Patrick Jacobs

Local sushi lovers are relatively spoiled when it comes to finding top-notch dining-out options, but it wasn’t always that way. Takara introduced the idea to downtown Coeur d’Alene in 1992, and it remained the area’s sole provider of sashimi and maki rolls until about midway through this decade when sushi bars began popping up faster than you can say “Domo Arigato Mr. Maguro.” Bonsai Bistro, Syringa, Fisherman’s Market, Japan House and Sandpoint’s Oiishi are all great sushi spots, but there are times when a formal dining affair isn’t really feasible and that yen for sushi just won’t cease.

“Quick! Grab it before your teacher sees it!” I whispered to the little girl. She was glaring teary-eyed in shock and sadness at her just-dropped chocolate ice cream cone on the sidewalk, which seemed to be looking up at her like it would hop back up into her hand on its own free will if it could. She was among a group of about 20 hyperactive preschool-age Art Camp kids and two very frantic Art Camp teachers still all dressed up in their Kiddie Parade outfits. They’d decided to besiege an already busy Roger’s Ice Cream moments before my arrival. The little girl gave me a quick wide-eyed glance and went for it, rescuing her rapidly melting treat in the nick of time.

I received an e-mail in my inbox recently from a reader inquiring, “Who has the best all-you-can-eat Friday fish fry in the Cd’A area?” This reminded me of a friend of mine from Wisconsin, who asked me the same question when he first moved to town. I have a feeling this reader must also be from Wisconsin since as far as I can tell, the idea of the traditional Friday fish fry seems to be at its height of popularity almost exclusively in the church basements, cafeterias and diners of cities like Milwaukee and Wauwatosa and every town in between.

If downtown Coeur d’Alene were to undergo season color analysis, it would most likely be a “summer.” Downtown Coeur d’Alene wears soft, pastel colors during the warmest months, comfortable sandals, a straw floppy hat; it accessorizes with artsy handmade baubles and music.

Annoyingly, the TV station interrupted “Bewitched” to issue the warning. Take shelter, they said. Huge thunderstorms were on the way, threatening to drench the late spring afternoon in torrential rain and whip up enough thunder and lightning to make dogs everywhere run for cover under blankets or make cats hide in the back of closets, wide eyed. In the end, the closest thing my friend and I would see to the flash floods that the weather girl was so hyped up about was the high flow of molten cheese threatening to overtake the shallow riverbeds of our hot dinner platters. “Pshaw,” we said dismissively as we fired up the engine and took off for the day trip we’d been planning all week. We weren’t going to let a few dumb June showers ruin our enthusiasm for the open road.

Evil olive. No lemons, no melon. Desserts I desire not, so long no lost one rise distressed. I love palindromes, words or phrases that read the same forward and backward. In a truly cosmic twist of fate, Iranian-born chef Babak Haidari’s first name happens to be “kabab” backward and kababs happen to be Haidari’s calling in life. How about that for a stroke of luck?

Like a dreamy soft-focus fantasy, a certain sandwich will forever occupy a special place in my head and heart. Tender-sliced ham and turkey is covered with melted cheese on thick-sliced egg bread, then dipped in its entirety in French toast batter and deep fried. It’s usually sprinkled with powdered sugar and must be served with a side of strawberry jelly. It’s the sandwich at its most refined and elegant, adding some jazz to its older, stodgier French cousin, the Croque Monsieur, a simple grilled ham and Swiss, and taking it to the outer edge of the flavor stratosphere. The Monte Cristo first appeared on American menus in Southern California in the 1950s.

I manned a local tourist information hut for a while, and people would ask me an odd question from time to time. “How much does it cost to ride that ferry boat up north a ways from here?” they’d inquire. “I can’t remember what it’s called. I saw it on the map.” “You mean Bonners Ferry?” I’d reply, knowingly. They’d nod their heads in recognition. “Actually, that’s just the name of the town. The ferries quit running about a hundred years ago. There’s just a bridge now.

There was rarely a dull moment or a dull pair of Fiskars growing up in a home with a woman who has deservedly earned herself the title “Queen of Crafts.” For as far back as memory serves, my mother dabbled in nearly every arts and crafts trend to cross the cultural radar in the last four decades. While doll-making was a constant over the years, there were different craft epochs in our household. First there was the dark, hairy Precambrian age of Macramé, when rope-art owls with big beady eyes ruled the sunken den and ivies entwined themselves around dusty rust-colored plant hangers.

To the owner of Gateway Cafe: Christina really deserves a raise, or at least a big hug and some dark chocolate. The poor girl found herself in the undesirable position of running the entire front of the house solo on a busy Sunday, but she held it together with a stoic smile Super Glued to her face. She had us a little worried at first, as we hovered in the entryway for a few long minutes waiting in vain for guidance. A customer finally said we could just sit wherever and the waitress would eventually find us. We shimmied into the only booth left open, located directly next to the restrooms. “Mmm. Smells like Smarties.” mentioned Q.

