Hours
| Monday | 10:30 AM–10 PM |
| Tuesday | 10:30 AM–10 PM |
| Wednesday | 10 AM–10 PM |
| Thursday | 10:30 AM–10 PM |
| Friday | 10:30 AM–10 PM |
| Saturday | 10:30 AM–10 PM |
| Sunday | Closed |
Address and Contact Information
Address: 1103 Napoleon St, Fremont, OH 43420
Phone: (419) 332-9565
Website: http://www.chudsinc.com/
Menu Photos
Photo Gallery
Related Web Results
Restaurant | Chud’s Market & Grille | Fremont
Chuds Market & Grille | Fremont OH – Facebook
Chuds Market & Grille | Fremont OH – Facebook
Reviews
It is a casual atmosphere and we were greeted promptly by Tony. I like that their coffee was made by the cup bc I always feel guilty making a place make a whole pot. Guess that’s the Catholic in me.
The horseradish sauce was stellar along with the sauerkraut balls.
My Western Patty Melt with steak fries was very good as I destroyed the whole plate. Just a hint of the “grill history” was in the flavor (as I usually expect as I’ve also worked a grill in a restaurant and it’s ridik to always clean the grill to a Mary Poppins-like perfection before every order.)
All 3 of us cleaned our plates and we also ordered a very large piece of pumpkin pie w a good balance of nutmeg for flavor. We will be back! Thanks Chud’s
Tried the burger n’ fries, along with the veg basket and all were super good! We’ll be back!
Tried out Pete’s pizza, it was delicious!! Lots of cheese! Really good sauce, pepperonis, and crust!! Yummm!
Service: …
Behind the counter stood Peter Wade—arms like tree trunks, face carved out of years that hadn’t been kind. Peter was a tough guy, the kind who’d been through things that turned most men to dust. He didn’t talk about his past much, only that he’d “been held down by his mom while his dad (well lets just say his dad had fun with him)” People respected him for that.
“Whatcha havin’?” he grunted.
“Give me a Chud Salad,” I said. “But, uh… no lettuce. Just mustard. Everywhere.”
He blinked twice. The silence was loud. Then he cracked the faintest grin—the kind that said this guy’s one of us.
“Comin’ right up,” he said.
The phone rang in the background. Again. It had been ringing all week—kids prank-calling, saying dumb stuff, pretending to order the coveted chud salad. Ever since Diana Cabrara quit, the place hadn’t been the same. She used to handle those calls with fire—snapping back at the delinquents till they hung up in shame. Peter missed her, even if he’d never admit it.
He slapped together the salad—if you could call it that. A paper boat of chopped onions, pickles, and cheese drowned under an ungodly flood of mustard. No lettuce. No remorse.
“On the house,” Peter said, sliding it across the counter. “Anyone bold enough to order that deserves it.”
I took it like it was a trophy. The mustard dripped through the paper, the smell hit hard, and for a moment I felt like I’d just earned membership in some weird mustard cult.
Outside, the clouds started to clear. Inside, Peter leaned back, the phone ringing again, and muttered, “They’ll never shut us down. Not Chudiski’s.”