The Joint Report: Harold's Inn

"My dear Mrs. J., Harold’s is not a joint."

Turns out that it is.

Mrs. J. and I always go on low calories for Lent. So good joint food was out of the question. But now it ain’t Lent no more, and as The Good Book says, "Man does not live by bread alone. Once in awhile you need some grease." So true.

So she drags me to Harold’s on Brodhead Road for lunch, just over the line in Beaver County. If you hit the miniature golf course ... or The Fez … you went too far. Next to the new Dollar General. (Mrs. J is excited by the news. Later during the meal, Mrs J. exclaims that Harold’s must have bought their silverware from Dollar General. I’d rather play miniature golf.)

Obviously the place has been there a while, so it’s had time to pick up some nice joint features. For example, we parked in the big parking lot on the side of the building facing the garbage can shed, with the door left open so you can get a good look ... and whiff … of the garbage. (It was a hot day.)

We get out of the car and are enveloped by the exhaust of the big grease fans. Ah, to smell grease fumes now that spring is here. I loved the smell. Mrs. J, not so much. We look up and there is a nice big balcony-type affair. I assume it’s just the thing for those who love to eat outside, overlooking garbage cans. To me, all that screams joint. I settle down

 It’s a fairly big building so we try the first door. Nope, not getting’ in there. Try the next one … uh-uh. What the hey, let’s try the third one. Ain’t happenin’. So we walk all around to the other side of the building and … we get in.

The sign says wait to be seated. So we wait and wait and finally I go and try to find someone. I walk into the dining room, which is nice and had about half the tables occupied. At the end is another room full of people. I assume that’s their banquet room. I’m figuring Mrs. J will not be happy with all that noise when from a side door the hostess emerges. She gives us a choice of dining room or bar. Normally, we don’t eat at the bar, but why not for once? Not to worry. There is a small bar, with the standard TV tuned to sports, about eight stools or so. No gambling machines. No pool tables. But when you "eat in the bar" you actually go down a couple of steps and you wind up behind a big, dark Berlin wall so that you couldn’t see the bar unless you had a periscope. We scadge the last booth, but there are about six tables in there as well.

Immediately the inside joint potential shows up. There is a gas fireplace against the far wall with…a two-top table directly in front of it. I don’t mean in the general line of sight. I mean an inch and a half from the hearth and maybe four inches from the fireplace itself. Nothing says "joint" to me like the possibility of injury while you eat.

The server comes over for the drink order. "Hi, guys. Can I get you something to drink?" You know you’re in a joint, one with young workers, because everyone is Guys. Everyone. We couldn’t see the bar, but whenever anyone left you could hear a chorus of "Bye, Guys. See you, Guys. Have a good day, Guys." Anyway, I try my standard attempt to get Knob Creek bourbon.  

"What kind of bourbons do you have?" "Uh…uh…what kind do you want?" We settle on a Maker’s (Mark), straight up. Nice.

While we’re waiting we read the long, involved menu. The special appetizer was wedding soup. Mrs. J decides on a bowl of that. And because they feature their "Mountain style" wings, I go for them. I love wings. They have Jumbo Wings…and Wingettes. The server says that with the jumbos you get the whole wing…they don’t break them apart. That took me back to the stomping grounds of my youth. There was a place called Fritzi’s Chicken where you’d get the whole wing at 10 for a buck! Dry rubbed, and still the best wings I ever ate.

My college roomie lived in Min-Hattan (natives do not say MAN-hattan; they say Min-Hattan) so he had that "you can’t get anything better to eat than what you find in Noo Yawk City." attitude. So one time when he was visiting I took him to Fritzi’s, and then when he was done I took him directly to Mancini’s Bakery in Stowe. We each got a twist loaf and ate them right there on the sidewalk. Every time he came to visit after that he would say, "Can we go get those chicken wings and that good bread." Now you might or might not know that the present version of Mancini’s bread is about 20% as good as it used to be. For any of you who never ate any Mancini’s bread pre-1980 that is just so, so sad. I’ll light a candle for you before Mass next Sunday. Because you…have…no…idea.

Back to Harold’s. The wings come dry rubbed, five for 6.99, and an extra buck for sauce. Which seems like a ridiculous price. But since I’ve been on the wagon all of Lent, so I give her the go ahead, and throw on some "Buffalo hot" sauce

Two TV’s in The Hole. As we’re waiting I see that Mrs. J has a view of a flat screen tuned to ESPN…bowling. I have a view of an old CRT TV tuned to…what must be the Infomercial Network! And I HATE commercials! So during our time at Harold’s I got 30 minutes on the Dyson "Shark" vacuum (Never loses suction!!), and then 30 minutes on a Miracle Cure for Joint Pain. Ironically named, no? So I figure if the food is bad I can still come out ahead with a remedy for bad knees caused by vacuuming without losing suction

