Pittsburgh Dish

Best place to watch the playoffs

Bar none

Large televisions, cold beer and a small crowd crazy about the Pens minus yahoo behavior. Riggs Lounge on the North Side is a sports bar without being a sports bar.

The place has been in the same family for 70 years. Longstanding family ownership is a hallmark of one of Dish's other favorite corner beverage dispensaries, Contois' Restaurant in New Haven, Conn. A foolish consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's also the hallmark of congenial family bars.

The beer, is very, very chilly. Bear, the bartender, often packs the bottled beverage in ice rather than simply letting it languish in the cooler. The effect is significant enough to make Iron City taste like mother's milk.

The snack menu is extensive. Nuts, crackers, chips, pretzels, beef jerky, gum ... all six food groups.

The bartender is exceedingly pleasant and will enjoy watching sporting events with you.

The decor is early-60s nifty, with velvet, textured wallpaper and individual lights illuminating the capacious booths.

The ladies' can is the cleanest in Christendom, as is the men's, and Riggs' invests in high-quality bathroom tissue—a plus for the sensitive.

Takeout beer is available at a cost of about $7 for a sixer of 16 ounce cans. Iron City bottles cost $2. This is the only bottled beer price Mr. Dish knows as it's the only bottled beer Mr. Dish has ordered at Riggs'. Other stuff, including mixed drinks, is probably not that expensive. Don't' sweat it, Daddy Warbucks.

Things to remember:

• Cash only.

• No kitchen. You may bring your own food, but it's vital that you first ask the bartender for permission. Not that you'll get yelled at, or anything, you'll just look like a bit of an ass for thinking that you own the place.

• No taps. Knowing this means never asking, "What's on draft?"

• No fancypants microimportforeignsmallbatch beers. Sorry, J. G. Pimplebottom III.

Riggs Lounge, 1208 Brighton Rd, North Side, 412-322-1120

Photo by Frank Kownacki

PA Mayor (hic) gets job back after (braaap) driving drunk

Public officials who drive furschnickered needn’t get the boot

Matthew “One for the Road” Ash, the 25 year-old mayor of Bowell, PA., was reinstated by Borough Council Monday after being charged with DUI in January. Ash, who is in charge of Borough’s two part-time cops (no joke), was stopped at 2:45 a.m. by state police outside a convenience store. Police said his blood alcohol level was more than double the legal limit for driving. Ash was driving a Ford Aerostar.

He resigned a week later in hopes of avoiding negative press. He since reconsidered his resignation and the council voted him back in.

Even if convicted, Ash can’t be forced out. State law says anyone convicted of an “infamous crime” cannot hold public office, but courts have ruled that drunken driving is not "serious enough" to cause someone to lose office.

So public servants listen up: You must drive sober to City Hall. But once you're there you can drive away with a fifth of Cutty on your lap, four hookers in the trunk and a stoat riding shotgun. No matter. Your job is (hic) secure.

The New Face of Straub

Dan Straub hopes his new logo will link a new generation to his century old beer.

Logo changes reflect retail trends, corporate culture and shifts in public perception. Consumers have witnessed Betty Crocker emerge from the beauty shop and rejoiced in Aunt Jemima's liberation. They've watched the NBC peacock molt and swallowed KFC's brevity.

Those changes seem far less intimate as the one Straub Brewing Company unveiled last month.

The 134 year-old brewery based in St. Marys, PA decided they wanted to attract younger beer drinkers to their salt- and preservative-free ales, so two years ago they turned to Mirage Advertising in Monroeville for advice on how bridge that gap--visually.

Mirage's Creative Director David Porter and Account Executive Jim Balog set out to put a fresh face on the "Honestly Fresh" ale, a beer that hadn't seen change--in taste or technique--in decades.

"It's still a family-owned company," says Porter, "so the changes had to go through many committees. It was a big decision for them to do this."

The letter S was the catalyst, says Porter. He says the current one resembled a musical clef." Ironically the new "S" is based on lettering used on an older label, says Porter.

But it wasn't just about changing the first letter. Porter says that months of market research went into the letters that followed-- most importantly the age of their target market. "It's a rare opportunity to get to do something like this," says Porter. "This is an old family business and as such change isn't easy."

