Patrick Jacobs

Despite the crowds lining Sherman Avenue with their rows of disposable nylon chairs and regrettable American flag Kmart fashions, we managed to find a killer vantage point for watching the annual Coeur d’Alene Fourth of July parade. My homegirl and I were both equally cynical about the excitement value of the parade, but neither of us had bothered with it for as long as we could remember, so we decided the night before the big event to meet downtown the next morning at 10:30. We’d been hanging out on the corner of Sixth and Sherman for quite a while, looking at our watches impatiently and waiting for the first police car to signal the start of the extravaganza.

I briefly studied basic marketing concepts in college, and I’ve been ultra-aware of various consumer appeal techniques ever since. “Quizno’s has always been a little different,” read my soda cup full of Diet Mountain Dew, the momentary focus of my attention amidst a slightly chaotic lunch rush at the sandwich franchise down on the dark end of the Ironwood Square/Albertsons shopping center. “We boldly believe that your food should taste great,” it continued, “that we should use only the highest quality ingredients and that more than our lettuce should be green.”

I post an ongoing feature on the Get Out North Idaho blog titled “9 Easy Questions,” asking some well-known local faces to share their favorite spots to dine, drink and relax. Here are several recent highlights. Kerri Thoreson (Post Falls city councilwoman/tourism magnate)

If I didn’t know any better, I would have had to guess that my giant burger and heaping pile of fries had been engineered by someone other than the wispy young woman standing behind the counter working the grill into a frenzy. It’s not that wispy young women aren’t able to hold their own in a busy diner kitchen, but the sheer heft and magnitude of my meal suggested it was the handiwork of a big, burly, sweaty guy with a mustache and an attitude.

There are times when I become belatedly aware of a wonderfully unique local eatery and have to give myself the old V8 hand action to the forehead. “What was I thinking,” I tell myself, reminiscing about all the fantastic rhetorical meals I never enjoyed there, and ruing how I could have, and very well should have, made the place a regular haunt long ago. I seem to recall hearing about Post Falls’ Big Bear Deli probably around the time Tim and Cathy Riorden first hung an “open” sign in the A-frame house a block off the main drag behind Napa Auto Parts over three years ago. I think I might have even cruised by a time or two and said, “Weird place for a deli, I’ll have to remember to check it out,” but those particular brain cells might have been among the ones I lost in a tragic champagne incident on New Year’s Eve 2008.

Is it possible to be down-to-earth and put on airs at the same time? After an enjoyably relaxing and satisfying Sunday breakfast at Coeur d’Alene’s new Garnet Café, I’m convinced it most definitely is. With a few fairly oblique menu options, the haughty air of several of our fellow diners, and an overall aura of class, my breakfast partner and I felt remotely out of place for a few moments, like maybe sitting at Denny’s having Moons Over My Hammy was where we truly belonged.

One of the most unfortunate aspects of Safeway’s recent remodel of the Midtown Coeur d’Alene store was the sudden disappearance of the old sign at the corner of Third and Miller which proudly proclaimed, “Serving Coeur d’Alene Since 1938.” Still, Judgment Day must eventually come for all things, and the sign had most likely been in use since the last time the store had a facelift, around 40 years ago. In other words, the place was in desperate need of an update, and the replacement sign’s modern, minimalist rendering of Safeway’s latest corporate logo is an accurate representation of the store’s slick interior improvements. In the late 1990s, when Safeway opened a comparably large new store on the north end of town, people speculated about how long it would be before the company would give the ax to the crusty old store in Midtown.

We required a place that served both Mexican food and adult refreshments, and Las Palmitas just happened to be nearby. Honestly, I’ve never been overly impressed by the food there, and I hadn’t even wandered in since a terrible, slow waitress basically ruined the place for me a few years ago. Still, I’m almost always willing to give a place a second (or third) chance if I’m hungry enough at the time. A friend and I wanted to celebrate her new job, and as the clock struck four we decided the time was nigh for blended margaritas. We sashayed our way into the lounge area and took a seat in some rickety, raw leather-enshrouded chairs that looked like they were put together by an obscure tribe of Native Americans several hundred years ago. Well, the mid-1970s at very least.

