Get Your Fill in Fayetteville: Grabbing a Bite at Hammontree’s Grilled Cheese

It’s true for many states—regions within their borders feel disparate—so it’s no surprise that I felt a combination of culture shock and longing for home in Fayetteville in its surrounding area. Topographically, you couldn’t be more different than central Illinois: mountainous hills abound the landscape. But something felt homelike. Perhaps it’s Fayetteville’s inherent college town-ness that evoked the feeling of Champaign-Urbana, yet bigger.

We spent barely an afternoon there, but I felt comfortable there. It’s a definitely a flagship university town with modern looking buildings. There was a street that seemed like you could stumble out of one bar and end up crawling into another without difficulty. There was even a used bookstore that we could’ve spent all day there, though that was due in part to my futile attempt to decode its organizational system. There was something about the city that just seemed right.

We stopped at a restaurant that Sam had been recommended called Hammontree’s Grilled Cheese. As you can guess, they have a very specific menu. As you may well know, I have reservations about gourmet burgers, so I was reluctant to sample what Hammontree’s had to offer. Then I saw how the place ran rife with Star Wars memorabilia and artwork, particularly the Admiral Ackbar painting hanging above the bar. And then I saw the restaurant’s companion food truck is called the GrilleniumFalcon. They tickled my nerd sensibilities, but would they satisfy my appetite?

“Grilled cheese” here feels somewhat like a misnomer. In my book, a grilled cheese sandwich is one without meat, one that sticks to a simple pairing of melted cheese between toasted bread. Several of Hammontree’s sandwiches have ham or pork or some other meat on them, which isn’t to discredit the place—they know how to make a damn fine sandwich. It reminded me of a place we had in my college town called Planet Wiener that, though it touted itself as serving hot dogs in its title, half of its menu were hamburgers. Oddly enough, Hammontree’s serves hot dogs as well. Thankfully, Hammontree’s made a better sandwich than the now-defunct Planet Wiener made hot dogs or burgers.

I ordered the “Cheebacca”—again, Star Wars—which has “Sharp White Cheddar, House Cheese, bacon, pulled pork, grilled onions and garlic cilantro sauce on sourdough.” I wasn’t huge on the garlic cilantro sauce, but everything else on it came together beautifully. It wasn’t a heavy sandwich, either, so it was ideal for a lunch meal. It was disappointing that they served generic potato chips with the sandwich, though again, anything more would’ve made the meal heavier.

Sam got their Chicago Dog, so she looked to see if it held up to her homeland’s traditions. Hammontree’s Chicago Dog is comprised of “Quarter pound all beef frank soaked in Old Style beer, grilled and topped with mustard, tomatoes, relish, onions and a pickle spear on a poppy seed roll.” What impressed me was its Old Style infusion, as even in Illinois you were lucky to find Old Style if you weren’t within an hour of Cook County.

Though I don’t know if we’ll make it to Fayetteville again anytime soon, I’d return to Hammontree’s. It’s an ideal lunch location, and though our wait for food was a little long, it’s an amusing dining experience. If nothing else, we could scout out for the Grillenium Falcon. 

Obligatory Obituary

Death is a funny thing. I’ve only dealt with it personally twice, and neither of those times were close family members. Now we’ve gotten word of Robin Williams’ passing, and it’s like everybody lost their crazy uncle. Facebook showed that “Robin Williams” was trending, and my newsfeed corroborated that fact. I was saddened, but not surprised. Comedians often struggle with the demons that lead people to do what Williams reportedly did.

Many posted on Facebook. I could not in good conscience post on something which I hadn’t quite figured out how I felt about it yet. Almost immediately after the death was reported, people stopped eulogizing and started evangelizing. “If you know someone who’s depressed, reach out.” “Suicide is selfish.” On one hand, it’s surely a springboard for awareness. On another, at times it feels exploitative.

Matt Walsh, “blogger, writer, and professional sayer of truths,” weighs in on Williams’ death: “The death of Robin Williams is significant not because he was famous, but because he was human, and not because he left this world, but particularly because he apparently chose to leave it.” There’s something inherently dickish in the way Walsh contextualizes Williams’ death in that he focuses on the fact that it was suicide and it was a decision that Williams made. No other factors involved here. Not a one.

