And you wouldn't want to either, if you had been creepily, aggressively harassed twice--twice!--in three days while walking home alone in the dark, both times in the same three-block radius. (Guys, some advice: Turning off your headlights and driving slowly alongside a lady while you noisily jerk off and announce that you intend to "get some of that pussy" isn't going to "get" you anything but some lead in the crotch.)
So all I wanted to do was stay home and eat spaghetti and shop for stun guns online. But for two weeks straight, my boss could not shut up about a BLT sandwich he'd had for lunch at the Roanoke. "It was the best BLT I've ever had in my life." (He was actually gushing.) "It was the perfect ratio of tomato to bacon," he continued, "and not too much lettuce. A BLT should never have too much lettuce--it gets all soggy and messy. We should write about it." (Translation: This is your assignment. I want to see it in next week's paper.)
And so I leveraged myself off the sofa and went to Roanoke Park Place (formerly the Roanoke Park Place Tavern, but booze is now available), prepared to be dazzled.
My boss was annoyingly right--and he looooves being right--about the Roanoke's BLT: It was, indeed, a testament to the genius of pressing hot, salty, crisp bacon against cool, sweet, juicy tomato slices with a clean sheet of lettuce between toasted bread. As promised, each mouthful was a satisfying union of evenly distributed components, the bacon's smokiness enhancing each bite. And the bread was strong and dry enough--this is important--to withstand pulpy tomato flesh and rich bacon grease, keeping a potentially drippy entrée under excellent control. (Plus, this is an honest sandwich: I get annoyed with $12 "BLTs" playing dress-up on brioche with aioli and grilled shrimp.)
My friend, who had just started the high-protein Atkins Diet, was not as pleased. She ordered an avocado cheeseburger (burgers $5.50-$6.75) cooked rare; she received a plain hamburger instead, broiled thoroughly ("It's like shoe leather"), with a schmeer of "secret sauce" ("Is this mayo?!") and no cheese in sight.
"Oh well," Miss Atkins sighed, "I'm too hungry to send it back." She grumpily poked at her leathery beef patty, ignoring the baguette (Atkins Diet: no bread). Still hungry, I ordered a bowl of chili ($4), which was spicy and satisfying, and served with sour cream, melted cheese, and chopped scallions, all of which slowly sank into hearty meat-and-bean quicksand. We ate quickly and left, but I knew I'd return. This was my kind of menu: fresh, oven-roasted turkey sandwiches ($5.25-$6.25), "Hoss Dogs" (huge grilled hot dogs with cheese and onions, $3.50), a chicken Cobb ($6.75), and specials like meatloaf and lasagna, or Dave's Ultimate Tacos for a $1 ('til they run out) with $1 Lucky Lagers every Wednesday night.
I did return, alone, and promptly fell in love with the place. The bartender had a kind smile, and there was a sense of calm and camaraderie in the room. Most importantly, my burger was superb--dispelling Miss Atkins' monologue about sports bars that pass shoe leather off as meat. The crusty baguette turned out to be essential, providing a nice, textured complement to the special sauce (a cousin of tartar?), savory meat, and melted cheese.
It started to get dark, and I felt a little uneasy about walking home and passing through Jackass Junction again. But I felt like staying a bit. As I read my book, I half-listened to the Lakers game on TV. I glanced up and noticed a birth announcement posted at the bar, and a framed print of an oil painting of Seinfeld's Kramer. The bartenders were laughing about something, and the guys behind me ordered another pitcher of Fat Tire, their glasses making deep, masculine thuds on the table. I ordered another beer and kept reading. For the moment, I felt incredibly safe.
Roanoke Park Place
2409 10th Ave E (Capitol Hill), 324-5882. Open daily at noon; kitchen closes 10 pm (Sun 7 pm).
