April 28 was a Tuesday. And like many Tuesdays in my last two years of Tuesdays, it wound down amidst a throng of young people shooting the breeze under the Midwestern bricolage of Tony’s bar.
Cheers erupted as an East Coast hockey player scored on TV. Trivia teams huddled around tables and tried to remember who made that print of the big blue wave. Adele Davis ‘26 proved her skeptics wrong and slammed a jar of marinara in under a minute. Nathan Shields ‘26 pilfered a French fry from a neglected basket while he waited for his partner to knock a stripe in the corner pocket. In groups of four to six, students migrated from table to patio and back in a constant stream.
I soaked in the sounds of college coming down around me and smiled. But I had another mission. Whether it’s a $10 beer/sandwich lunch combo or a frito pie stout enough to rouse a Tuesday patron from a sweat-stained stupor, Tony’s comestibles are held in high regard. And right in the middle of the menu, highlighted in a little box for distinction (and perhaps for ease of ordering in the case of the post-literate), was a fella that has long deserved a spin of the Burgerthought yarns: the patty melt. I flagged down a waiter and requisitioned my trophy.
Mmm! Embedded in a perfect cheese lock, shards of onion adorned the stalwart striations of a working man’s patty (filling, firm). Nary a flake hit the plate. Well played, Tony. The rye hit the tongue and tantalized with unidentifiable spunk. It was, however, a beginner’s rye: likely blended with wheat, it lacked the soil-black sorcery that makes even a Polish barkeep’s mustache prickle. On the topic of bread, the well-toasted slices (diagnostic of the patty melt) ran a little dry. The silver lining: they served as their own napkin, and the thirsty outer surface wicked the grease from my fingers in an astonishing feat of capillary action.
What’s more, Tony landscaped the plate with a shrubbery of zesty garlic fries and a shimmering pond of ranch. Once dunked in sauce and plowed through drifts of minced garlic, the patty melt got a sense that it wasn’t long for this world, and marched gleefully through my pearly gates. That’s the best damn ranch I’ve ever had.
Durable. Contained. Lightweight. Just enough jus at the center to keep the tongue curious before it meets the aridity of the rye toast microclimate and urges its owner to order up another Pabst. I agree with the Gentleman’s Quarterly appraisal of the pan-bred patty melt as “the great indoor burger.” When it comes to dive bars, I would much prefer my dish be borne of a crowded griddle than of the carcinogen-crusted lard-glazed char-lattice of an ill-tended grill. By my measure, the patty melt has earned its place in bar-feed canon.
On the whole, I’d liken Tony’s patty melt to a poodle: a charismatic take on a classic (wolf/hamburger) that impresses without gimmicks. Just add a little water. There’s something raw and commanding about a sandwich no better or worse than what my humble hands would do with the same ingredients. It’s been real, Tony. My best to you and yours.