Ferrett S.'s Profile

If you like atmosphere in a restaurant, then you're out of luck. This is like dining in someone's living room.  It's small (I think there are five tables total), you can hear the clatter of the kitchen, and one time an errant air conditioner dripped down my back the whole time.  On more than one occasion they've seemed vaguely surprised that we actually sat down.

But if you're looking for solid Thai food, then you're in luck!  

The only barometer of real Thai cuisine is, of course, the Thai iced tea - that sticky-sweet, caffeinated hand grenade of a drink.  Their iced tea varies quite a bit, but it's generally solidly sweet with a touch of water about it, and a strange subtle aftertaste that's unlike any other Thai tea I've had.  (Note: another review claims it's sodium benzoate.) I can't decide if I like that aftertaste or not, but if you're looking for a Thai iced tea, it's pretty good.

The main dishes are fine, with fresh ingredients and tasty sauces - a bit mild for my tastes, but certainly flavorful.  Their peanut sauce is four stars verging on five, and pretty much any main dish you order is going to satisfy.  

You can, however, skip the crab rangoon appetizers - they're fried too deep, making them like crispy cardboard, and the crab in the middle is mealy.  

This won't win awards for fine cuisine, but if you're looking for the moral equivalent of diner food - stick-to-your-ribs, cheap Thai food - then this will, and does, satisfy.

Oh, goddamn you, New York Times, for writing an article that mentions Lilly's.  It's MY secret.  You weren't supposed to know.  Lilly's is the kind of store that gets whispered about from person to person: "Have you had Lilly's?  You HAVEN'T?  Well, I'll have to take some to you some time."

Then, when you're having a bad day, someone shows up with a precious bite or two from Lilly's chocolate in a very gaudy bag.  You reluctantly open it up; you're having a terrible day, your boss yelled at you, your landlord's a jerk, your lover is inattentive, how much difference can a chocolate make?  

...You bite off just a tiny bit.  Everything is made okay in a wash of rich chocolate.  World peace lies inside that chocolate.  

Then you wait until someone ELSE is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and you promise to bring them a Lilly's chocolate.  Just one.  Or maybe two.  That's all it takes.  

That's what Lilly's is.  And these New York Times-fuelled apes will doubtlessly thunder in, their hairy thick hands ready to just gobble these chocolates like they were Mars bars or something, breathing through their mouths, and they will not know.

Lilly's is sacred.  You buy some wine, you buy some banana beer, you buy some of the sparsely cool merch, and you take a tiny box home and you savor it because all the glories of the world lie inside that little box.  Waiting.  Waiting for the rainy day to come, and you nibble, and there's sunshine.

There is a satisfaction in going to a room where everything has been put there for your pleasure.  The little rocking horse on the fireplace?  The CD, playing music when you enter?  The gorgeous panoramic view of pastoral Amish country from your hotel window?  The fine bathrobes in your closet, the shower with sage hair conditioner and aromatherapy?  

The Inn at Honey Run is designed to make you feel safe, comfortable, and warm.  Which it does.  

You need to stay at the hobbit holes - it's a series of eight rooms actually buried in the ground, your circular patio opening up into a rock-lined view where you can step out and down the hill, if you so please.  It is one of the prettiest vistas you will find in Ohio, and even more so if you wish to go on one of the many nature trails winding their way through the facilities.  (Umbrellas, walking sticks, bird guides, and books are there for the taking.  The sheep and goats in the pastures refuse steadfastly to be petted, but you can go walk around the pond and watch the birds land.)

Or meander on down to the clubhouse, where an astoundingly friendly staff will invite you to site in their comfortable seats, serve you drinks, tell you about the area.  Or you can go to their restaurant (the best we've found in Amish country, which is damning with faint praise in the Land of Buffets and Fried Chicken, but it really is quite good) and look out over the terrace at waving green woods and nature.

Or you can get a massage down at the spa.  The massage is pricey.  So is the Inn.  Shut up and pay, and relax; you didn't come here for your cheapest bargain, you came here because for a weekend you can get away from it all, and here it feels like civilization is so far away even the phones can't touch you.  You are in a bubble of wilderness and friendly folks, and it is glorious.  

Such a place could be froo-froo.  This is not.  It's all hard wood and manly couches, and sure it's got some soft edges if you want them, but what this is is just relaxation in one wondrous place.  

Wake up, eat a good breakfast, walk in the woods, go driving to see the Amish with their buggies and wooden furniture, come back, have dinner, have a massage, make love to someone you love, drift off in a four-post bed.  If that sounds good to you, then I'd make the reservation now.  They go fast.

People who like restaurants talk about the "atmosphere," by which they mean elegant carpets and pretty windows and smartly-dressed waiters.  

