By Heather Hoch
By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
Easterners come to live in the Valley for a variety of reasons. Indeed, the metro area is beginning to split at the seams, the air to curdle and the pavement to crack under the strain of all the people from the East, and elsewhere, who found so many good reasons to come here and stay. There's the majestic scenery and the blessed absence of winter. And, even now, at the end of the century, this chunk of the continent still holds the promise of a new horizon, a fresh start.
What it does not hold, however, is an overabundance of fine dining after 9 p.m.
I'm one of those belated pioneers myself. Yeah, that's right, when you longtime 'zonies grumble about all the newbies who moved here in the last two decades and screwed up your sleepy little desert town, it's me you're grumbling about. Seven years ago, at the age of 29, I decided that I'd better go West while I still remotely could be called a young man.
Tuna salad sandwich
I've never regretted it, but, as with all life decisions, it came with a price, and one part of that price was culinary. I'm a lifelong night owl -- an incurable floor-pacing, wall-crawling, sidewalk-pounding insomniac. I'm also, alas, an incorrigible midnight snacker. And for late-night eating with any character, the Southwest simply can't hold a Sweet 'N Low packet to the great cities of the East.
In Washington, D.C., where I lived for four years before I moved here, I used to be able to choose between a Syrian dinner, a French dinner or a good burger, all affordable, all walking distance from my apartment and all available at 3:35 a.m. Even in the grim industrial streets of my hometown of Erie, Pennsylvania, it's easier to find a good Greek omelet or pizza sub after the witching hour than it is here.
The Valley of the Sun takes her moniker seriously: Not long after Phoebus settles in behind the horizon to rest from his hard day of pummeling us into whimpering submission, this city of two million plus makes like Mayberry with the sidewalks. If your fridge is empty, finding food without leaning out of your car window to talk into a box or reaching into the cooler at Circle K is going to prove difficult.
But it's not impossible. If you know where to look and are willing to drive a little distance, you can sit down to some fairly satisfying eats while the rest of the city snoozes.
Denny's is a traditional stop for the late-night hungry, but you won't find it on this tour. Even though my ability to eat almost anything without indigestion has long made me suspect that my stomach lining was composed of some impenetrable alloy that the Department of Defense might want to study, I've never been able to get a Denny's meal to agree with me. Besides, a friend of mine has a theory: that you never really go to Denny's; you simply end up at Denny's. I want to explore late-night chow-downs that aren't merely the product of desperation, that one might truly look forward to.
But if you replace the D with a J and the n's with r's, you get the name of a similar place I do like. A recent late-night screening of the shark thriller Deep Blue Sea put me in a carnivorous mood, and so, in the company of two pals, I went for a plate of liver and onions at Jerry's, 2323 East Thomas, 602-956-2870.
Dietitians have long warned us that eating late at night is bad for your health. An after-midnight visit to Jerry's does little to debunk this theory. The smattering of bleary-eyed diners at the other tables can give you the feeling that you have wandered into a David Lynch movie.
If you must wreck your health, however, there are far less tasty, far more expensive ways you could do it. The liver and onions, for instance, is quite appetizing -- the meat is tender and flavorful, the onions zesty, the potatoes fluffy and the side of veggies bright with the primary colors of the just-defrosted.
My two friends ate less ambitiously. One had the two-egg breakfast and pronounced it very good. The other had the potato munchers -- deep-fried clods of tuber starch, melted cheese and jalapeño peppers with, in case all of that doesn't provide quite enough punch, a dish of ranch dressing on the side for dipping. It's about as nutritionally contemptible as cuisine gets, but it's also pretty yummy.
No doubt about it, though, the food at Jerry's is, at best, workmanlike; and at worst it's a guilty pleasure. The same holds true for the various Country Boys Restaurants around the Valley. If you're looking to, say, indulge a sweet tooth at 4:27 a.m., and provided you don't mind the society of a thickly bearded guy in a "Lone Wolf Guns 'n' Ammo" tee shirt or a hard-bitten woman expertly extracting stuffed toys from the Skill Crane game, you could do worse than the Country Boys deep dish pie, a small dish of pie filling topped with a crumbly crust.