Now Boarding

Restaurant: Cozy Corner Diner

Intersection: California and Milwaukee

Rating: 2.5/5

Just Barely February 5^th, 2010:

            My horoscope[1] said I’d be exhausted today. I could’ve made that guess when I looked at the time. It’s 5:30 in the morning. I am on the blue line at 5:30 in the morning. I wouldn’t want to let my horoscope down.

Whenever I go home from Hot Doug’s, I take the 52 to the California blue line stop. There, nestled next to the tracks is the Cozy Corner Diner. Every time I see it I am way too full to even think about food, having just gorged myself on encased meats and duck fat fries. Since I couldn’t sleep, I’m specifically on the blue line to find breakfast. This is a food adventure.

            Breakfast. That is why I am the only non-airline employee on the blue line at the moment. Now, I know what you’re thinking. What about the airline passengers? Between printing your own ticket and self-check in, I often feel like an airline employee myself when I travel[2]. But I’m not going to some far off destination. I am going somewhere new. I am going somewhere I’ve always wanted to go. I will finally try the Cozy Corner diner.

            The whole time I am on the blue line, I can’t help but feel like the family sitting near me is staring at me. They are. I caught them. Understandable, like I said, I’m the only person that doesn’t have baggage with him. Well, I don’t have physical baggage. If I didn’t have any baggage, I wouldn’t be human. Writing a food blog, I find that I should check my bags before I enter a restaurant. Take Cozy Corner for example, I’m going to be comparing it to the mouth orgasm that was the Ohio Coffee Shop. It will either be a bigger flavorgasm or it will be a disappointment. I can’t check all of my bags however. If I go in with my mind blank, I’ll think that the shittiest scrambled eggs are the best scrambled eggs. My basic memories are my carry on. They’re what make the best scrambled eggs the best. That is why one of my rules is that I can’t review a place I’ve been. Places I’ve already been have too much baggage. I won’t be able to let this one experience at a place stand alone. It will always be colored by the last time I was there. I know I’m placing this metaphor on food blogging, but what’s true in food blogging is true in life. You need to check your baggage at the door, but keep your carry on. If you check your carry on, you’ll be mind numbingly bored and your granola bars will get crushed in the cargo hold.

            There is nothing cozy about the Cozy Corner’s exterior. It’s very simple. Not the fun kind of simple[3], it’s the boring kind of simple[4].

            I enter the restaurant and am immediately seated at a booth next to the window. Noticing the complete lack of sunlight, I order a hot chocolate. I then sit for longer than anyone who’s ordered a hot chocolate should sit without a hot chocolate. The waitress takes my order, the big man special, two eggs, two pancakes, ham, hash browns and I order a side of toast. That’s right I order the fucking big man special and it doesn’t come with toast. A note for any breakfast place: If your combos don’t come with toast, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. This is my carry on talking, not my baggage.

            I am waiting so long I feel like I got off at O’Haire instead of California. I can’t think of another time I’ve been this bored, this early in the morning. I keep myself entertained the same way I do in airports, people watching. Apparently, I’m not the only one that does this. The Mexican couple across from me have been looking at me the whole time I’ve been here. The woman, clad in go-go boots, is too drunk to be discreet about her people watching[5]. She keeps looking over, laughing and speaking Spanish with her significant other. Had I known I was moving to Chicago, I would’ve taken Spanish instead of Latin[6] in high school. My food finally comes and there is a lot of it.

            I immediately dig in and am immediately disappointed as my food blog baggage finds its way into the seat next to me. The eggs, while well cooked, are no where near as good as they were at the Ohio Coffee Shop. The ham is ham. It’s hard for ham to be special. It only has to be warm. The pancakes are ok, nothing special. The hash browns are damn good though. They are the saving grace of this meal. Crispy, buttery, potato-y and all around evenly cooked. The toast is toast.

            Despite not really liking this meal as a whole, I eat a hefty portion of it. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. My waitress, while originally very slow, keeps bringing me water like there’s no tomorrow. That’s when I realize, while shoveling boring food into my pie-hole, that there is no tomorrow. Normally, you fall asleep one day and wake up the next[7]. When I get home, I will go to sleep and wake up on the same day. Tomorrow is a foreign concept at the moment.

            It is not my baggage that made this meal bad. My carry on told me that this isn't a breakfast worth much, except for the fact that it's still not light out and this place is open. The best thing about this meal is that the ungodly hour I have chosen to consume it makes me eligible for the Early Bird Special. I get all of my food for $3.95. Plus toast, plus hot chocolate, my meal comes to about $10. Exactly, $10.23. This was not a $10 meal. I am pissed, much in the way I feel having dealt with the airline.