"We wanted the design to be more hip and happening," says Porter. But not at the expense of alienating Straub's aging boomers.

"We wanted to bring Straub into the new millennium but not make it so different that it's be unrecognizable."

The white lettering is now red and a modern looking gold ring design is the main feature. The identifiable Strab crest is gone. While some might consider the changes subtle, longtime Straub fans might find jarring. Soon they'll see it on six packs, cases and promotional materials.

President Dan Straub says customer feedback is about 75-percent positive (he first said 50/50). "We've been receiving calls, emails and letters. Some people who have been drinking it for years don't like it at all. But others have been very receptive to it."

Strab said he's been modernizing the tap system as well, changing from two prongs to a ball tap.

"It's a new generation," laughs Straub. "We've gotta keep up with the times."

Happy "Hope I Didn't Give You The Clap" Day

What's love gotta do with it?

by Yvonne Hudson, single gal reporter

My boyfriends have always managed to win my heart just after St. Patrick’s Day and serve my walking papers around Labor Day. I haven’t had a date on a major holiday since Sonny met Cher — unless you count Arbor Day and the World Series play-offs. Most of my girlfriends have collected shiny trinkets of love over the years. Gems and cameras — stuff you can hock. I’ve got a shoebox full of Pirates stubs and a bear wearing a Steelers shirt.

This New Year’s Eve I was the dateless poster girl, all dolled up in a fur stole, a black vintage dress, long gloves, Marilyn Monroe-sized rhinestone earrings and a purse covered in gold macaroni. Lauren put a gimlet in my hand and crowned me with a glittery party tiara. All I needed to complete the picture was a bubble machine and Dean Martin. I could have been sliding off a vinyl bar stool at the Pango-Pango lounge, plunking down nickel after nickel to hear “One More for the Road.”

New Year’s Eve is a pretty frightening holiday to spend alone. I mean, face it, planting a kiss on your best friend’s boyfriend at midnight in a room full of smooching couples is humiliating and, well, pathetic. But it only lasts 30 seconds at best, your pals are tipsy, and the sympathy can be cozy. In the morning, the sting of spending the evening without an escort is dulled by a sparkling wine hangover and your dress wrapped around your head.

I know: You’re already feeling sorry for me. Your mind is racing ahead to Feb. 14, to a sad vision of a dateless deb (me), washed-up and waiting for the florist’s van to pull up. Well, wipe those thoughts right out of your head, chicky. The truth is, I’d rather be single on Valentine’s Day. I’d rather twist open a Champale for one and raise a toast to that unopened box of condoms. I’d rather lock myself in the bathroom and shave my legs while making crank phone calls to ex-boyfriends than be half-a-couple on Valentine’s Day. Because love and Valentine’s Day do not go together.

Think about it: Who suffers more than couples on Valentine’s Day? It should be called Holiday for Break-Ups. It could drive a wedge between Barbie and Ken. It could make Juliet greet Romeo at the door with curlers, cold cream and the business end of a rolling pin. And it’s all because Feb. 14 is the one day of the year when American women (sensitive flowers that we are) can demand, and expect to receive, Everything We’ve Ever Wanted From Our Chosen Male.

It’s a reality vs. fantasy tug-of-war. We can’t help ourselves. When we girls get to thinking about what we really want, it’s as if someone slipped us a mickey. Our heads fill with quixotic notions of cherubs floating down from Loveland to cast spells over our men. Magically they will hate sports. They’ll know how to order wine, drizzle melted chocolate on our tongues, cha-cha. They’ll drape strands of pearls across our pillows while crooning like Mel Tormé. Awakening from our reveries we see, instead, a big lug snoring on the couch, one meaty paw wrapped around a Budweiser.

We realize that our lives aren’t lush and sexy but drab and mundane. This makes us mad. And whom do we blame? Him.

Men, in turn, aren’t really sure what they’re being accused of, but they know they’ll have to pay, and pay big, to get themselves out of it. Retailers love this. Big heart-shaped boxes of chocolates sit in storefront windows, winking at hen-pecked husbands. Jewelers cram their displays with perky little diamonds in the hopes that boys will stumble into their shops and slap down a couple of car payments in an effort to get their pouting girlfriends to speak to them again. And somewhere on the top shelf at Walgreens is a giant, poke-your-eye-out Valentine waiting to be purchased and presented with the 14 little words every girl is yearning to hear: “Honey, you know I love you — it was the biggest one in the store!”