But there is another type of atmosphere: steel grates on the door, ready to be locked, a counter grimed with a fine patina of cigarettes and spilled coffee, Xeroxed notes taped to the fridge that tell the customers they'll be tossed out if they're too much trouble.  A menu on a chalkboard that hasn't changed in the better part of a decade.  A beefy guy slapping dogs on a grill, debating with his friends in between sizzles, asking you gruffly, "Whaddayou want?" - not meanly, but hey, you're here to eat, he wants to serve you, he's got other customers.  

That's REAL atmosphere, buddy.  To hell with your fancy-shmancy tablecloths; gimme real grease and real bread and a real grill.  

This place is alive, and will fill up your belly for the price of what you can scrape out of your car's change dish at one in the morning after you left your wallet behind at the bar, I think, I dunno man, it's a good night, let's get some damned eggs.  

They have a grilled cheese sandwich for three bucks with real crispy bacon, and melted cheese, and God lemme tellya for all of its froo-froo avocado-and-dried-tomato grilled cheese goodness, Melt can go jump out of a window.  This is the real grilled cheese deal.  It's diner food, a small menu, but after a night chugging beers and socializing with friends you can come here and sit on the damn stools and feel like yeah, this is life.  It's good.  Gimme a Pepsi.

My intense enthusiasm for India Garden comes from its complete absence of competition on this side of town. If I had given into my inner fanboy squee and yelped,  "OH, THANK GOD, I CAN GET A KORMA WITHOUT DRIVING TWENTY MILES!" then I certainly would have given it four stars.  

It's like the guy who sells you beer in prison: Is it any good?  Who cares?  It's beer, man, and it'd be too much trouble to brew your own hooch.  Hence, India Garden wins for being the sole provider - it's the Windows 95 of restaurants.  

As it is, what we have here is pretty darned average Indian food.  Which is not to say that it's bad Indian food - it's really quite tasty, as Indian food is wont to be.  I eat here twice a month, because dangit, what they provide works.  If you like Indian food, this will not let you down.  

And like all good Indian restaurants, it has takeout for those evenings you just need some spice at home, and a good and darned cheap lunch buffet which I recommend for those days out.  

These guys are brute efficient, working to satisfy the palate; they do their job with a thorough competence, if not necessarily flair.  it's the definition of A-OK, as it says on the handy-dandy star rating bar above me, and by God it's worth your time to go here because they ARE here.  

Keep them in business.  They do good work.

"You know what we need?" someone said.  "A corned beef quesadilla."  

In other countries, they would have been laughed off the border and into the ocean.  But this is AMERICA, baby!  We dream big.  Who wants chicken paprikash nachos?  We do!  And so the Loco Leprechaun was born - a Frankenstein-like conglomeration of two disparate menus mashed together.  

Every time I walk in here I want to raise my arms and shout, "IT'S ALIVE!"  

Interestingly enough, the corned beef quesadilla is the only thing I would actively tell you to avoid on the menu.  (The corned beef is really lame, little flabby strips that are more like bologna - try Corky and Lenny's for a much better local sample.)  

But everything here is made fresh, by an actual chef (not a fry cook), and the attention to detail shows.  

The chicken paprikash nachos feature piping-hot nachos and real white-meat chicken chunks underneath a delectable slathering of spicy, tasty sauce.  The doughnuts at the end are freshly-made, drizzled with Baileys cream sauce an brown sugar, still warm, and they melt in your mouth.  

The atmosphere?  Well, if you're not into sports it's more of a takeout joint.  There's a huge row of bingo/keno/something chairs in the center, and the screens are huge and constantly tuned to beefy men in uniforms knocking balls around.  That may actually be a draw for you, and if it is, I can vouch that the customers are very friendly, as are the waitresses.  

In short, it's a sports bar with solid food and a strangely experimental menu, and I'm always happy to go back.

Live in a town long enough, and you'll start finding its hidden gems - those underpriced, overtasty hole-in-the-walls that don't look spectacular, but actually feature way better food than you'd think.  

Presto is one of those gems.  You want a sandwich?  You're on this side of town?  Just go here, man.  You need make no further decisions.  

The restaurant is in a former auto garage (the window opens up in the summer), and is family staffed by friendly folks.  (The fact that the guy behind the counter looks a little like Viggo Mortenson in History of Violence doesn't hurt, either, if you're into that sort of thing.)  

The food is mildly experimental for a sandwich place, with goat cheese and artichokes and other could-be-froo-froo ingredients, but at its heart they're about providing filling, stick-to-your-ribs meals.  

They have old standards (roast beef, chicken) for everyone.  And each sandwich is delicious - really nice bread, tasty soup, fresh ingredients.  It's the kind of place where when someone asks, "What's good?" you can point randomly at the chalkboard menu and feel 100% assured that it IS good.  

If you like the ingredients, you'll like the sandwich.  

It is nothing fancy, of course - but if you're a true foodie you don't need fancy, you need tasty.  And it's good to the last crumb, man.  