            By the time I get on the blue line back home, I am exhausted. I still feel like I am in an airport. I am tired but cannot sleep, I need to hear when my stop is called. I have to be awake. All I can think about is that moment when you finally get on the plane and can finally fall asleep. That is what my bed will feel like[8]. A few stops after California, a woman gets on and she is very attractive. But she is trying to be attractive, make up, lip gloss, the whole nine yards. I feel like a bored housewife whose husband has just asked for sex. I am too tired to even think about sex. All I want to think about is my warm bed and this other woman’s powerful mullet.

            I get home. I ride the elevator up to my room. I climb into my bed. I am now cleared for take off.

---

[1] …My Facebook horoscope.

[2] Working for the airline would explain where my health and dental have been coming from.

[3] Like the simple pleasure of an old man getting hit in the nuts.

[4] Like the times that old men reminisce about.

[5] A key skill for people watching.

[6] Semper Ubi Sub Ubi.

[7] Except on weekends.

[8] Except with more leg room.

Cheese Madness

Restaurant: The Fast Track

Intersection: Lake and DesPlaines

Rating: 4/5

February 3^rd, 2010:

I had an epiphany this morning. I was eating my Sausage McGriddle and my pancakes and I realized that, between the syrup on the pancakes and the syrup nuggets in my McGriddle, this meal was syrup-tastic. While dipping my Sausage Biscuit in my left over syrup, I thought about the versatility of certain condiments. Condiments are like the EMTs of the culinary world or culinary duct tape. Don’t like your salad? Here’s some balsamic vinaigrette. Bad hot dog? Here’s some spicy brown mustard. Afraid of how fried bologna will taste[1]? Here’s some hot sauce. Condiments make bad things good, good things better and, sometimes, the most basic sexual positions kinkier.

            I am walking down Wabash because I don’t normally walk down Wabash. It’s another Blower’s Daughter in Chicago and I need some fresh air. I head up the stairs of the Madison/Wabash station. Anytime I’m waiting for a train in the loop, I always feel like Tommy Lee Jones is chasing me[2]. I get on the green line because I don’t normally take the green line. I make sure to sit behind a large group of people so that it becomes harder for Tommy Lee Jones to apprehend me.

            I get off the green line a free man. Jones will just have to try and get me on my next green line excursion. I walk for a few blocks and eventually I am ripped out of The Fugitive and planted squarely in Dazed and Confused or American Graffiti. The Fast Track is a restaurant that would be more in place in a small Texas town instead of under the El tracks on the Near West Side of Chicago. Normally all of my pictures are taken by me, on my cell phone, but I nabbed this picture of The Fast Track from Yelp.

            Looking at their massive menu I notice a condiment that I had forgotten about earlier; cheese. There is no better universal condiment than cheese. I order a cheeseburger, a cheddar dog and a side of cheese fries. Unfortunately, cheese soda has yet to catch on so I get an orange soda.

            I sit down as the only person in the restaurant that was raised on the English language. I am also the only person here that isn’t a cabbie. I understand why cabbies like this place right away as my food is quickly delivered to me. There is a lot of it.

            I start with the burger. This is a good burger. Just enough from the condiments, a little onion, a little relish and a whole fucking pickle spear. There is, on the bottom, an entire pickle spear in this burger. As someone who always feels gypped when it comes to pickles on a burger, between the pickle spear and the relish I am a happy fucking camper.

            The fries are soggy. I am always disappointed by flaccid fries. There isn’t a single crispy one in the bag. They have a nice flavor but something went wrong somewhere. Luckily, I have a universal condiment, cheese. I dip the fries in cheese and nothing matters anymore. I could be given old socks and as long as there’s a side of cheese sauce those bad boys would end up in my stomach.

            While the cheese saved the fries, it hurts the hot dog. I love a cheese dog as much as the next guy but using just cheddar ends up making the sharp, beautiful taste of the cheddar fight with the wonderful, garlic taste of the hot dog. This is a battle that neither of them win.

            I end up basically inhaling the burger, pickle spear and all[3]. I’ve always found that the more food I order, the quicker it’s gone. The hot dog is gone. The fries are gone. I am inhaling air through my straw, the orange soda is gone. I am happy but disappointed. This food was good but I let my own cheese madness get in the way. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing and that good thing is cheese.

            I exit the establishment and head toward the green line. No, that’s exactly what Tommy Lee Jones wants me to do. I throw my arm up and scurry into the backseat of the cab. Tommy can search every warehouse, safe house, out house, hen house that he wants. I’ll be back at my dorm. I didn’t kill my wife.

---

[1] Not anymore.