The name of his post, “Robin Williams didn’t die from a disease, he died from his choice,” exposes how blatantly ignorant the pro truthsayer is. He waxes philosophical on the definition of “celebrity,” hitting no profound notions and instead wags the finger at society for hoisting the rich and famous onto pedestals. Well-trod ground, Mr. Walsh. But all the while he uplifts a man for his humanity, the drops him like hot garbage because “he died from his choice.” Then he balks at the idea of “chemical imbalances.”

“We are more than our brains and bigger than our bodies,” writes Walsh. “Depression is a mental affliction, yes, but also spiritual. That isn’t to say that a depressed person is evil or weak, just that his depression is deeper and more profound than a simple matter of disproportioned brain chemicals.” Except that when we attribute significant depression to “chemical imbalances,” we’re acknowledging that it’s more than a mere mental affliction. Spiritualism might act as a balm for such pain, but it’s not a cure-all and doesn’t work for everyone.

Though he tries to avoid it, the world Walsh paints is a black and white one. It’s very much a his-way-or-the-highway approach, leaving no room for open-mindedness. He speaks only truth, no opinions or editorializing. Absolute truths. “Chemical imbalances” can be overcome. He knows people who have struggled with depression or committed suicide, so he knows the experience and he knows the remedy. He admits, “I can’t comprehend . . . the complete, total, absolute rejection of life.” For a fleeting moment, the man shows some humility. But throughout the rest, we get the same story: “Those who commit suicide are selfish.”

I’ve had my share of bad days, but I’ve never known suicidal ideations or self-harming tendencies. I think Walsh is in the same boat, otherwise he wouldn’t have spit out this drivel. Whether he’s aware of it or not, he comes across like an asshole, one who feels that those who commit suicide lack proper foresight because they perform an act that crushes the spirits of those around them. He comes across like someone who feels wronged by all those who killed themselves that he knew, even though in the end he’s the one who’s still alive.

Robin Williams has died. He made me laugh and he made others laugh too. I was bummed by his passing, but I know there were others much more hurt than me, especially his wife and children and all of those whose lives her personally and directly touched. His death reaffirmed the conversation of depression in the public consciousness, and with that the debate that surrounds our rights to live and die. His life, tumultuous as it was, was his to live. His death, unfortunately, has become ours to talk about and pick apart. People like Walsh are guilty of exploiting something they don’t understand to promote their own agenda. I’m worried I’ve committed the same offense. 

Pockets Full of Hearthstones: Blizzard's Warcraft-themed Online Card Game

I'm no stranger to the collectible card game. When I was a wee tyke, I played Pokémon, and as I grew I leveled up to Magic the Gathering. Falling into the deep pit of board gaming, I discovered other card games like A Game of Thrones and Netrunner. And while I probably own plenty of Pokémon and Magic cards, I can't say that I was ever deeply immersed into the hobby. I never competed, only played casually with friends and acquaintances. Only once did I purchase individual cards. Otherwise, my loot was had from booster packs and theme decks. 

So of course, I approached the Hearthstone beta with caution. Not for fear of getting sucked in, but concern of whether what I’ll get out of it if I remain a casual. Also, it’s got that dreaded tag of “free-to-play,” though the phrase seems to be losing its stigma after the acclaim of Dota 2 and Path of Exile. I make it clear to myself that I don’t want to spend any money on it. I’ve heard no word of it being pay-to-win sort of fare either, so the prospect of playing thriftily seems more and more positive. I give it a shot. I learn the mechanics quickly, either due to the game’s intuitiveness or my own past experiences of card games. It’s all familiar, but it moves with an even brisker speed than its distant analog cousin, Magic.

You pay for your cards with mana, and mana accrues with every turn. No one has to worry about playing cards just for mana—everybody’s in the same financial boat. Cards are tossed out more quickly as turns go by. Creatures attack other creatures or the other player’s hero who’s sitting pretty with 30 hit points. Those numbers drop fast, the same speed as everything else in this game.

There’s probably plenty of nuance to be found in the game’s mechanics, but as it stands right now it’s a charmingly simple game. I wouldn’t be surprised if a physical version of the game materialized in the next year, though I’d be surprised to see it outlive most of its competitors in the collectible card game market. Matches never exceed a half hour in my experience, and the practice AI offer a significant challenge for the uninitiated. It’s good fun, and did I mention the game is fast?

