I Nearly Starved to Death in Cleveland

By Kevin Gibson
November 24, 2007

Recently I traveled to Cleveland with my friend Harold for a weekend of male bonding and football; it was a nice time. Well, except for the fact that we nearly starved to death.

You know, I've always liked Cleveland, in spite of its reputation of not being much of a city. I've had great times at the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, Jacobs Field, etc. But Cleveland tried to kill me, so my mind has changed.

We arrived in town on a Saturday evening, and decided to attend a concert by Lee Rocker (formerly of Stray Cats). We decided we'd grab a bite to eat somewhere near the venue (Beachland Ballroom) because, let's face it, if there's a music venue, there will be restaurants nearby. Right?

Wrong.

Hungry, and the Ballroom not scheduled to open for a while, we decided we'd start driving to look for a place. Because, hey, it's Cleveland -- a major Midwestern city -- so there will be something for us to eat nearby. Right?

Wrong.

We drove and we drove and we drove. And we got into worse and worse neighborhoods the farther we went. Oh, we passed many places where we could have procured food ... problem is, we were just as likely to procure gaping stab wounds at these places. They all seemed to be the same, tiny barbecue or chicken places, with tiny waiting rooms packed with people who, quite frankly, looked like they might be capable of producing gaping stab wounds. We decided to keep driving, because eventually we would run into a better neighborhood. Right?

Wrong.

We eventually did come across a McDonald's, but it almost appeared to be closed, because most of the exterior lights were off. And I think I may have even seen bars on the windows and graffiti spray-painted on the playground equipment. We even passed through one neighborhood where the barber shop apparently also doubled as a meeting place for some kind of radical social group. The place was called Da Brothahood, and it advertised meetings on Thursdays and haircut specials every Monday. Bizarre. Finally, having wasted close to an hour and our stomachs making noises like a Paris Hilton sex video, we decided to go back to Beachland Ballroom and see what we could get at the bar.

We were relieved to learn that, indeed, food was available during the concert. So we headed straight for the bar and grabbed a couple of menus. Nothing fancy, just typical pub grub, but the only thing that really looked filling was the one-third pound burger. Yep, lay it on me, I'll have one of those.

"Sorry, we're out of burgers," the bartender said with not an ounce of compassion to our plight.

We ordered grilled cheese instead. Inexplicably, it was served with chips and salsa. Sorry, no french fries to be found. And they put ONIONS on the grilled cheese. Who would profane a grilled cheese sandwich with ONIONS? Oh yeah, Cleveland would. We ate it anyway, and hungry we stayed. Harold warned me away from the chili dog I was eyeing toward the end of the night.

"I don't think this is the kind of place where you want to eat a chili dog," he said. A wise man, he.

So the next day we went to Cleveland Browns Stadium to watch the Browns take on Harold's beloved Seattle Seahawks. Quite an exciting game, and at halftime we decided to head down for a bite of traditional stadium food. Standing in the impossibly long lines, I decided I wanted a bratwurst, and Harold admitted he had an eye on the pepperoni pizza. We finally got to the front of the line, and I noticed the warmer drawers for the brats and dogs were standing open, completely empty. As for Harold, only one slice of pepperoni pizza remained. He ordered it, and just as the cashier reached for it, another cashier snatched it away.

"I'm sorry," the first cashier said. "That was the last piece."

At least I was lucky enough that one of the helpers brought out some hot dogs shortly thereafter. At one point we even heard someone behind the counter say, "We're almost totally out of hot dogs." You'd think that a stadium that holds 73,200 people and routinely sells out would be prepared with plenty of hot dogs. Right?

Wrong.

Seriously, why in the name of all that is processed and barely edible would a professional football stadium run out of hot dogs? It's like having a family reunion at your house and having only a half-eaten bag of Fritos in the cabinet.

"Honey, 73,000 of your relatives coming over on Sunday ... BUY SOME GODDAMNED HOT DOGS." It's common freaking sense.

So, after the game and still feeling hungry, we made our way down to the sports bar in our hotel to have some dinner and watch the late game. Guess what? PACKED. We looked around, waited, no one was going to move anytime soon. So we ducked into the adjoining restaurant and were seated immediately. FINALLY, some relief. FINALLY, we could sit down, have a nice meal from the impressive menu, and fill our bellies, which had felt empty since we hit town the day before. Right?

Wrong.

We waited. And we waited. And the people around us said, "Hope you're not hungry. The service is terrible." We finally flagged down a humanoid that vaguely resembled a waitress. Unfortunately, she was actually a creature from some other dimension that clearly had no business being anywhere near a restaurant. There was a stupidity about her that seemed truly otherworldly. It was, well, almost Paris Hilton-like.

She took our orders, oh, I can't argue that. But 20 or so minutes later, when we asked about our food, she said, "What did you order?" So we ordered again. Yes, apparently the order had never been put in. So we waited again. And in another 20 minutes or so, when we again asked about our food, she said, "Oh, um, what did you order?" I am not joking. The order had never been placed in the kitchen. By this point, we were laughing at our own misfortune. I mean, what else can you do? It's either laugh or go on a shooting spree and have your family and friends see you on TV.

"Our top story tonight, two normally mild-mannered man went on a shooting spree in a Cleveland hotel. Witnesses say one of the men had a far away look in his eyes and kept repeating the phrase, 'All I wanted was a hot dog.' More details at 11."

The third order finally took. Harold checked his watch when the food finally arrived, and if I recall correctly (I was hungry beyond the capacity for rational thought at this point) it had taken an hour and 10 minutes. And it was tasty -- a thick, juicy burger, fries and a cup of decent, if not great, chili. It was so good, in fact, that it helped erase the memories of a city that did its best to starve us to death before we could escape its clutches.

So, the next morning, before we headed out of town, we decided to stop off at our new favorite restaurant for some breakfast, lest we travel too far on empty stomachs. All was forgiven. Right?

Wrong.

We hit the road and made for Akron like bats out of hell, and I've been eating like a pig ever since. You never forget your first starvation.

E-mail me. Better yet, make me a sandwich.