The Indy-Burbank Connection

One thing I don’t take too many photos of in Indianapolis is food. We’ve eaten a lot of Hoosier delicacies already–I’d been introduced to the tenderloin sandwich (read: blander schnitzel) years ago on our friend group’s annual “Windy 500″ pilgrimage–but stranger things still arrive on my plate weekly. Here are a few local highlights, in no particular order:

The Steer In: A punny retro diner in the neighborhood that once served carside now boasts a Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives-famous tenderloin, and believes its coleslaw is something special. It is not. It is chopped with mayo, just like the grocery store used to make. Not that I wouldn’t eat grocery store coleslaw. The best thing on the menu at Steer In is actually the coconut cream pie; it’s the literal best I’ve ever had and I don’t know why.

St. Elmo Steakhouse: Famous for an unnecessarily horseradishy shrimp cocktail, everything at this old-school restaurant was actually pretty dang good. It’s that kind of resting-on-its-laurels restaurant that sometimes gets you a long-refrigerated salad or a stale bread, but the meat itself is perfection, and all the flavors hold up. 

Mush: I’d just like to mention that this happened to me at a neighborhood diner the other day:

I’ll just spoil it for you: it’s the grits version of fried polenta. So, fried polenta.

Another note about the Great Lakes States: potato pancakes. Next time you’re in Wisconsin (which you should make a point to visit), find a rural bar with a fish fry and order potato pancakes instead of fries. You will have to ask for sour cream: for some reason only applesauce made it out there.

Vegan restaurants: Few and far between, and hard to find. Whether it’s users or owners, something causes Yelp to return any place with salads in search results for “Vegan,” but they do exist. We’re less vegetarian than before we moved here, but Both Three Carrots and The Sinking Ship are great encouragements. I’ve yet to be served a vegan tenderloin, but I’m not about to cry about it.

I am ashamed to admit that I had a fear, coming from Chicago, that we would not have...the things I want. This has borne out in small ways, such as Kroger not carrying Goya or El Milagro products, but we live within walking distance from a small brewery with the literal best veggie burger I have ever had. It turns out that Black Acre’s veggie burger rotates, so I don’t know if I’ll ever have the same one again, but it’s worth trying whatever’s on the menu.

The most dear thing to us is the local farming. Not only does our neighborhood coordinate with an Amish farm, we live down the street from (and are lucky to be friends with the owners of) Tres Gatos Farm, which in its first year is already producing for local restaurants from their single acre of land.

It was one of those 40-degree mornings I was hustling the dogs around the block so I could hurry back to my depression-cocoon when a man in a black SUV pulled up next to me. Drove up on the wrong side of the road so he could lean out of his window and yell: “You’re a bad dog parent!”

I took out an earbud and squinted at the silhouette backlit by the morning sun. “Excuse me?”

MAN: You’re a bad dog parent!

I: ...

Long time no blog.

I’ve rarely been depressed the way I’ve been depressed in Indianapolis. Nothing’s so bad here, I’ve just never moved without a purpose on the other end.

The water tastes funny here. It’s either the consistency or flavor of milk, but I can’t tell which.

Drivers blow through red lights in pairs.

Chain groceries don’t carry Goya products or lemongrass.

But we moved into Irvington, a neighborhood with the most fanatic devotion to Halloween and a Little Free Library on every block. On one of our first nighttime walks with the dogs in the new neighborhood we stopped at a LFL with a plexiglass door and, stoned, I was disappointed that the neighborhood was too dark to browse. I wanted to peek inside anyway, and as the door swung open an automatic light flickered on. I was so charmed I almost cried.

It is too dark in this neighborhood. There isn’t enough traffic or enough streetlights and the peace around here can make it difficult to sleep. Our anxious dog, though, seems to like it.

Me, a public transit believer, secure in the belief that the system has an architect: Oh! Another bus! Hellooo!

Bus Driver: Mmph.

Me: Hello. Are you the Empire Line?

BD: Mmph?

Me: This one --holds up my phone with the route map -- is this you?

BD: --Examines the map -- You want to go this way?

Me: ... are you going this way? Is this... the way the bus goes?

BD: Yes this is the way I go.

Me: Okay great. So you go to all of these stops?

BD: Which stop do you want?

Me: --pointing-- this one.

BD: You want to go all the way over there??

Me: .....? Isn't that the way the bus goes??

BD: --sighing-- I guess if you have nothing better to do.

Me: .........??? Okay how much is the fare?

BD: -- Waves me away, shoo fly --

Me, a CTA veteran, walking up on the downtown Burbank metrostation: Excuse me, Mr. Bus Driver. Could I ask you a question?

Bus Driver: -- open the doors, inquisitive eyebrow --

Me: Is this the Empire line?

BD: The what?

Me: --holds up phone with map of the Empire line --

BD: ...

Me: ....??

BD: This is a train line.

Me: No no it's a bus. I'm very sure of this.

BD: Let me see that. --Takes my phone-- ....Examines....

Me: ......???

BD: Oh. This is City of Burbank.

Me: ....kay????

BD: I am metrolink.

Me: ...... AHA. Yes. I see. I got you. Understood. Roger that.