I’m guess I might as well admit it right away – I hate chicken wings. Ever since my vegetarian phase back in high school, I’ve been rather squeamish about eating chicken right off the bone. I can handle a nice, juicy white breast in its natural state if it’s done right (hello, Chester Fried!), but otherwise my domestic fowl needs all the bones and gristly bits removed before it crosses my dinner plate. I always picture the gruesome scene in John Waters’ classic “Serial Mom” when the neighbor couple is eating chicken dinner and the camera lingers on close-ups of the couple’s mouths ravaging a greasy bird, grunting and licking fingers during what turns out to be their last meal before Kathleen Turner gives them the works. Chicken wings remind me of rowdy football parties or a night out at Hooters – these things just aren’t my style.

‘Um … uh … muy gracias, señor!” It was one of those moments when I wondered why I decided to take six long years of Français in school instead of the more logical choice of Español. Somehow, the gnarl-tooth gentleman in the black cowboy hat sitting across from us at Baja Bargarita must have understood my mangled attempt at his native language. He raised his bottle of Bud Light high in the air and yelled “Salud!” before barking loudly like a happily demented dog. Clearly, our new amigo had already finished off quite a few cold ones. He didn’t know more than a few words of our language either, so it took us a minute to figure out that he wanted to buy our first beer. “You buy us dos cervezas?” shouted my friend, as she repeatedly poked her finger in his direction, then ours. He grinned enthusiastically and nodded his head yes, nearly falling off his barstool.

I’ve been a music nerd long enough to remember head banging to my mother’s Paul Simon and Barry Manilow 8-tracks in the back seat of our 1979 Chevy Citation. These days, my computer has become the main stereo of the house and the iPod dock in my car provides the musical backdrop for all my driving adventures. It’s an amazingly convenient and easy way to do it, but as someone known for irritating friends and family while on vacation by spending entire days dragging them from record shop to record shop, I can’t get over the feeling that there’s something desperately missing from the digital music experience.

Allow me to paraphrase TV’s lovable Pine Sol lady: That’s the power of Pinehurst, baby! Specifically, I’m talking about the power of the Tall Pine Drive-In, located in the center of the booming metropolis known as Pinehurst, Idaho. At least it was definitely more booming than I was expecting on my recent jaunt through town. In fact, the area surrounding the landmark burger hut was positively percolating with traffic and activity.

The Great Harvest Bread Co. Web site basically makes it clear that all potential franchisees should expect to be indoctrinated into some kind of fantastic feel-good bread cult. They toss around warm, fuzzy catchphrases like “designing a life,” and “freedom-based” and refer to their chain of 200 stores as “learning communities.”

One of the queries included in the Get Out blog’s recurring man-on-the-street survey “Nine Easy Questions” is “Which is the best Chinese restaurant in North Idaho?” Apparently, the question isn’t actually so easy, with most of the responses looking somewhat indecisive and usually rather grim. “Hmm, Chinese. We don’t really go to any of the Chinese places in town. Maybe we should try a couple of them again sometime, but we’ve never found anyplace that we really liked,” complained one respondent.

I do believe I’ve discovered possibly the last restaurant in the entire USA with an 8-track tape player still happily in use. A wall-mounted rack full of the chunky tapes immediately jumped out at my eyeballs when I entered Famous Willies BBQ in Post Falls one recent afternoon, and I was a bit perplexed. I haven’t even seen those things floating around the thrift stores in at least 10 years. An odd form of décor, I thought, but after settling in at my table, I heard Johnny Cash fade away midsong, only to return a few seconds later.

