A funny little trophy-shaped icon at the top of my WordPress page on Saturday explained to me that I was celebrating my second anniversary as a blogger. I thought about baking myself a cake and then realized that I already had three kinds of ice cream in the freezer. They would do nicely.
I almost named this post “On tenderloin sandwiches as big as your head,” but that didn’t provide an apt enough description of the behemoth we encountered over the weekend in San Diego.
Mike and I had driven down on Friday afternoon/evening to visit Laurie, who was once again with the band. We woke up in our hotel room on Saturday morning and, naturally, started watching Spongebob, and then a show on cross-species animal friendships on PBS, and then Harry Potter 4. Those hotel beds were just too comfy to vacate at a decent hour.
When we couldn’t convince Mike’s growling stomach to wait out our laziness a moment longer, we made our way to brunch at a place called Hash House A Go Go. This turned out to be a wise decision.
Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote about missing my home state of Indiana? Imagine our surprise when we read that Hash House specializes in “twisted” Indiana food. It took us a quick beat to get over our initial shock that a) people outside of Indiana might know what Indiana cuisine is when we, ourselves, aren’t 100% sure (um, corn and sugar cream pie?) and b) that people outside of Indiana might actually want to eat Indiana cuisine in the first place.
And yet the line was out the door for Indiana food. We waited for close to an hour to get in.
“Twisted farm food”
Do you see the description for “O’Hare of the Dog?”
Mike knows he’s getting the tenderloin sandwich.
There she is. A “hand-hammered in Indiana” thing of beauty.
My pancake with blueberries and pecans arrives on a plate the size of a Big Rig’s steering wheel.
And there’s the tenderloin sandwich. Behold its glory. Mike’s super annoyed that we made him wait 10 seconds so we could take pictures.
The sandwich genius. Note that to eat this the real Hoosier way it should be with pickles and mustard. Nothing else required.
Foodscape, complete with a slice of watermelon on the bare table.
After we packed up 3/4 of our meals into to-go boxes, we sat there in a food coma, staring at a guy at a nearby table who’d been served a burger the size of my blueberry-pecan pancake. We just HAD to see how he’d go about eating it. Turns out it can be done, but only if you cut it into slices like a pizza.
And then we were off to Coronado Beach. The sand was covered in gold flecks and, even though Mike stepped in BBQ sauce (which I thought was blood), we agreed that full bellies and the beach were the stuff of life.
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