But there’s something keeping me from putting my head all the way under. I don’t return home from work and jump right on. Hell, I’ve only played one actual human and he happens to be a friend of mine. I want to like this game even more and give it as much praise as it deserves, but I still have unrealized hangups about the game so far. Have I even played it enough to be critical of it? I don’t dislike it, that’s for certain. But that’s about all I’m certain about.

Peanuts and Cracker Jacks: Enjoying Comfort at Dickey-Stephens Park

Last night, I had the rare opportunity to enjoy one of the luxury suites at Dickey-Stephens Park, home of the Arkansas Travelers. I should preface this with the following statement: I am not a baseball fan. I’m not really a sports fan in general, and of the sports that I can watch, baseball seems to slip further and further down that list. But this isn’t about baseball or sports in general. This is about living the fancy life.

Dickey-Stephens Park sits right along the Arkansas River, nestled next to the bridge that links Highway 67 between Little Rock and North Little Rock. It opened in 2007, and feels nicely maintained for a seven-year-old facility. They go for a birth of baseball aesthetic, with mostly brick interiors and signs with Copperplate Gothic Bold typeface. It’s not a large park, so there aren’t really any bad places to sit. Everybody gets a decent view of the action. And there’s no shortage of food stands, so it’s unlikely you’ll go hungry. Broke, maybe, but not hungry.

Last night was Museum of Discovery Night (my in to the game in the first place) as well as Bring Your Dog to the Park night, so they appear fairly lax with bringing animals in if only for an evening. Unfortunately, we had no dog to bring, and those who did have dogs who were also enjoying the “suite” life (shoot me now) could not bring dogs into the luxury suites. It was understandable, however, as the room was certainly too small for all 24 of us two-leggers to stay in at once. There was also the concern of dogs tearing up the leather couch, the centerpiece of the room.

We got there a few minutes late, but there was plenty of food and drink left. A mini fridge under a counter secreted shelves of beer, soda, and bottled water. Given that the heat and humidity lately have been oppressive, I needed cold liquid nourishment. I needed a beer. At the time, I was given the choice of Bud Light, Michelob Ultra, and Summit IPA. I wasn’t quite ready for an IPA, and I refuse all things Bud, so I went with a Michelob. Their cans have apparently been redesigned to the dimensions of a Red Bull can: slender, towering over their 12 oz rivals. Still tastes like the same old Michelob.

Our menu was simple, but in the best way: hamburgers, hot dogs, baked beans, potato chips, and potato salad. It was everything you could want for a cookout on a hot summer day. The food was provided by the park itself, so these weren’t gourmet burgers or anything of the like, but they were pretty good. And best of all, they were free.

A flatscreen TV was mounted in the corner of the room, tuned to a Cardinals game for those who weren’t content enough watching the minor league game outside live. It was oddly comforting to hear the others here admit to be Cards fans, not because I myself am one, but because so many back home are. Home felt closer in the room of strangers.

In spite of the horrid humidity, we sat outside with the rest of the group. I did my best to pay attention to the game, but in truth I spent most of the time taking in the sights and sounds and a Summit IPA and Stella Artois. 

I Laughed at a Sentient Sapling Dancing to the Jackson 5: Guardians of the Galaxy Review

Needs more Peter Serafinowicz.

By all means, it should not have succeeded. Andy Dwyer of Parks and Rec should not be a roguish space hero. The guy who made Super should not do a comic book movie. Vin Diesel should not be a tree. A talking, gun-toting raccoon should not work. And yet, in spite of all these and many other factors, this movie works even better than the rest of the Marvel catalogue. Yes, even The Avengers.

Guardians of the Galaxy is and isn’t a superhero movie. It’s an epic space opera that makes for a better Star Wars movie than the Star Wars prequels. Our Han Solo-type is out to make a buck and look what happens—he gets embroiled in a desperate attempt to save the galaxy from certain destruction. He even makes a few buddies along the way. And yet, somehow, all of this is happening in the same universe in which an eccentric arms manufacturer teams up with a Norse god, an irradiated strong man with rage problems, a thawed out WWII super soldier—maybe it’s not so crazy.

