The name started out as a somewhat elaborate joke about this city's Bolshevik tendencies (signs were made for the kitchen reading "Production"), but the gray concrete-and-brick corner shop really does feel like a grim Soviet bunker dropped behind the lines of Western decadence. It's between the horrible Old Town bar McFadden's and the horrible Old Town dance club the Whiskey Bar, and there are plenty of other horrible places nearby that on weekend nights flood the sidewalks with horrible people who have no idea how to walk in heels and who feel like getting in fights. So don't sit too close to the windows, is what I'm saying. The sandwiches are good, though they should trust their Northwest-sourced ingredients a bit more; the Portland cheesesteak ($8 with house-fried chips) is packed with thin-sliced beef and thick-cut onions, but it's seasoned with way too much pepper. Its status as menu strongman is challenged by a salami and ham grinder called the Argento arrabbiata ($8); befitting the surroundings, if you order one to go, it's marked "AA."