Please don't get mad, Angry Dog, if we call you a greasy spoon. We mean that in the best possible way. Oh, sure, we haven't stopped by as much as we used to—about three times a week—since the Observer's office moved away from downtown, but we still love you and your chili-smothered Angry Dogs, your hamburgers that taste like beef, not bun, your spicy fries and your club sandwiches that make us want to join whatever club created them. And did we mention your wide selection of draft and bottled beers? Oh, yes, we still feel the love. And so does our gallbladder.