Day 1: Danny's Beer Barrel Pub

Entering the lone log building, we were assaulted with a collection of arcane neon testaments to boozing and cruising that would put a Bennigan’s to shame.

Few people were there to see our spectacle, save for a few burly men sitting at the bar, conjuring images of a proud past of PA’s: coal mines and lumberjacks, those stolid, silent giants of the lonely, afterwork hour. This was immediately offset by the fact that it was 11:30 AM on a Thursday and they already looked thoroughly sauced, loudly yelling at the bartender and slapping backs at off-color jokes. Oh, Clearfield, where now is your Bailout-Free Banking system?

As we waited, giant screen TVs heralded “FREE MONEY for $29.95,” and a Chinese dragon pranced about at a professional poker game.

We had made it, we were in.

The low hum of the dimly lit bar was shattered as the drunks wailed, “HARPY BIRFDAY TO YEW!” as the bartender brought forth a filthy cooking pan holding some mysterious pastry treat and a lone candle.

Caught up in the odd spirit of festive unemployment, we joined in, wailing a Happy Birthday to Frank, whoever he was. As the waiting dragged on, our anxiety increased. Visits to the restroom, where the walls screamed, vending, “Choose Your Own Adventure,” condoms, and numerous false alarms from the shifty/cheery waitress, didn’t help.

At long last it came. Imagine a sandwich, any type, any size, whatever. Now feed that to chicken. Feed the chicken to a goat. Feed the goat to a camel. Then roast for 24 hours. This gives some indication of what we saw when the waitress staggered out with our six pound giant of meat, cheese, sauce, and bread. It was a testament to all that was American, a litany of excess and an innate love for the “bigger and better.”

Oh fools we were! For behind this glistening façade of melting goodness and flavor was a dark secret. As we greedily bit in, we were horrified. The meat was like a strange insect; charred black on the outside, but filled on the inside with squirming, pink, and wormlike links, seeming to almost writhe and pulsate, chunks of bone littered throughout the undercooked mixture.
“Oh, don’t you worry now,” the waitress grinned, noting over our clear disgust. “We got it steam-cooked, it looks like it ain’t cooked, but it is.” Delving deeper into the foul sandwich, we discovered what the chef quite accurately referred to as “a sea of relish and mayo,” which reduced the previously impressive buns into a sick, swampy green mix. Relish coated buns and mayo drenched lettuce ruined any salvageable parts of this fast food catastrophe. Oh, we made a valiant attempt, divvying up the burger into fifths (attempted sixth), but all was eventually spooned off onto the large platter from whence it came. All we accomplished was a small chink out of the disemboweled Sandwich Giganto, which grinned at us like some grim Lord of the Flies, in addition to communal sickness.

Richard fell out first, sprinted to the bathroom and let the misery spill out. John and I stayed at the table, staring at the foul remains with a mixture of fiscal regret and indigestion. “Can I wrap that up for you?” A new waitress had appeared, a younger woman, one far less impressed with our care-free gluttonous exploits. With an indifferent glance, she whisked away our leftovers and returned with a sopping bag, exuding grease pheromones and catsup memories. Richard hobbled out of the restroom, we got a T-shirt, and we were off.