[2] Mostly because he is.

[3] A whole fucking pickle spear. I love these guys!

My Guts Are Smarter Than Your Guts

Restaurant: Coco's Southern Style Soul Food and Famous Deep Fried Lobster

Intersection: Clark between Congress and Van Buren.

Rating: 1.5/5

February 2^nd, 2010:

My gastrointestinal tract is in danger. I can feel it. I have been cautious up until now; sticking with Burger Joints, Breakfast Places and Civil War Theme Restaurants. It’s time to take a risk. Usually, when describing “risky behavior”, doctors will mention drug use, promiscuous sex and other daredevil antics. They never mentioned deep fried lobster.

There are three types of days during a Chicago winter:

• ·      The Blower’s Daughter: Mild almost warm, gray, wet, sloppy. Named for the Damien Rice song[1].
• ·      Winter Wonderland: Cold but not uncomfortable. Blustery. Snowy.
• ·      Well Worn Hand: Bleak, dark, snowy, unbearably cold and windy. Named for the Editors song[2].

Thank god, today is a Blower’s Daughter. This is my first entry that requires very little travel. No bus, no train, no cab, just some good old fashioned walking. God I hate walking, even around the block, but something about a Blower’s Daughter makes walking a little more bearable. I am answering the siren’s song. The clarion call of Coco’s Famous Deep Fried Lobster.

I see the sign every time I come home on the 22. Deep fried lobster? It sounds terrible. It sounds like a culinary abortion. It sounds, overall, like bad idea jeans. Yet, there is something truly tantalizing about the idea. I’ve always been one for some good soul food. I’ve always known to never judge a hole in the wall by appearances. I’ve also always known that shellfish is extremely easy to fuck up when a fryer is involved. But if you’re willing to take the risk fried shellfish and hole in the wall soul food joints can be amazing[3]. There is no reward without risk.

Walking to Coco’s, I start to truly doubt this idea. I can see the place, nestled between a pawn shop and a liquor store. Yet, despite my gastrointestinal hesitance, I keep walking. I keep repeating Rob Gordon’s words, “My guts have shit for brains”.

I enter the establishment and met by the beautiful smell of fried things. That misty, greasy, salty, warm smell. This is a good smell. This is a good sign. I ask for a small order of deep fried lobster, a side of fries and a drink. They do not serve drinks. I am pointed to an RC Cola[4] vending machine, directly behind me. Then another hitch is thrown in my giddy up, they do not take cash. I run next door to the pawn shop for their ATM and almost buy a drum set. I then run back and pay.

My debts paid and my order placed, I sit down and take in the glorious smell of fried food. I sit for easily 10 minutes and listen to the CTA bus driver in front of me tells the history of the 24 to his female companion, growing restless every minute. The suspense builds as the complexities of bus routes south of Chinatown are explained in explicit detail. I am waiting for, what smells like, an amazing meal. Just as I start to get interested in transit history, I hear my number yelled. I leap to my feet and am handed the bottom of a Styrofoam container filled with golden nuggets of lobster meat and fries that are so seasoned they’re practically orange.

This is it, the moment I have been waiting for, deep fried lobster. I pick up one of the oddly shaped morsels and take a bite into a seemingly flavorless nugget of rubber. Well, it’s not flavorless, mostly I just taste salt with a mild undertone of fish. This is disappointing. If I didn’t write everything in pen, these little babies would make a seriously greasy but effective eraser. The fries are decent but a little flaccid for my taste.

I attempt to salvage this meal by using the various sauces that I was given. The hot sauce is all heat and no flavor, making for a fiery piece of greasy rubber. The mild sauce however is great. Really, the mild sauce was the best part of the meal. It made it easier to eat the rest of the nuggets but didn’t manage to change the fact that those little fuckers were chewy. Despite the revolting nature of the texture and the absence of flavor, I finish all but one of the nuggets. I proceed to take the saved nugget and throw it on the table. Yet another disappointment, while rubbery, these nuggets do not bounce. There is absolutely no fun to be had with deep fried lobster.

If you only learn one thing from this blog, please let it be this: Always go with your gut. Rob Gordon is wrong[5], my guts are brilliant. They knew a bad idea when they heard it.

---

[1] Off the album “O”.

[2] The closing track of “An End Has A Start”.

[3] I’ve had some truly awful calamari in my time.

[4] Damn, I’m a Shasta man.

[5] About guts and for naming “Janie Jones” by The Clash as a better song than Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”.