But the film itself is insane, or at the very least weird. A lot of effort went in to making this alien and spacy. We don’t need to be told this is in a galaxy far, far away. The images do it for us. Humanoids of varying shades and hues walk in the backgrounds and foregrounds, and the locales are peppered with utopian futuristic architecture and gritty spacer aesthetics. There’s an entire sequence that takes place in a dead giant being’s head that’s being mined out for its riches. It’s reminiscent of the magazine Heavy Metal if its content was toned down for PG13 audiences. It’s very much a comic book movie, and it’s perhaps the best at being that.

The movie serves as a further evidence that the Marvel film brand is stronger than ever and almost certainly stronger than D.C.’s. Marvel was willing to take a risk on an unproven intellectual property, knowing full well that if it fails they’ve got the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe to fall back on. Meanwhile, D.C. struggles to slap together a Batman and Superman movie without doing anything to string them together beyond keeping the same Superman actor. It’s this brazen confidence in Marvel’s property that no doubt supports Guardians’ success.

Chris Pratt does a fine job as Peter Quill, earth boy raised by space scavengers. He’s as hilarious as we’ve come to expect given his performances on Parks and Recreation and in The Lego Movie. Bradley Cooper plays the mouthy anthropomorphic raccoon Rocket who was not as annoying as I had expected. For a tree, Groot is surprisingly emotive, though more of that is owed to the animators and not necessarily Vin Diesel’s performance, though that’s not to say he did terribly. He did fine for a talking tree. Dave Batista plays our psychopathic strong man bent on vengeance, and for as angry and serious as he was, he chimed in with some great comedic moments for himself. The weakest performance here seemed to be Zoe Saldana as Gamora, due in part to her noticeably less frequent comedic timing than the rest of the characters. She plays the vengeful assassin lady admirably, but she doesn’t seem to have as much fun as the rest of the actors.

At the end, I’m left wondering how this film will merge with the rest of the MCU or if it even has to. Word is we have a sequel in the works for Guardians already, and while I’m happy to hear it, I’d be even happier if they keep it on that end of the galaxy and not ours. There’s so much more to see in Guardians’ self-contained universe. We could use a good space opera franchise right now, especially when we’ve been burned by other space opera franchises in the past. 

Wizard Triage: The Unforgiving Gameplay of Baldur’s Gate

 

You tell me if 4 sounds like a lot.

When I was 14, a schoolmate of mine talked about a game called Baldur’s Gate. He always spoke of it with a smile that said, “You need to play this.” At the time, I was struggling with Neverwinter Nights, a PC RPG based strongly on 3^rd edition Dungeons & Dragons. I hadn’t played D&D, so most of it went over my head. I saw the message at the bottom of the screen that told me what my twenty-sided die roll was whenever I attacked a goblin, but it never once registered in my brain how important that D20 was.

Fast forward ten years later, after suffering several failed attempts at getting into true D&D, the D&D where you did your own math and rolled your own dice. Finally something clicks. Maybe an enthusiastic DM. Maybe a stronger aptitude for arithmetic. Plenty of factors. In any case, I fall down the rabbit hole and become deeply entrenched in the hobby. I read up on the older editions. I research other systems. Then I discover Baldur’s Gate for myself.

A “remastered” edition of the classic tactical RPG, Baldur’s Gate Enhanced Edition was made for newer machines like mine. Bridging the gap between Windows XP and Windows 7 gaming, this new version brought everything people loved about the old game back, including its frustrating difficulty.

Its spiritual successor Dragon Age: Origins was a game that I thought impossible. It took me nearly 70 hours to complete the game, constantly quick-saving and quick-loading before and after combats that required heavy use of the space bar just to pause the game and give you a chance to figure out your next move. It was a frustrating game, one I didn’t play for months because I got stuck clearing out some bandits and my healer would fall within seconds. When I finally slew the final beastie, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment. I felt that I could win any game. How quickly those feelings went away when I started Baldur’s Gate.

Baldur’s Gate shares a lot of similarities with Neverwinter Nights, the game I never “got.” They both take place in the Forgotten Realms, and as such they’re both based on Dungeons & Dragons. One major difference: Baldur’s Gate is based on the much less forgiving 2^nd edition D&D. Death comes quickly and often without warning. And it’s almost always your wizard that goes first.

