed out face down in the cheese-and-crackers platter after her fifth dirty martini.

Like a hot, greasy burger patty sliding off a stainless steel spatula onto an awaiting bun, some eateries just don’t stick with me. Sometimes I’ll drive around wondering where to eat and certain restaurants don’t even pop out and beckon my attention at all. Eventually, I might notice them and think “of course, it was there the whole time,” but even after I finally make a visit or two, I’m still left with a blank, with nothing especially memorable to report, but no real complaints either.

Killing time 20 minutes waiting for Ding How’s 4 p.m. dinner time opening, we wandered past the fanciest and emptiest Pizza Hut we’d ever seen, past the hollow corpse of a failed smoothie shop, past a group of bored Korean girls mindlessly snacking and gossiping inside a dead nail salon, and finally decided that the state liquor store seemed like the most appealing place to loiter in front of.

For just this week I’m changing the name of this column from “Get Out!” to “Stay In!” and covering something I rarely get a chance to talk about: pizza delivery. It’s the perfect solution to lunch or dinner during times of inclement weather or times when you just plain can’t muster enough get-up-and-go to fix your wig and make a public appearance. Our area has no shortage of pizza places that will come knocking on your door in (hopefully) speedy fashion with a (hopefully) piping-hot pizza pie for a (hopefully) relatively small amount of cash.

I’m just going to listen to the experts and pretend I ate a healthfully guilt-free lunch. Dietary experts say that regular consumption of the Omega-3 fatty acids found in many types of seafood can do wonderful things for your body’s well-being, from lowering cholesterol and blood pressure to acting as an anti-inflammatory and possibly helping to prevent cancer. They say Omega-3 can lift you out of a depression, slow the onset of Alzheimer’s and can even make you a better samba dancer.

For many people, the mention of a fedora-style hat brings to mind images of Gene Kelly singing in the rain or a moody Humphrey Bogart gazing into the eyes of Ingrid Bergman in “Casablanca.” I may be hopelessly lost in the ’80s, but when I think fedora, I immediately picture Duran Duran’s Simon Le Bon tearing his way through the jungle in the music video for “Hungry Like the Wolf.”

It seemed I’d stepped through a magical portal through space and time to an enchanted place where men and women sporting the latest in Bavarian fashions perform volksmusik on accordions and tubas, sling scoopfuls of blaukraut onto paper plates and pour tall, healthy steins of cold hefeweizen beer. No, I wasn’t experiencing hallucinations brought on by said hefeweizen, and I hadn’t accidentally stumbled into Leavenworth, Wash., although both have been known to happen.

It seems like the choo-choo train from Flavortown took its own sweet time to arrive at downtown Coeur d’Alene’s newly-opened Sherman Junction restaurant. Rumors began swirling about the return of a diner to the former Rustlers Roost/Apple Barrel/Sambos building not long after the travel agency that had occupied the building disappeared a few summers ago. Late last year, clues gradually began to appear; some visible remodeling, the addition of booths and tables, a blurb in the newspaper.

Please do not disrobe and put on a backless gown. The stark-white, fluorescent lit interior of the take-out only Greek Street Pizza and More in Coeur d’Alene’s Ironwood Plaza may have you confused into thinking you just walked into one of the neighborhood’s many medical clinics, but you’ll soon discover that there’s plenty of homespun warmth and comfort to be had.

How much hard-earned cash would you reasonably want to spend on a steak sandwich? Let’s say you were dining at a charming alpine ski lodge which touts itself as “quickly rising in the ranks of the nation’s top destination resorts” and having a “passion for the mountains, infectious zest for life, and top-notch service.” How much is a pile of sliced beef with a little cheese on a roll ultimately worth, especially when served with a side of apathy and inattentiveness?

It was a little disconcerting, yet also somehow comforting when our lunch order was ready for pickup and we heard our hostess’ voice cry out loudly, “Patrick! Are you hungry? Come and get it!” It was a little like being back in the old country (that is, if I were actually Italian), and hearing your beloved mama’s voice summon you to the dinner table from out the back door of the family casa. It certainly got my attention, and was just one of many charming personal touches that made our visit to Rosa’s Italian Market and Deli an utterly memorable and impressive experience.

Maggie the Ghost needs to get busy throwing plates and shattering coffee cups. Legend has it that a woman named Maggie checked into Wallace’s Jameson Inn decades ago and never really checked out. Apparently, she waited patiently in her room for months and months for her rich suitor to return from a trip back East, and he never did and though she finally gave up and left the hotel in life, in death she has returned to wait it out for eternity. I can’t blame Maggie for being in a rotten mood, but unfortunately her bad vibes seem to have put a curse on the service level and quality of food in the old inn’s restaurant.

Several years ago I did a few columns reviewing the ancient history of Coeur d’Alene’s restaurant and bar scene, and I made mention of the Iron Horse’s former incarnation, the legendary Brunswick Cafe. Brunswick owner Bill Webster had always claimed that his food made him famous, especially his cheese soup and his cleverly named “Awful Awful Burger,” both of which were carried over when the place morphed into the easternmost room of the Iron Horse in 1972. My exact quote was “The Brunswick’s trademark ‘Awful Awful’ burger is still served at the location, which is now the Iron Horse, but unfortunately I hear the burger is now just plain awful.”

In the wise words of that late, great philosopher Aaliyah, “If at first you don’t succeed, dust yourself off and try again, you can dust it off and try again, try again.” Actually, technically speaking, Michael Hanes’ first venture into the restaurant world, the 4th Street Pantry, located in the brick storefront a block and a half north of Sherman Avenue on Fourth Street was quite a success.

At various points in the not-too-distant past, any mention of a “North Idaho music scene” was probably met with laughter, confusion, and bewilderment. “What music scene?” would have been the likely response, with images of frizzy-haired cover bands performing golden oldies by Foreigner and Pat Benatar in smoky dives and hotel lounges shimmying across one’s mind like a barfly in acid washed-jeans and a tube top. Of course, once in a while there was certainly more going on than just that kind of thing, but only in the last several years have enough quality venues opened up and enough talent has emerged from the woodwork to form a flourishing music scene, both in terms of live performance and recorded output. In fact, it can be somewhat tricky to stay on top of the details, but fret not. I’m here to provide a basic rundown of the situation.

Deep within both my soul and my tummy, I may not ever fully get over the tragic loss of the longtime Coeur d’Alene sandwich institution the Sunshine Trader, which for decades served enormous, legendary Tolkien-themed sandwiches both in a now-demolished building near City Park and, in its final years, in the Ironwood hospital district. Since childhood, I’d been hopelessly enamored with the “Hobbit,” which was the finest turkey/cream cheese/cranberry sauce sandwich in the entire history of the universe, period. A couple of years ago, the original owners of the Sunshine Trader sold it to someone who eventually made the fatal mistake of turning it into a fine-dining Italian establishment named Vito’s.

If you’re the type of person who’s a bit squeamish, you may want to put down your toast right now. Watching someone have several extremely sharp hooks pierced through their back flesh then dangle in the air from ropes several feet off the ground may not be everyone’s idea of a fun way to spend a sunny summer afternoon at a benefit barbecue, but Colleen Smith, owner of Weenis Inc. piercing studio, has never been one to subscribe to the idea of doing things the normal way.