For girls, it’s a day of disappointment. (“Dear Diary: He got me the biggest card in the store. Again. It had a picture of Garfield on it.”) For boys, it’s is a festival of guilt and shotgun sentimentality. At 8 p.m., in every town in every state, there’s a future ex-husband in an El Camino screeching into the handicap spot at Rite-Aid just as the sales clerk is shooing away the last customer and flipping out the lights. Watch our hapless hetero, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, as he searches for anything heart-shaped, red, left. Vroom, pluck, sign, lick. Off he dashes, wagging his tail as though he’s just won a big-screen TV. “I’ll get laid fer sure,” he thinks, as he races to the finishing line.

He’s wrong, of course. His last-minute heroics, instead of being met with kisses and forgiveness, will be greeted by arctic glares and cold meatloaf. Because his honey, overcome with Valentine-induced dementia, has been dreaming of an oiled hunk who owns his own tuxedo, makes perfect martinis and has a line of credit at Cartier. The kind of man who exists only in Danielle Steele novels, or gay bars. She’s awash in a stew of dashed hopes. It’s not just the big card or the day-old roses. It’s her life: She envisions tete-a-tetes at the La Foret, but always ends up with a two-fer at The Olive Garden.

Another ride through the Tunnel of Love has turned into a four-car pile-up, and it’s all because of Valentine’s Day.

I understand all of this because 1) I’ve lived it, and 2) nobody’s more romantic than me. I’ve been known to dress up my cats as dinner dates and greet them at the door in a flimsy negligée. I’ve seen Sabrina 17 times. Red things are my life — lipstick, sloe gin fizzes, Radio Flyers, maraschino cherries. I love all gifts of the d’amour variety, even if they’re tawdry trinkets, and I especially love gifts that I haven’t had to send to myself. But I refuse to walk into the Valentine’s Day leg hold trap, that holiday disaster waiting to happen. This year, this Valentine’s Day, I’m going to be chillingly realistic about fact vs. fiction. I’m going to remember that men are not from around here, and where they’re from there aren’t any good stores. In fact, the whole month of February I plan to carry the following list in my purse (the one with the gold macaroni).

Clip it, girls, and keep it dear; it may see you through another Valentine’s Day Massacre.

On Valentine’s Day, women dream of champagne and Cary Grant. Men are glad they made the liquor store.

........................................................................................................................

What we want                                                                          What we get

Champagne                                                                            A Schaefer

Breakfast in bed                                                                    Breakfast at Eat 'n Park

“My Funny Valentine”                                                            “Highway to Hell”

A love poem                                                                          A “Love is...” clipping

A tux                                                                                     Sweats

A limo to the Met                                                                  A cab home from Deja Vu

Chet Baker on a jukebox                                                       A Michael Bolton dedication on DVE

Hand-rolled Swiss chocolates                                                 Zagnuts

Slow groovin’ to Marvin & Otis                                              Humping to Beavis & Butthead

A red cocktail dress                                                              A tee-shirt from Hooters

A one-night stand                                                                Crabs

Diamond bracelet from Harry Winston’s                                Heart-shaped keyring from Sheets

Chanel No. 5                                                                       Jean Naté Splash

A love letter                                                                      Classified in the Post-Gazette

Strolling violinists                                                               Mimes

WWJD changed to WWBPRFD

What Will Ben's Public Relations Firm Do about these photos posted on Deadspin of Big (judging by the photos, big is a swell adjective) Ben guzzling alcoholic beverages with the lay--(judging by the photos, lay is a swell adjective)--dies?

Go (hic) Steelers!

P.S.: Gals in the photos; we're given to understand that you are Duquesne students and the snapshots were snapped in the basement at Halo. We'd really like to chat with you about, um, your evening. Do tell, ladies.

Scoop du jour: BBQ and Mrs. Bettis

The gourmet gridion and girly drinks.

