I used to go here a lot in the middle of the night. Did so for years. about ninety per cent of their customers smoked, and ALL of their employees.
Had at least ten employees, had been in 24 hr. operation for about
two decades, used to be a Don's Drive-In. The local ban almost
killed it (before it was amended to exempt small locally-owned
restaurants), then the statewide ban finished the job. Not one word
of thr ban in the article, of course-but then this weekly rag
supported the ban, so no surprise. Their advertisers are about 80
per cent bars and restaurants.



http://www.toledocitypaper.com/view_article.php?id=2010



We are 100% supported by our advertisers – so advertise!



My baby's on the Level

An ode to the High Level Café

by Ryan A. Bunch

published September 17th 2008

It is with great sadness that I make this announcement — the High
Level Café is no more.

A moment of silent please.

No, wait. Make that a moment of drunken yelps and explosive laughter.
That was the song of the High Level.

In a way, the High Level Café was a musician. It sang songs through
the truckers, neighbors, and drunken vagabonds who wandered into its
infamous 24-7 humble kitchen, replacing the music of the long-silent
juke boxes on the wall with the hoots and hollers of those welcoming
the crack of dawn with a louder crack back. And, if nothing else, the
High Level at one time or another fed most of the musicians in this
city.

One of the last true "greasy spoon" brands of unchanged `50s diners
left in the Toledo area, the High Level was a unique place. In a city
filled with economic uncertainty, morale ups and downs, and job loss,
poverty, et al, the shabby green joint was a safety net, like mom's
house at Thanksgiving. It was something worth depending on. Its
lights never dimmed. Its grill never cooled. Its menu never changed.

The High Level's signature cuisine, aside from its tasty sandwiches
and breakfasts, was a dish simply known as Frito Pie – Fritos, chili,
cheese, and onions. Genius in its simplicity. The perfect late night
snack. Frito Pie was the last branch in the family tree of
bastardized spaghetti. If Chili Mac (another Toledo signature) is
white trash spaghetti — substituting chili for marinara, shredded
cheddar for parmesan, I think qualifies it so — then Frito Pie was
white trash Chili Mac, calling on the old hillbilly mantra: For when
yer outta of noodles, use chips. And no one made it better than the
High Level Café. To say this signature Toledo delicacy saved me from
a few hangovers would be an understatement. To say it became bragging
rights and a cultural staple, as valid a thing to know about Toledo
as the Zoo or the Museum, to my out-of-town visitors, maybe even more
so.

See, in my mind the High Level was the cultural underbelly's Mecca, a
destination whose yellowy light glow and shabby booths held in them
something beautiful about Toledo's rich past; something this city
will never get back. It could be an idea or an aesthetic, maybe a
promise that hadn't quite been broken, just forgotten. I'm not sure
what it was exactly. I'd be surprised if anyone could tell you. Maybe
it meant something different to everyone. Maybe that's what was so
beautiful about it.

But, inside the glass-walled fish bowl, looking out onto a forgotten
corner of Toledo at the once great, now trumped High Level Bridge,
things that define this city in the sunlight melted away. Racism,
classism, anger hardly existed. Instead, just people vibing over good
food, celebrating, capping off a good night out with their friends.
It was a feeling, and a comforting one. For that, we thank you High
Level Café. Sing yourself to sleep now, the growl of our drunken
bellies seeking late night bacon and eggs will pick up the harmony.

Rest in peace.

Excellent comment there on the article