So This Is The New Year?: January Recap

Well, the first month of this blog has come to an end. Here's some of the stats:

Number of Entries: 6
Average rating: 4.58/5
Most Visited Neighborhood: University Village (2)
Number of Times I Visited The Golden Loaf: 0
Number of President Theme Restaurants I Visited Instead: 1

Now, I've put a lot of thought into this and I would like to congratulate Manny's Delicatessen as the first ever Restaurant of The Month.

Restaurant: Manny's Delicatessen
Intersection: Roosevelt and Jefferson
Rating: 5/5

There were some damn good meals this month. But I still find myself dreaming of the Pastrami Sandwich and Potato Pancake combo I got at Manny's. The pastrami, glistening and piled on top of rye bread with the potato onion puck of carbohydrate beside it. It was a meal so good looking that it became the profile picture of The Lunchtime Diaries facebook fan page. While the meal looked good, it tasted even better. I shoveled forkful after forkful of pastrami into my gullet.
I’ve been back to Manny’s three more times since that first visit and those fuckers are consistent. There are photographic memories and then there are photographic meals. Every meal I’ve gotten there has been as good as the time before. They have yet to disappoint me and for that they fully deserve Restaurant of The Month.

Tie Me Up and Tell Me I'm Bad

Restaurant: Ohio House Coffee Shop

Intersection: Ohio and LaSalle

Rating: 5/5

January 29^th, 2010:

            I am mildly ashamed of myself. I try to do this blog on a shoestring budget out of principle. This morning I splurged. Instead of the trusty CTA, I am in a cab at the moment weaving and speeding along Wacker. This cab driver is a driver. Chicago has too many passive cab drivers. This cabbie, however, makes me feel as if I am involved in shooting a chase sequence without even knowing it; weaving through traffic in such a way that would make Jason Statham sexually aroused. If I’m going to pay someone to drive me somewhere the CTA can take me than it better be an entertaining ride.

            It is odd being awake this early. It’s 8am on a Friday. I do not have class on Fridays. I could be asleep right now. But alas, responsibility has won out over my lethargic tendencies. I have a doctor’s appointment today. So, I need to be awake. I also need to eat. I woke up famished. I am craving some greasy spoon and I’m headed to the greasiest, spooniest place of all time; The Ohio Coffee Shop. You can’t miss it[1].

            For a restaurant that you can’t miss, this place is the size of a closet. I take a seat at the counter and struggle to remove the menu from its holder. My surly waitress comes by and easily pulls it out and hands it to me before vanishing. Usually, surly service and interesting menu experiences are a turn off for me. Yet, when I eat at a greasy spoon I’m like a BD enthusiast. Yes, waitress, treat me bad. I’m not a regular and, therefore, have been naughty. I don’t know what I want as soon as I sit down, so give me as much attitude as you can dish out[2]. Many places, like Ed Debevic’s and Dick’s Last Resort, are fake surly. I hate fake surly[3]. It makes me feel like I’ve hired a hooker to half-heartedly tie me up and tell me that I’ve been bad. This place isn’t faking surly. It’s like I’ve found my soulmate. Someone who gets as much pleasure from giving me some greasy spoon attitude as I am to receive it. C'mon, give me your worst. I took a cab here, let me fucking have it baby!

            There is a reason for this need to be abused by a diner waitress. I believe that it says amazing things about an establishment’s food. If they can afford to stay open, despite a waitstaff that wants to see your head on a pike, than their food must be good. There must be a reason for the regulars to come back. There must be a reason for to take this abuse[4]. This waitress is pretty surly and places a healthy portion of scrambled eggs, corned beef hash and hash browns in front of me.

            I will admit, I have a certain way to eat eggs. I mix it together with the corned beef hash and hash browns. I make a giant mess on my plate and then take the first bite of what I can only describe as the ninth wonder of the world. This establishment has a surly waitress and a magic cook. He must be magic. I cannot think of another way for my meal to be this perfectly cooked. The eggs are firm but not rubbery, the hash browns are crispy on the outside but soft on the inside, the corned beef hash is perfectly crisp and tender.

I’m using my fork the way a 10-year old uses a snow shovel. I am going across the plate, quickly, gathering up as much onto my fork as I can in one pass and then depositing the piles of eggy-beefy-potatoey goodness into my mouth and getting to the next pass as quickly as possible. This is the best breakfast I’ve had in some time. Did I mention how good the toast was[5]? As long as it took me to write this paragraph, I could’ve finished my meal 8 times over. It was gone as soon as it came.

Frankly, my waitress hasn’t abused me nearly enough to feel that I deserve this meal[6]. From the dominatrix[7] wait staff to the crazy delicious heap of breakfast, served on the classic off-white plate, this place has greasy spoon down to a science[8]. They even portioned the fucking thing right. This is the first 5/5 I’m giving where I don’t feel stuffed to the rafters. I’m not hungry either. I’m simply full and invigorated and ready for my day to begin. Everything a good breakfast should be.