“Wow, I haven’t seen you guys in a long time!” the waitress percolated as she handed us our menus and poured our coffee. We gave each other sideways glances and laughed nervously. Only moments earlier, before we’d even walked into the Flying J Travel Plaza Restaurant in Post Falls, we were discussing how it had been ages and ages since we’d last eaten there. “It’s been at least since I was a senior in high school, if not earlier,” I calculated aloud, “so that’s nearly 20 years.” “I think it was 1991 for me,” decided Q.

It was kind of like the good old days, at least closer than I’d thought I’d ever get again. When my mother asked me a few weeks ago where I’d like her and my stepdad to take me for my birthday dinner, I absolutely had to go with Grumpy’s, a new restaurant in midtown Coeur d’Alene. It was the perfect choice not only because birthdays do tend to make me grumpy, but also because long ago, every family birthday and special occasion meant getting together for a meal and celebratory drink or two (or five) at Henry’s, a now-defunct eatery once owned by Grumpy’s co-owner Joe Chapman.

I’m not the hunting type at all. I will likely never create any kind of bang in the vicinity of an innocent, bushy-tailed buck. Still, I was expecting more bang for my buck at the White Pine Cafe, tucked inside the northeast corner of hunting and outdoor outfitting behemoth Cabela’s. The massive hype and excitement that accompanied the late 2007 opening of the burly sporting goods supercenter has waned enough that Q and I finally felt brave and bored enough to check it out on a recent gloomy Monday afternoon.

Coming of age in the ’70s and ’80s, I’ve witnessed first-hand the now-nearly-complete cultural transformation of a once-adoring public to turn their backs on cigarette smoking for good. At least here in North Idaho, smokers got away with things back then that seem completely unhinged today. I started high school at a time when there were actually smoking areas inside every school building, for teachers and students both. Couldn’t find a sitter? It wouldn’t have been unheard of to drag your child along to the bar while you sat for hours, smoking Tareytons and getting sozzled with the gang.

“Totally overrated,” reads a user-contributed review of Hudson’s Hamburgers posted recently on Yahoo.com. “Can’t get lettuce or tomato on the burger, they don’t have French fries, and good luck getting a seat. The burger itself is good but nothing to write home about.” Naturally, it didn’t take long for a hardcore Huddy Burger fan to come along and issue a terse comeback. “People like you would never understand the concept of tradition. 15 bar stools and the truth is all anyone needs to know about the best Hamburger joint in the United States – bless the Hudson family for keeping it going for over 100 years and letting us all enjoy!”

Pita Pigsty? Pita Purgatory? Pita Pity Party, perhaps? There are certainly worse names possible than Pita Pit, but I do think they’re kind of selling themselves short with a name that evokes both snake-filled crevasses and dark, shadowy underarms.

I’m truly a neo-maxi-zoom- dweebie when it comes to anything ’80s, so when I heard the name KC’s Breakfast Club, the first thing that popped into my head was Molly Ringwald skillfully applying her lipstick from a tube stuck deep in her cleavage, then pouting and rolling her eyes at sleazebag Judd Nelson’s “hot beef injection.” John Hughes’ 1985 coming-of-age flick “The Breakfast Club” was an essential component of my generation’s teen years. Trapped for eight hours in a high school library for Saturday detention, five teenagers from opposing “cliques” learn to put aside their differences and take on “the Man,” in this case, school principal Richard “Dick” Vernon, portrayed with egotistical, loudmouth perfection by the late Paul Gleason.

The Smithsonian Institute was signed into existence in 1847 with the mighty, wild-haired pen stroke of “Old Hickory” aka President Andrew Jackson. Its mission was to record essential historical minutiae such as Andrew Jackson’s nickname, and to spread knowledge through the preservation of artifacts like prehistoric sloth dung or a life-sized bust of late comedian Milton Berle.

Irish author and notorious wit Oscar Wilde once observed “Who, being loved, is poor?” In this long, cold winter of recession, even with your sweetheart to keep you warm, the quick answer to that question is, well, just about everybody. Still, it’s Valentine’s Day and you want to do something special to show your true love exactly how much they put a spring in your step without going too far in the red. You sent away for a Gold Kit envelope, and returned it filled with the tacky jewelry you inherited from your great Aunt Fanny. The local Coin Star machine repairman knows you on a first-name basis. You cut off your long, gorgeous hair and sold it on the black market to a drag queen in desperate need of a weave.

I got a feel for the we-don’t-mess-around charm and earthy personality of Susie’s Bar and Grill before I’d even stepped in the front door. Directly to the right of the entry sat a local newspaper’s blue vending machine upon which was taped an enormous hand-scrawled note. “Dear Dummy,” it started out endearingly. “Are you making a lot of money from this machine? Apparently you haven’t noticed that something’s amiss, namely that the coin slot is plugged and has been for weeks. Yet you continue to refill it each day with new papers. What gives?”

I felt a slight twinge of betrayal when I discovered the amount of calories lurking in a Subway tuna sandwich. I thought I was being so good, so healthful. So proud of myself for sticking to my diet plan, even sacrificing yummy Monterey Cheddar bread for a sensible nine-grain wheat and opting for light mayo. Anyway, I’d always thought of tuna as weight-loss-in-a-can, touted by obsessive bodybuilders as a protein-rich miracle food that can help achieve maximum muscle hypertrophy and give you that fetching Lou Ferrigno glow.