North Siders start lickin' you chops for Finger Licikin' Good Deli & BBQ (1508 Brighton Rd., North Side, 412-321-3750) the take-out joint will be open in about 3 weeks. Owner Rich Minter has been in the food and catering business for 26 years and has lived on the North Side for most of them. "It's always been a dream of mine to open a barbeque place," said Minter, "and it was a natural choice to open one on the North Side." Pulled pork, sweet potato pie, beef brisket, ribs, sandwiches, salads and soups are on the menu. Catering is available. "I've always loved the North Side," added Minter. "I'm glad I could start my business there."-

................................................................................................................................................

Gladys! Gladys!!

Will some restaurant come forward an name a sandwich after Mrs. Gladys Bettis, Jerome Bettis' mom. Scoop and friends have been fans of hers since the Bungals' game. They love her. Will someone design "The Gladys?" (A confession Mrs. B a not-so-religious Scoop prayed in the bathroom of the Workers' Beneficial Uinion (WBU) last year during the playoffs. She knelt in front of the Avon cream and Final Net and prayed her fool head off. Her prayers were not answered, but was well coiffed in her sorrow).

.......................................................................................................................

Thank God

A coffee shop will swing open its doors and usher in caffeine-deprived residents of the North Side (there's not a blessed cup of coffee for sale for miles). Beleza Community Coffeehouse, on the corner of Jacksonia and Buena Vista sts., will be operated by a group of seven Michigan college grads who moved to Pittsburgh and connected with The Pittsburgh Project, a Christian community development organization on the North Side. They will offer items from Priory Fine Pastries (528 E. Ohio St., North Side, 412-321-7270), BreadWorks (2210 Brighton Rd., North Side, 412-231-7555) and The East End Co-op (7516 Meade Street, Homewood, 412-242-3598). Coffee will be fairly traded. Hours: 6 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily. Scoop will update you on an opening date.

.......................................................................................................................

Stop the Madness

Scoop hopes an editor made her do it. All due respect to the P-G's Amy McConnell Schaarsmith who, like many of her fellow wordsmiths are delightful writers, Scoop must nonetheless give the gal a smidgeon of what-for.

In a holiday column, McConnell Schaarsmith offers readers tips for entertaining on New Year's Eve, you know the run-of-the-mill hors d'oeuvres ideas and prep advice. Again, written well with a breezy style. Scoop enjoyed the column (though the topic was not new) then she saw them. The scourge of liquordom. A pox upon livers.

On the bottom of the page, were...(avert your eyes if you must Dear Reader)..."tini" recipes. Yes, those abominations created by misguided mixologists (in photo) and that ghastly Sex and the City (Golden Girls was much wittier and better written, just saying). Listed were the ingredients to make...shutter...the Pom-tini 1 & 2, the Pepermentini, the...call the parametics please...Blingtini and the...code blue stat...Godiva Truffletini.

God God woman, why must you spread such evil? Martini glasses everywhere are crying out in pain, longing for the days of clear swill. Their reflection is forever stricken with the stigma of week-kneed teeny-bopper tipple. Gin and vermouth, forsooth.

Scoop beseeches the P-G to refrain from publishing further atrocities. To wit: please remove the letters t, i, and n from all keyboards. Thank you.

Scoop du jour: A new slant on dining out

The right angle on food.

On her way to Wholey's for Gameday sausage & peppers fixins', Scoop spotted these slightly angled tables and chairs outside of Legends of the North Shore (500 E. North Ave., North Side, 412-321-8000). Scoop couldn't help but remember Lucille Ball's attempt to make Caesar salad in The Long, Long Trailer. Legends is BYOB so you might want to consider a flask so as to avoid your Cabernet slip sliding away. (On Tuesdays, all appetizers for neighbors in the 15212 zip code are less than $3. The mussels are superb and the pizza's the best we've had yet).

_________________________________________________________________________________

"The Greek Corner" debuted today at Wholey's. The separate business is located next to the deli counter. Scoop enjoyed her spinach pie (not greasy and very dense) but had a bit of difficulty communicating with the nice Greek man as to his schedule. Hence, you're on your own.

Scoop du jour: Hangover heaven and other heady observations

There is no cure. But there's Max's.