---

[1] Mmm…Pictures of signs. Exactly what every food blog is about.

[2] Because I’ve been bad. Did I mention I’ve been bad? I’m a naughty boy.

[3] I hate fake in general. Goddamn phonies…RIP JD.

[4] Despite the fact that I’m a bad, bad boy.

[5] Yes, they managed to make toast a notable part of the meal.

[6] I’m a glutton for greasy spoon punishment.

[7] Come on, one more time, tell me I’m weak, pitiful, scum.

[8] A delicious, delicious science.

Love and Sandwiches

Restaurant: Jubrano's

Intersection: Taylor, between Ashland and Laflin

Rating: 4/5

January 27^th, 2010:

            Chicago is pissed at me. I taunted it in my post about the Lincoln Restaurant. I accused it’s winter of being too mild. In retaliation, the hawk is back with a vengeance. It is cold. It is windy. It is snowy. It is a Chicago winter. Which is why I can’t take the usual pleasure from the argument going on in front of me. The man doesn’t have fare but wants to get on the 29 regardless[1] and is making the rest of us wait in the blistering cold while he sorts things out with the driver.

            “You the captain of your ship, you can do what you want let me on.” The man’s words fall on deaf ears as the driver scolds him and lets him know that she “ain’t the captain of no ship” and promptly kicks him off the bus. She’s not the captain of the ship. She’s more like the bouncer.

            This altercation was hilarious, but my mind is elsewhere. February is around the corner, which means that Valentine’s day is down the block[2]. My free time to do this blog is probably related to the fact that I can’t seem to get a date and nothing reminds you that you haven’t been with a woman in 13 months[3] like Valentine’s day.

            Last year’s Valentine’s day was better. I had just met a girl and spent Valentine’s day watching romantic comedies and building up the nerve to ask her on a date. One year later and I’m going to be watching romantic comedies and building up the nerve to ask that same girl out on a date.  Last year, the act was hopeful, this year it’s just plain sad[4]. I am clearly not captain of this ship.

            After transferring to the trusty 12, I am in the UIC Medical District. Only one more block and I arrive at my destination, Jubrano’s. I know absolutely nothing about this place. Usually, when coming up with a restaurant to cover I either go with a place I’d heard of and wanted to try or I trust our 16^th president to not give me food poisioning[5]. This time I simply did a random search on Yelp and found this place.

            I scurry out of the cold and into a completely empty restaurant. There isn’t even someone behind the counter or at the grill. There are people here. There must be, a radio is on. I’m not the only one that can hear “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers. Or maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been thinking so much about my Valentine’s woes that I’ve completely lost it. Or maybe the employees are in the back.

            I take these solitary moments to scan the menu. Everything seems pretty standard. Cheeseburger, Hot Dog, Fries, Gyro, the things you find at a Chicago grill. Then I notice the white board. “Try our new item: Gyro Cheeseburger”. What? A Gyro Cheeseburger? Is that a cheeseburger with Tzatiki? Is that gyro meat with all of the burger fixings?

            As my head buzzes with questions of the Gyro Cheeseburger, a man emerges from the back. I don’t even say hello to him. I simply launch into my question about this mysterious sandwich.

            “It Cheeseburger with Gyro meat and Tzatiki on top.” I have no choice. I cannot pass this up. I must order this.

            I sit down and await my food. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was wary. Cheeseburgers and gyros are two sandwiches that have never truly left me satisfied. I like a good burger from time to time and I am a big gyro fan. It’s just that neither sandwich really hit the spot for me. Maybe this would be the answer. Maybe they’ve never satisfied me because I’ve never eaten them united.

            After a good 5 minutes, my meal is placed in front of me. I am still wary. It is an impressive looking sandwich.

            After examining it for a minute or so I finally take a bite. I taste mustard. I taste onions. I taste cheeseburger. I taste gyro meat. I taste Tzatiki. I taste ketchup. I taste all of these things in one bite. This is not a sandwich. This is a marriage of a greasy spoon classic and its Greek counterpart. Wedded bliss is truly the only way to explain how well the flavors of these distinct sandwiches come together. I am damn sloppy as I eat this. As I've said before, some levels of tasty require sloppy. There are three kinds of sauce to worry about and all three are on my face, hands and elbow. I no longer worry about getting a date as I have fallen in love with this sandwich. This sandwich is my rebound.

            There is another surprise to this meal. The fries are good. The fries are really fucking good. I pegged this as a place that used those mealy, potato mash fries. No, these fries were made from potatoes. They are not Hot Doug’s duck fat fries but they’re damn good.

