Iowa’s Best Sandwich Shop Has Been in a Parking Garage Alley Since 1927

Sometimes, you'll find the best local eats in places you never knew about—at least not until someone tells you about them. You know: the unassuming and eclectic, the iconic yet underrated; the places you don’t really “get” until you're standing at the threshold.

My first whiff of Canteen Lunch in the Alley came from a casual conversation with a stranger. I was chatting with an old-timer about the sorrowful loss of our local Maid-Rite. If you’re not familiar, Maid-Rite is an Iowa food legend, a regional chain that started here in 1926. The star of its menu is a simple, seasoned loose-meat sandwich made of crumbled ground beef served on a plain hamburger bun. At its heyday, there were 400 locations. Today, there are only 14 left in Iowa. 

In early 2025, just one year shy of Maid-Rite’s 100th birthday, we lost the last one (Cedar Rapids) within driving distance of my daily lunch break. Fortunately, my lamentations to a friendly stranger led me to a worthy alternative: Canteen Lunch in the Alley, located in Ottumwa.

Unlike Maid-Rite, Canteen Lunch is a one-shop show that popped up when its aforementioned competitor began franchising. In many ways, it was the 1927 version of the “keep it local” movement, and I couldn’t help but go soft on that premise. In many ways, independent businesses are my love language, and knowing this one survived the franchise boom made me a little teary-eyed. 

A few weeks later, I lured my husband into a lunch road trip that would take us on a 66-minute drive for a $5.95 sandwich on a picnic table in a parking garage. We arrived early, a few minutes before opening time. My husband knocked on the alley-side doorway only to hear a jolly shout from the inside, “Give'er a minute! Or maybe four. Opening time is opening time around here.” 

Like scolded children, we sauntered over to a picnic table, half-wondering if this was a prank from the woman inside—or from the friendly conversationalist I’d met a few weeks prior. Before I could ponder it much longer, a trail of sneaker-clad septuagenarians started to gather in the alley. They stared at us, and we at them, until we heard a screen screeching open from a window facing the garage. Someone stuck out their gloved hand, knocked against the side of the building, and shouted, “Door’s open!”

With barely a smirk and a tip of their hats, the “regulars” signaled us ahead. Inside the tiny room was a U-shaped counter, and a woman standing next to a sizzling vat in the middle of it. She adjusted her cap, grabbed a big metal spoon, and started scooping ground beef onto a bun wrapped in yellow paper. Without ever looking up, her voice filled the room,” Pickles?! Onions?! Mustard!? Ketchup?!” She was clearly speaking to us because she already knew everyone else’s order.

I scrambled up to the nearest red stool like a little girl in my grade school cafeteria, “Yes!” And in a swift second, she dumped it all on top, cradled it in its yellow wrapper,  slid it across the counter, and moved on to the next order. My husband barely got “No pickles!” out before his came barreling across the counter, too. 

She went around the room, just like this, serving the whole counter with over a dozen yellow bundles in barely a minute or two. Another gal came from the back, asking if we wanted pie or milkshakes. She rattled off a few flavors, we made our picks, and she clanked together the ingredients inside a big, silver cup right in front of us, “To go?”

I gave her a wide-eyed nod before she plopped our sandwiches into a brown paper bag, dumped our shakes into styrofoam cups, boxed a slice of pie, and slapped a hand-scribbled receipt next to my hand. 

Not quite sure what we’d just experienced, my husband and I trod back outside to the picnic table between parked cars. We barely spoke as we ate. Not because we were mad, shocked, or even disappointed, but purely because our mouths were stuffed full and the food was so good we couldn’t speak.

Canteen Lunch in the Alley certainly doesn’t serve Maid-Rites, and it's not sloppy joes either. It's something far, far greater. Like something our grandmothers whip up in a hurry, no questions asked, no apologies, with the blessed assurance that no one’s going hungry today.