The wedding soup comes out along with the blue cheese and celery for the wings…but no wings. Mrs. J. pronounces the wedding soup as "pretty good." About a B-. No Italian grandmas are gonna be asking Harold’s for the recipe, but not bad. Mrs. J. finishes the soup and still no wings. Twenty minutes later, still no wings. The server comes out and asks if we’re ready to order any main courses. I tell her that I’d rather wait to order since the wings aren’t even here yet. This surprises her for some reason. She must have thought I was either the most sophisticated diner in the history of Harold’s … or the biggest pain in the rear end.  So in a couple of minutes the manager comes out and describes in depth why the wings are now about a half hour later from when I ordered them. She says the jumbo wings aren’t like the ones in pieces. "We start them from scratch. They always take at least 25-30 minutes." Now…it doesn’t say that in the menu…so I’m skeptical. If they deep-fry them, no way 25 minutes. Maybe they bake them? Maybe they forgot the order? Since we have nowhere else to go I tell her just to bring them when they’re ready.

I kill some time checking out the menu again. And in true joint fashion, on the cover of the menu, I learn that "On May 5, Hermie and Harry will be having ‘dueling pianos’ on the patio." Now that’s something I can get behind. Picture it. A beautiful spring night and two pianos on the veranda…overlooking the garbage cans….in the comforting confines of the grease fans…dueling…Hermie and Harry. Don’t get no better than that.

They have a sampler on the wall saying: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. Cute. But I’ve raised two kids to adulthood. With the number of moments that took my breath away, I should’ve been dead about 15 years ago.

      The wife decides to order a salad if/when the wings show up. It’s a "Gorgonzola and field greens salad with balsamic vinaigrette and pine nuts." Wait a minute! Joints do not have balsamic anything and field greens! Del-Kid did NOT have balsamic vinegar! I decide on a (no surprise) fish sandwich and fries. Supposedly 8 oz. of breaded cod. Fine.

FINALLY the wings arrive. The wings I’ve waited a half hour for. The wings that with the sauce I selected runs to 7.99 for FIVE wings! That’s a buck-sixty a wing! And they lay a platter in front of me that is

MASSIVE!! Five wings take up a whole platter, and stick up in the air! You ever go to Quaker Steak and get their wings? Those teeny, tiny, broken apart "wings" that are about a bite and a half apiece? 

Ladies and gentlemen THESE wings are some serious poultry! And the sauce is really good. Not hot (to my standards) but tangy. You break these babies apart because, unlike even Fritzi’s, you can’t eat them unless you do. The drumstick halves are big and meaty. The "flat" halves are full. You don’t have to search for the meat. Those two bones in there…the radius and the ulna (medical lesson)…are separated by wide swaths of delicious meat. I would love to have seen the chickens these nifties came from. They gotta be the biggest, baddest chickens around. The Hell’s Angels of the cluck-cluck set. If I ever find one I hope I have my autograph book with me. I eat them straight up; the celery and blue cheese having long since disappeared. (I was hungry….sue me.)

So for $.80 apiece, once they’re broken in two, I am in. Harold’s has take out. I’ll call sometime and give them a 30-minute lead time. If I still get Godzilla wings, I’ll put Harold’s on speed dial.

Then the main courses show up. Mrs. J. is enraptured, and throws in, "Ooohhh, it even comes with a warm, rosemary-infused breadstick." Do you think Tinker’s has rosemary-infused breadsticks?!! I let that pass as I am studying my fish sandwich with TWO planks o’ fish. Not huge planks, but together they gotta be more than 8 oz. The breading is good and not two inches thick like some places, the fish is delish (seems like cod), and the bun is darn good. The "side" of seasoned fries fills all available platter space not otherwise inhabited by the sandwich. Probably leftovers members of the Occupy Harold’s Movement. Hot, crunchy, and good.

We are more than satisfied and yours truly is STUFFED. I feel like I am in an episode of Adam Richman’s series: Man vs. Food, Hopewell. I skip dinner that night.

On the way out I feel the need to hit the Little Diners room, and there are two urinals, side by side. In the time-honored tradition of men everywhere, when two guys are lined up to whiz next to eat other, the protocol is that you stare straight ahead. So I do.

Right in front of me on the wall is…the cover of the menu!! Yep, four inches in front of my face while I’m relieving myself, is the news that…YES…Hermie and Harry will face off piano-style right there overlooking the garbage. A perfect ending for me. You can NOT get any jointier than that!

So, Harold’s started with me at about four barstools. The Wings That Ate Pittsburgh merits one barstool all by themselves. The spotty service subtracts a quarter stool. But the veranda next to the grease fans, with a view of the garbage; the infomercials; entrance doors that don’t open; the table essentially inside the fireplace; the passing acquaintance with the bourbons…I gotta start drinking tequila (Enjoy your tequila, Guys!!); and having part of the menu inside the bathroom; adds a half stool.

So Harold’s merits a Joint Report rating of…4 and ¼ barstools out of 5.