            The entire time I eat this meal, love songs are playing on the radio behind me. I am reminded that I can not use this sandwich as my rebound. I’m eventually going to have to face my female troubles. I’m not a CTA bus driver. While I may not be captain of this ship, I should be. While I cannot fall in love with this sandwich, I can take comfort in it. After all, what’s a good sandwich for?

---

[1] That’s right, I know irrergardless isn’t a word. I fucking rule.

[2] Mmm…this food blog may have some delicious entrees but nothing is tastier than a good distance metaphor.

[3] And two days…but who’s counting?

[4] Why yes, I am listening to the Best of the Old 97’s as I write this. Why do you ask?

[5] See “Abraham Lincoln and The Best Laid Plans…”

Sin

Restaurant: Fried Bologna/My Kitchen
Intersection: A Trailer Park and A Mullet
Rating: 5/5

January 24^th, 2010:

            Everyone experiments in college, especially in art school. Sometimes you find that you don’t like something. Sometimes you truly find something you do like something. Sometimes you find out something about yourself that you never wanted to find out, an secret that you’ve buried deep within yourself. I experimented. I found out something about myself. I am not proud of what I found out. What I found out goes against a lot of the beliefs that I was raised on. I found out that I am white trash to the bone, the core, the very marrow. I feel that someone who writes a food blog should let his readers know about his culinary sins.

            I’d always known I was different. I was raised by lawyers. I was raised by learned people who had doctorates. I was raised on U2, REM and Pearl Jam from the cradle. Yet I’d always had these corn-fed urges. It started around age 9 when I first took an interest in professional wrestling. My parents didn’t know what to think of it and quickly put an end to it. Then, around age 14, I started to be interested more and more in professional wrestling. It became one of my quirkier interests. It became part of my geek-dom holy trinity: Movies, Music and Pro-Wrestling.

            But pro-wrestling was only my gateway to more white trash behavior. Eventually, I discovered gravy. I discovered that there was no such thing as a bad meal if there was enough gravy on said meal to choke a cow.

            Now I have fallen completely down the white trash rabbit hole. I am standing over a hot skillet, full of frothing butter. I am holding two slices of bologna in my hand. Do I dare? Do I drop the slices into the sizzling pan? Fry up the lunch meat, throw on some wrestling and change my name to Jethro? Boredom and hunger are a dangerous mix.

            The bologna makes really odd sounds as it fries. The smells its making are downright dangerous. God forbid I should enjoy any part of this. This is supposed to be a reassuringly disgusting experience but its not; nowhere close. Every step in making this is leading me closer and closer to a double wide.

            I have no idea when fried bologna is done so I am playing this all by ear, smell and sight. It looks done and has probably been in the pan long enough to be hot all the way through. I flip the glistening slices onto the plate. Hot sauce is the universal condiment.

            This is delicious. This is heaven. This is now, in my mind, the only way to eat bologna. If fried bologna is wrong, I don’t want to be right. I am so wrapped up in white trash bliss that I decide to throw WWF Summerslam 1994 into the DVD player. Sitting on my couch, I eat every last bit while watching some old school wrasslin’. This is what art school is all about.

Abraham Lincoln and The Best Laid Plans...

Restaurant: Lincoln Restaurant
Intersection: Lincoln and Irving Park
Rating: 3.5/5

January 21^st, 2010:

            Chicago is wet, cold, sloppy. It’s been a mild winter. Lately, the Chicago wind hasn’t packed the bite that it’s known for. The hawk has lost it’s talons.

            The one thing I hate about elevated transportation is walking up all of those stairs. Just to be the sadistic bastards they are, the CTA puts two flights in every station. One flight gets you to the turnstiles and the second flight gets you to your train…fuckers. It is dripping, not raining, dripping as I head towards the Brown Line.

            The one thing I love about elevated transportation is all the character the Chicago skyline shows you on a drippy, wet Thursday. The buildings remind me of myself on a Monday morning. Using the blankets of fog to try and wrap themselves in a few more minutes of sleep before class. You just don’t get that kind of scenery from the subway[1]. I relate to buildings.

            I am on the Brown Line to find a restaurant called The Golden Loaf. I don’t know what to think about it. The name sounds like a fecal-centric sexual position[2], like putting a little extra on a Golden Shower[3]. This train of thought is interrupted when I notice an advertisement for battery powered, heated clothing. I feel like Darwin would get half mast from that.

