Top Notch Restaurant

Top Notch is one of those places that feels like it's been quietly doing its thing forever while most people drive right past it. It's literally the first restaurant you see leaving the South Bend airport, and somehow it still feels slept on. Greek owned, sit down, a menu thick enough that anybody can find something, and prices that won't make you kick yourself for going out instead of cooking at home. The hostess seats you. The waitress has enough makeup to survive a rainstorm, fake eyelashes stacked high. I'm not sure if she removes them at night or just adds another set each morning. Wafting so much perfume that apparently it won the over/under on if we should shower today. Most of the dining room is either folks pushing geriatrics or people fresh off a flight. I'm not complaining. I knew exactly where I was going. I'm just setting the stage. Here's a fun fact about Bruce. I don't actually like liver. Beef liver. Calf liver. Chicken liver. Pâté. Foie Gras... Doesn't matter. It's just not my thing. I have, however, learned something strange about myself over the years. Every once in a while I'll start feeling ornery. Not angry at anybody in particular. Just... mean. Grouchy. Like the entire world has become mildly irritating for no good reason. Somewhere along the line I discovered that a plate of liver and onions pulls me right out of that funk. Maybe it's iron. Maybe it's some weird nutritional deficiency finally getting topped off. Maybe it's buried childhood trauma of eating whatever was available because there weren't many other choices. "You get what you get and you don't pitch a fit." Hell if I know. I just know it works. When I catch myself becoming more of an asshole than usual, I know it's time. If even I'm getting tired of my own bullshit, I take myself out for liver and onions. It's less a meal than maintenance. The liver and onions came with a house salad and roasted potatoes. The salad was exactly what you'd expect. Fresh lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, onion. Nothing fancy, nothing wrong with it. The liver itself was exactly what liver is supposed to be. Tender enough, plenty of onions, cooked right. Functional. Mission accomplished. The roasted potatoes, though, were excellent. Crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, nicely seasoned. The star of that plate. Here is the bargain. The carrot and the stick. I eat what I need for a little personality maintenance, then reward myself with what I wanted in the first place. I added a Reuben with a cup of chicken and shells soup. The soup was good, although the pasta had crossed the line into mushy territory. I suspect that's intentional since their regular lunch crowd probably appreciates softer foods more than I do. I'm not going to bitch about it. The Reuben, however, absolutely nailed it. The rye was toasted just enough to stand up to the sauerkraut and dressing without running sandpaper over the roof of my mouth. The corned beef to kraut ratio was just about perfect, every bite balanced, and it came with a couple pickle slices that did exactly what pickle slices are supposed to do. I walked out full, content, and noticeably less mean. Whether it's iron, physics, or childhood trauma, I'm not asking questions. I'm just following the treatment plan.