Scoop recommends Sunday brunch at Max's Allegheny Tavern (537 Suismon St., Northside, 412-231-1899). For $10.99 you can pile on eggs, omelets, bacon, sausage, potato pancakes, fruit (who cares), and other foodstuffs that will cure a relentless hangover. On the last two Sundays, Scoop spotted the same Catholic priest sipping on giant martinis. You can always trust truck drivers, clerics and Germans to know good food. The buffet is offered from 9:30 a.m. to 2 p.m.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Scoop hears Casbah Mediterranean Kitchen & Wine Bar (229 S Highland Ave., 412- 661-5656) will be offering a sage martini in the very near future. While Scoop is a cocktail purist (aka anything shaken, stirred and blended post 1962 should not exist), in the spirit of objectivity it will be consumed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Scoop offers two photos of the remodeled interior of the recently opened Roxolana's Garden (856 Western Ave., North Side, 412-231-7696). They are open for breakfast and lunch and will expand their dinner menu sometime in September (BYOB). They offer soups, salads, sandwiches as well as many Ukrainian dishes.

Ilustration: One of the great graphic historians of the excruciating hangover was mid-20th century cartoonist Virgil Partch (VIP). Scoop considers his illustrated Bar Guide, written by Ted Shane a must for any self-respecting lush.

Scoop du Jour: Nakama Mama

A Japanese joint where the tempura is extra spicy...

Nakama Japanese Steakhouse & Sushi Bar

(1611 E Carson St, South Side, 412-381-6000) is the place to be seen (read: if the P-G magazine of the same name had a section for the butterfly tattoo midriff set this would be the place) on the South Side. A hibachi restaurant. No kidding.

You'll feel like the Clampetts at the opera if you arrive in dirty jeans and ripped t-shirts (unless, of course, Flash Dance rears its ugly head again). Everyone is decked out as if Steve Rubell set the dress code.

And from the Who Knew? File: Nakama packs plenty of cleavage. You'll have that in places where the adjacent bar offers flirty fruity drinks with long straws. And let's not forget we gals must lean into a volcano.

So why has Nakama been such a huge success? Is it the prime Carson Street location? The food? Or could it possibly be that Pittsburghers don’t want to drink beer and scarf down wings wearing ratty college sweatshirts anymore?

Maybe our fair city is beginning to embrace a more trendy dining scene rivaling that New York City or LA. OK, maybe that's a stretch. Still, Nakama shows no signs of fizzling out anytime soon.

Let's hope Nakama survives before the next "to die for" spot busts, er, bursts on to the scene.

Oh, yeah, the food is pretty good.

-Katie Johnston

Cheaper by the Dozen

So Miss P hears basketball star Michael Jordan was spotted at Dejavu Lounge And Restaurant (2106 Penn Avenue 412-434-1144) last weekend. It figures. Miss P and The Hags were elsewhere getting potted. Their recent encounter at The Strip club was less of a slam drunk. But they did spot some men behaving baldly.

For the three slatterns found themselves seated in the open-air area of the godawful, er, hip establishment. After imbibing several watered down drinks and pitiful appetizers, Miss P, Veda and Hazel noticed two men in their early-60s park their pasty cheeks and purchased hair at a nearby table. The gals were hardly interested in Manny & Moe, for they were not very handsome (unless you consider Buddy Ebsen a heartthrob). Soon a couple young girls, (old enough to vote anyway) joined the Members Only duo. Minutes later two more. Then three more. Miss P & Co. counted at least 12 women surrounding these two pinky-ringed porkers.

Were these fellows steel magnates? Judging from their attire, no. Well endowed? No yard stick in the world could mask these fellows' mugs, honey. What was the reason behind Manny & Moe's success at attracting so much, well, tail?

With one glance of their skin-tight no-natural-fabric-in-sight outfits, Hags Un, Deux, Trois unraveled the mystery. It was decided. The boys purchased a piece of Pi Beta Phi with Mastercard or Visa. For $5,000, the boys ordered a little Greek salad for the night.

Hopefully for them, their lady fingers were better tasting then Miss P's party's chicken fingers.

P.S. Click on Dejavu's link.

Dish on Dish (and your little dog, too)

Hazel, Veda and Miss Pitt snuggled into a corner table of Dish Osteria and Bar, 128 S. 17th St., Pittsburgh, 412-390-2012, a cozy Italian bistro nestled in the side streets of the South Side. The drink special? A $6 Appletini. Veda very sheepishly ordered This Abomination To All That Is Holy Water as she feared a tenacious tisk-tisk from Miss P who believes no genuine cocktail was invented after the Harvey Wallbanger.