         Chicago is a major metropolitan area. It faces the same pit falls as New York or LA. Restaurants close. Golden Loaf appears to have closed as I can’t find it anywhere in the mess that is the Chicago weather. It appears that this place has completely disappeared.
         I am not entirely sure what to do. I wander the area, thinking of mice and men, and soon come upon a sign that I cannot refuse.

         If that wasn’t enough, a sign on the window promises that every Monday from 6-10 is “Banjo Night”. I have never been more disappointed in it not being a Monday night.

        I enter the establishment and it is barren. There isn’t a single customer here. I almost leave, assuming I had stumbled upon another closed restaurant, until I am greeted by a very cheery waitress who assures me that this is the slowest time of day. It is 4:00 on a Thursday so I completely understand.

        She seats me and hands me a menu and says she’s going to go get me some bread. I am blown away by how far they go with the Abraham Lincoln/Civil War theme. There are Confederate Appetizers, Union Specials, Gettysburg Burgers[4]. The list goes on but it mostly things are either Confederate and Union. I scan the menu, it is huge, between the dinner and breakfast menu. My waitress comes back, without bread, to take my drink order. I ask for a coke. What I receive is a mug of coca-cola that rivals the Double Gulp for “Largest Drink I’ve Ever Encountered”.

        A few minutes later my waitress returns, still breadless. I order the fried chicken with potatoes O’Brien. My waitress lets me know that it will take longer but is “worth it”. She is extraordinarily desperate to keep my opinion of this empty place high. She is also genuinely sweet, so my opinion of this place is high.

           My waitress soon returns, again breadless, but carrying a gargantuan salad on what appears to be a shield from ancient Greece. It is a basic salad, covered in basic Italian dressing. I eat a lot of it.

My waitress then returns and I now understand why the bread took so long. She brings me a full loaf of fresh baked bread, enough butter to keep the U.S. Marine Corps satisfied. Plus, my own bread knife. I like any restaurant that trusts me with a bread knife. It lets me know that they will never call my judgment into question.

This bread is good. I eat half the loaf in under 7 minutes. In fact, I would’ve eaten the whole loaf but my waitress interrupted me with a Midwestern sized meal.

      Chicago is in the Midwest. I forget this from time to time because, as I said earlier, it’s a major metropolitan area. Like most major metropolitan areas, its food scene doesn’t take after its region. It takes after the trend and the trend, currently, doesn’t include half a chicken, a shit load of potatoes O’Brien and brussel sprouts[5].

       I am expecting this chicken to be salty and dry. I am happy that I am wrong. The chicken is really moist and surprisingly well seasoned. The potatoes need a little salt but I prefer food to be under seasoned than over seasoned. I eat a lot, I eat quickly and, most importantly, I eat happily. I am not blown away by this food, but I enjoy every bite. I am however blown away by this meal. My waitress brings me the check and the quirky menu, the genuinely friendly service, the gallon of coke, the giant salad, the loaf of bread, the personal bread knife, the Costco-aisle’s worth of butter and the giant fried chicken dinner is only $13.25.

$13.25 is reasonable. $13.25 is really fucking reasonable. $13.25 is enough for me to feel like I have legitimately stolen from this restaurant. I am almost as racked with guilt as I am full as I leave this restaurant. This was not food coma worthy but it was pretty damn good.

This restaurant isn’t anything special[6] but it is definitely worth the occasional visit. Make sure to bring an appetite and an army. I wasn’t kidding about the butter.

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[1] There are no real subways in Chicago. The red line and blue line flirt with underground travel but then, eventually, come up for air. Chicago is built on a swamp. I don’t blame them for wanting to breathe.

[2] Or I have a dirty mind.

[3] Ok, I definitely have a dirty mind. Doody, tee-hee, I’m twelve.

[4] I want to take away points for not just simply calling them “Gettysburgers”.

[5] Not technically, the trend is anything, as long as it’s eaten while wearing ironic eyewear…and vegan.

[6] Unless it’s banjo night.

Pastrami on Rye. Need I Say More?

Establishment: Manny's Coffee Shop and Delicatessen

Intersection: Roosevelt and Jefferson

Rating: 5/5

January 20^th, 2010

Jews have to be creative. The rules say: no pork, no shellfish, no mixing meat and dairy[1]. These rules can make cooking difficult. So therefore we have to be creative to come up with good Kosher cuisine. I myself don’t keep Kosher or attend services but I was Bar Mitzvah’d. I do however love Kosher delis. Something about Pastrami on Rye makes the Jewish side of me ecstatic.