I’ve played about 3 hours of the game, and it’s hammered in the cold equations that spellcasters must fall in one hit because if they don’t, they’ll tear the fabric of reality. Shadowrun gets it: “Geek the mage first.” Take out the guy with his finger on the doomsday device first. Unfortunately, my spellcasters don’t have anything resembling a doomsday device because they’re only level 1, the level that so many people just altogether skipped when they played 2^nd edition D&D in real life. And unlike, Dragon Age: Origins, when you’re people go down in a fight, they don’t get back up when the dust settles. You have to scrape together whatever gold you might have to resurrect somebody at a temple. And the price goes up every time.

So now the game forces me into a painful situation. Side quests and diversions are almost necessary if I want to keep my party alive and healthy. I don’t get that luxury of choice between trampling through the main storyline and searching every corner of the low-res Forgotten Realms for some orcs to smash. It’s a form of torture: fight to get money to resurrect your people who keep dying in fights.

This is fun to people. 

Pizza Wars

Down the street from where I live sit two businesses in opposition: Damgoode Pies and U.S. Pizza. As you can probably guess, they both serve pizza. Their buildings stand across the street from one another like duelists trading jabs and parries of words. To some, it may seem like a friendly rivalry of businesses. To me, there’s something more there.

U.S. Pizza was the first place I tried when we moved down there, in part due to some genuine confusion on my part. I thought Damgoode served pies in the strictest sense like apple pies and all that. My assumption had perhaps been informed by the hipster sensibilities of our neighborhood and the refusal to believe that two pizza places that weren’t national chains would shack up so close to one another. Like many of my assumptions, this was incorrect.

Subtle digs from U.S. Pizza derided Damgoode’s holiday hours this past Christmas, proudly announcing that they were open for Christmas Eve, unlike Damgoode. More recently, Damgoode announced on their marquee, “10% OFF FOR U.S. PIZZA EMPLOYEES.” As they say on the Interwebs, shots fired. It’s impossible to maintain a conscientious objection to an all-out pizza war, especially when you yourself are an acolyte of the Cult of Piethagoras. The line was drawn long before we arrived. I’d have to pick eventually. Thankfully, the decision wasn’t difficult.

My U.S. Pizza experience was nothing incredible. The pizza was good, but it wasn’t anything special. It seemed no different from any other thin crust pizza I’d had before. A few weeks later, we tried Damgoode, and it was an entirely different culture. U.S. Pizza is fairly straightforward: it’s a restaurant that serves pizza. No bells and whistles, just pizza and sandwiches and the like. Nothing unique about the restaurant except that you could bring your dog in, but that’s it.

Damgoode, on the other hand, was like an embassy to a college town. The waiters and cooks are laid back, which is good because they’re the first people you see when you enter the building. Seating’s upstairs since most of the first floor is the kitchen and bathrooms, but it works. Coming upstairs, you’ll hear some music that sounds like it’s someone’s Pandora station. On the wall to your right is a large mural of a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon like a shrine to cheap beer. Get there for Happy Hour and you can have a can of your own for 75 cents.

I haven’t even discussed the pizza. They have multiple sauce options. Red sauce, pesto, spicy white, alfredo and combinations between. We usually go for their “pink,” a combination of red and white that gives the sauce a gentle kick. Want some pizza with more pizza? Order the stuffy, a stripped down stuffed pizza. Nothing groundbreaking or innovative, but compared to their rivals, Damgoode is remarkably imaginative. Some don’t want or need that with their pizza. Some just want their pizza simple and familiar, and they are welcome to that refuge of culinary cowards.

Never before had I been on the sidelines of a conflict between two pizza restaurants. Back home, I had placed I’d like to go for a pie, but none ever seemed in direct opposition, perhaps due in part to the fact that there were so many that they were just top dogs in their respective towns. I had Papa Del’s in Champaign, Pagliai’s in Charleston, Villa Pizza in Mattoon—miles between them so no chance for bad blood. No room for hostility. Just pizza.

Now every time I go to Damgoode, it feels like a political act, a greasy shake of the first to U.S. Pizza. Twice we’ve gone to U.S. since our move, and so many more times have we patronized Damgoode. It’s not a conscious middle finger we throw their way, but the hostility fostered between the two contextualizes the gesture with more hate than we intend. Perhaps it is we, then, who are the casualties in the pizza wars, our clogging arteries the collateral damage.