Stumbling upon a local pizza place that serves it up by the slice is always cause for celebration, especially when that place has nine tempting varieties of Blue Bunny ice cream to celebrate the discovery with. As someone who doesn’t mind taking a solo lunch break from time to time, I rarely get a chance to indulge in pizza simply because I don’t want or need to order an entire pie for myself. Fresh, melty pizza is one of my favorite and most guilt-inducing food fetishes, and that’s really the problem. A slice or two once in a while isn’t going to cause my weight-loss plan to crumble and croak, but an entire box of leftover deliciousness would put a definite strain on the threadbare fabric of my willpower and would end up chasing my light vanilla yogurt off the breakfast table the next morning.

‘Get your kicks on Route 66.” Depeche Mode’s ’80s-era cover version of the old rock ’n’ roll road trip classic was occupying the sound system as I pulled a stool up to the bar at Noah’s Canteen in Kellogg. Stumbling into the song was pleasant and unexpected, but also somewhat appropriate considering that I’d spent most of that sunny March morning leisurely travelling the crumbly, winding side roads that run east adjacent to Interstate 90.

I’ve heard it said occasionally that there just isn’t any really awesome, authentic Mexican food in this area. I’ve enjoyed tacos made by sweet, pencil-browed abuelitas at sweaty California flea markets, and short of actually visiting Mexico itself, it’s hard to find more authentic cuisine anywhere, let alone the upper stretch of Idaho.

An Irish pub without Guinness is like a discotheque without a DJ. “I’m so sorry, we can’t serve any beer or wine tonight,” apologized the waitress with a hint of exasperation when I walked into Kelly’s Irish Pub to meet the parental units for dinner. The draught drought was actually through no fault of their own; turns out they ran into a snare during the transfer of the beer and wine license, namely the fact that the county is notoriously slower than molasses when it comes to such matters. More than likely, Kelly’s beer taps will be flowing by the time you read this, but their temporary dry spell was too much to handle for several groups of customers who walked in and did a 360 back out the door after being told of the dire alcohol situation.

I didn’t need to see a “Please Seat Yourself” sign to know what to do. It’s apparent immediately upon entry that Nosworthy’s is as casual as stopping by Mom’s kitchen for a little visit and a quick homemade lunch. It’s been a home away from home for the many regulars who’ve been frequenting the burger and omelet mecca since it sprung into life as the Ground Round, sometime in the Neo Paleolithic era of Coeur d’Alene history.

I guess it’s time I finally made a confession. Four years ago, I totally stiffed the Donut House out of 18 cents. A friend and I were driving up Government Way in Hayden one bleary day when fate suddenly dropped a pale yellow home in front of us and it had a simple and irresistible sign: “Donut House.” We staggered, zombielike, inside and loaded our tray with 5,000 calories worth of baked goods and lattes. When I handed the cashier my debit card, she said “cash only, baby,” so we rifled through wallets, pockets and car seats until we had almost, but not quite enough coins to cover it.

The word agoraphobia, an aversion to wide-open spaces, is built from two Latin root words; “phobia” means fear, of course, but “agora” translates literally as “public marketplace.” Those afflicted might want to avoid Coeur d’Alene’s Silver Lake Mall completely, for these days it is as wide open and empty as the rolling wheat fields of the mighty Palouse. On my recent trek through, the atmosphere was so tranquil, I swear I could hear a gentle wind whistling through the corridors and the sound of crickets emanating from somewhere inside Macy’s.

An eatery can throw bales of money toward fancy décor, high-gloss gourmet menus and endless advertisements, but word of mouth has always been the great equalizer, capable of making or breaking a restaurant. These days, consumer opinion is proliferating probably more than ever in the form of amateur reviews written by Joe and Jane Average and posted on Web sites like Trip Advisor, Yelp and Virtual Tourist.

If Kurt Cobain had gone into writing teen novellas instead of angst-filled grunge rock, he might have come up with some of the things the guy at the next table was saying. “Girls really hate me, especially my mustache; they think it’s so ugly,” he announced to his lady friend and anyone else within earshot. He continued, without a hint of irony in his voice, “That’s why I grew it, I guess. It’s a symbol of how I’ve decided to abandon all hope.”