Hazel, longing for a long lost longshoreman named Lonnie, ordered a rum and coke. Miss P ordered a gimlet, up.

Little did theTribunal du Trash know, the evening had a theme.

Veda, predictable puss that she is, ordered carpaccio, presented on a pile of arugula and thick slices of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. She was delighted but Miss P detected the dear girl was a bit more in love with the carpaccio at Eleven. Hazel, in a foul mood that evening (her skirts were atwist over two office twits) ordered a pasta special, involving a simple plum tomato sauce, eggplant, and a lovely mild Italian cheese. She shut her yap for 20 minutes which, in Hazel parlance, translates to "yummy." Miss P, not one for victuals, proceeded to get potted.

Dish lives up to its name. Read on.

While employing the use of sleeves for napkins, the Witches of Eastwick couldn't help but notice a couple (hetero, blah) standing about as if waiting for a bus. The gal was holding one of those gawd-awful "I'm getting married I need this" wedding organizers. Honey, hate to break it to you, but an 89-cent notebook from Giant Eagle works just as well. Oh, but then you couldn't hold it in your left hand to display the quarter carat which henpecked fiancée Harry financed with a couple of car payments. ...

Later that evening, skipping-to-their-loo down Carson Street, the Hags Un, Deux, Trois couldn't help noticing yet another bridal-related disaster--a window display catering to the slutty bride, her filthpig bridesmaids and her nincompoop groom. Honey, if you need a thong emblazoned with "Bride" in rhinestones then you ought to have your other head examined. (Pssssst: It's that buoyant blob north of the hickies.)

Vote With Your Liver

Given today's coverage Post-Gazette readers might not get a sense that this day is pretty significant for Pittsburgh's future. But wine lovers sure will.

Despite today's Democratic mayoral primary, Post editors opted to place a story on laws governing out-of-state wine shipment above-the-fold with a stop-the-presses size headline and a paltry election piece (on a last minute pissing match between Dems Michael Lamb, Bill Peduto and endorsed Bob O'Connor), way on the bottom-left corner. Could this configuration speak to the Post's priorities?

In a related observation, Pittsburgh Dish couldn't help but notice an O'Connor supporter holding his candidate's sign near The Recovery Room bar yesterday on the North Side.

Cheers!

(Photos: Voters vote with their heads at New Hope UMC on the North Side's Buena Vista Street.; Insert: The Post's primary endorsement)

Kazao!

After the glorious sounds of the PSO we stopped into Cafe Zao (Theater Square, 649 Penn Ave., Downtown, 412-325-7007 for a late supper and a cocktail or two. We'd heard about this new venture many moons ago from owner Toni Pais on one of our splendid evenings at Baum Vivant and were curious what awaited us steps away from the bassoon section.
Zao, wow.

Except for the chow. Well, some of it. Being that it was around 10:15 p.m. when we arrived, we were presented with the "late night" menu, from which we chose four appetizers. The salad was underdressed  and the mussels leaned toward fishy and "mature." But Pais' signature tomato-based bisque was
creamy dreamy elixir and the sausage appetizer was right on the money; spicy Portuguese sausage served with tender potatoes, sweet peppers and drizzled with a balsamic vinegar dressing. The lavender-infused cheesecake is a must after a night at the opera, ballet, symphony, theater or a day of digging ditches or, frankly, following any activity including sleep. It would make a great breakfast, if not a healthful one.
Our waitress couldn't have been better. Attentive, pleasant (but not in that obsequious manner that servers in some of the "better places" affect to curry tips) and responsive -- particularly to the complaint regarding the mussels (free cheesecake. Amen. All is forgiven).
Long, curvaceous banquettes, icy blue drapes and hushed lighting create an old Hollywood feel as if Bogey and Bacall might breeze in after a premiere. The wall behind the banquette looks and feels like a headboard one might find in Gloria Graham's boudoir.
The gimlets were divine. And so was the wine.
Though it wasn't perfect, our late-night post-concert feeding left us feeling like Nick and Nora as we returned to the North Side. A return visit to Zao is in the offing so that we may experience the full boon of the full menu. Anticipation.