(One warning, though: I asked for a chai.  I got a cup of lava that left my tongue feeling stripped and raw for three days.  Check your coffee before drinking, because you'd think the Human Torch was working that espresso machine.)

The 100th Bomb Group is a bizarre, BIZARRE mash-up of sensibilities.  

On the one hand, it's near the airport and features huge plastic models of airplanes and jeeps strewn about the grounds - so naturally, you'd think it's some sort of ghastly playground-themed restaurant, and when you walked in the waiters would wear camouflage helmets and snap to attention with a "YOUR ORDER, SIR!" when you walked in.  

So imagine your surprise when you walk in and find what is attempting to be an elegant restaurant, with cloth tablecloths, high-end dishes, and a menu that is fairly spendy.  

Your best bet is to come early in the evening, well before sunset, and go up on the roof for drinks.  You can watch the planes take off as you buzzbomb your consciousness with overpriced beer, in a convivial atmosphere.  It's definitely a swell way to spend a night, and unfortunately we haven't been able to make it to the dance nights they have.  

If you wander downstairs, the food is pretty good - I knock off a star for the prices, but if the entrees were about three to five bucks cheaper it'd be just fine.  As it is, yes, I can't shake off the feeling that I'm paying for big plastic planes.  

The food is fairly straightforward - it's American cuisine, with steaks and chicken and nice bread, served on bone-white plates.  Nothing fancy, but nothing poorly done either; it won't exactly tickle the palates of your foodie friends, but it won't make them retch either.  

In the end, this is a great guest restaurant.  If your parents are in from out of town, bring them here!  They'll love it, and it's not a bad place to go out to eat.  But as for eating here regularly, I'd find it a little rich for my blood AND I'd find the menu to be fairly shallow.  

In short: Very nice, within swinging distance of four stars.  A little less, I'd be happy to come here regularly.

Carol and John's is the frickin' Superman of comics shops.  They're clean, friendly, willing to steer you in the right direction, and cheerfully in the thrall of the best kinds of capitalism (the kind where they sell you not only what you want, but sell you things you never knew you needed).  

Let me be clear: I want to hug Carol and John's Comic Shop.  I want them to have my comicky babies, but because in-vitro fertilization from businesses to male humans is currently impossible, I just hand them wads of cash.  In return, I get great service, the best selection of comic books in the area, and invites to their late-night parties with beer, juggling, Guitar Hero, nerdcore DJs, and 50% off specials.  

If you'd never been to a comic book shop before, you'd think that Carol and John's was a very neat, well-kept, and surprisingly large shop with attractive Japanese toys and The Great Wall of Graphic Novels starting at the windowfront and vanishing off over the horizon.  

But if you have been to OTHER comic book shops and seen the filthy, cluttered, misogyny-strewn abbatoirs where shaggy men with rotting Fritos lodged in their beards grudgingly pull themselves away from their World of Warcraft game to ring you up with a snarl - as though taking your money was an inconvenience - well....

You start to get angry.  "WHY CAN'T EVERY COMIC STORE BE LIKE THIS?" you thunder.  "IT'S NOT THAT HARD!"  But Carol and John's makes it look effortless, putting your comics aside and recommending the new comics that are to YOUR tastes.  

It is, in short, a comic book store that makes you believe in comic books.  They are brilliant.  They are wonderful.  If you like comic books at all, this is your Mecca.  Go now, and enjoy the wonder.

My ideal bookstore would be the kind where I feel utterly, gloriously lost - with endless shelves of books reaching back as far as the eye can see, and when I trail my fingers along the wooden shelves of the Science Fiction/Fantasy section, I find so many authors that Lordy, I don't know WHAT to pick.  

I want total brainfreeze when I walk into a bookstore - presented with so many choices that it takes me an hour to wiggle my way to a purchase, regretfully leaving a pile of books I want to read behind, muscling my way to the counter only thanks to the strength of a thoroughly-sugared cup of coffee and a cookie.

Books A Million is not that store, sadly.  But it ain't bad, either.  

It is very, very large.  That's in its favor.  Sadly, the selection despite all the books isn't quite as good as I'd like it to be - perhaps it's a problem common to all new stores, but the books seem to focus on the new, ignoring the classics.  If it's not been published in the past year and it's not an absolute slam-dunk classics, your chances of stumbling across OMG, I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THAT BOOK FOREVER are slim.

The staff is not the most educated in bookery, not yet - they've seemed perplexed by my request every time I've asked them for a book, never having heard of a single one of my choices - but they have cheerfully and efficiently looked them up, and offered to order them.  

The selection of recent books, however, is great, and I love having a gigantic frickin' mall of a store across the street from me.  I love them so much that I walk over every three weeks and buy a book even if I don't need it, because I want to keep these folks in business and the book economy is hard these days.  

In short, good for new books.  Okay, if not squeeful, for browsing.  You could do worse, and chances are good you'll emerge with some books in your hand if you're not a sinful, ugly Luddite who hates reading.  Get to.