It can be hard to feed my Jewish side in Chicago. There is one single diner that I used to frequent in the South Loop that served up a pretty decent Pastrami and carried Dr. Brown’s cream soda[2]. This place, however, is way too expensive and I always leave feeling mildly like a tool. It’s one of those places that serves up traditional food ironically. I hate doing things ironically. The Yiddish on the walls comes with a wink and a chuckle and the chopped liver is on the menu but I doubt they’d even serve it if you ordered. They’d just scoff and give you a bagel. It is mediocre. It is phony[3]. It is Kosher cuisine for hipsters.

Then, talking to my Uncle, I heard about a deli not far from the hipster diner. It’s cafeteria style and it’s called Manny’s, on Jefferson and Roosevelt. So, that is why I am currently the only white person on the 12 headed west. This trip is nowhere near as arduous as my Hot Doug’s odyssey. It’s probably only 10 minutes start to finish, but I’m hungry so it feels as long as the Hot Doug’s trip. Also, I find myself ready to be disappointed. So far, the only place I’ve found to give me pastrami and Dr. Brown’s, gave it to me as if it was a PBR or a pack of menthols. I have no idea what to expect from this place.

The 12 dumps me at the corner of Jefferson and Roosevelt. I can see Manny’s sign from the corner. The sign is a promising attribute. It proudly states that Manny’s has been around since 1942 and I can only believe that the sign has been there every step of the way. It’s clearly seen better days. More importantly, it’s authentic.

I enter the establishment and am greeted by a cornucopia of beautiful smells. Mostly, Kosher cuisine smells like meat, salt and onions but man they do it well. The menu is just barely legible. I think the menus were put in around the same time as the sign. The first thing that really hits me is that this place is authentic. Besides one framed news article in Yiddish, there is nothing screaming Jewish deli. Here the food defines the atmosphere and that’s exactly what I’m here for.

I grab a tray and pass by knishes, matzo ball soup and fried smelts. I come to a screeching halt in front of a large Jewish man who is seemingly surrounded by different meats. I ask for pastrami on rye. He proceeds to slice up what looks like half a cow’s worth of beautiful, shiny pastrami and then, as if reading my little hungry mind, throws a potato pancake and a pickle on the plate. I was not expecting this. I am a complete slut for potato pancakes and they are usually so hard to find in restaurants[4]. Also, had I not seen the man throw everything on the plate, I would’ve thought that they had taken extreme care with placement. This meal is beautiful.

I grab a Dr. Brown’s and take a seat. I immediately  notice three things:

1.                    There is a desk for a ticket vendor service here. Because nothing goes better with pastrami than scalped Bear’s tickets.

2.                    I am the youngest person here by easily 30 years.

3.                    I am the WASPiest person here. Now, I am not exactly super Jew but my god I feel downright Scandinavian in this crowd.

I take a bite of my massive sandwich and almost blackout from pleasure. Like I said, I’m used to mediocre pastrami. This is not mediocre pastrami. This is a salty, seasoned, beefy masterpiece. Sliced thin as tissue and layered with a ribbon of fat on the edges that packs in an entirely new level of flavor. The potato pancake is a greasy puck of potato, onion filled deliciousness. There is a grouping of articles on the wall that display President Obama’s trip to this establishment and I feel that is the only word that can describe the levels of flavor I am experiencing; presidential[5].

It is not long before I can no longer keep my sandwich together and use my fork to make a pastrami/brown mustard/rye bread mess on my plate. But, dear lord, that mess is delicious. I am shoveling glistening sheets of pastrami into my face with complete disregard for how I look eating it. There is a level of tasty where all manners go out the window and I am at that level. This food is so good that it makes me feel I should attend Shabbat services. Much like the Hot Doug’s trip, I find myself waddling out of the deli, stuffed with potato and onion and pastrami. Again, I know a food coma is in my future. I am full. I am happy. I am Jewish.

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[1] I’m sure I left a few out but, as I soon learn, I am not Jewish enough.

[2] This is what the gods on Mt. Olympus drank but they called it “Nectar”. Silly gods, it’s cream soda. Nectar comes from fruit.

[3] Yes, I used the word “phony”. I need a red hunting cap.

[4] The hipster diner charges 7.95 for two. Here I got it one for a dollar.

[5] Or Obamalicious.

You Can Eat This Food With Hands

Establishment: Hot Doug's
Intersection: California and Roscoe
Rating: 5/5

January 10^th, 2010:

I am on the 77, headed west on Belmont. There is no easy way to get to Hot Doug’s. I have already logged around 15-20 minutes on the red line and now I’ve moved to the bus. I miss my ’99 Accord; White Lightning.

            An extremely attractive woman gets on the bus a few stops from where I got on. This is a usual occurrence. Chicago, like all major metropolitan areas, has attractive women[1]. She searches for a seat. There are empty seats but on the CTA one usually looks for a seat that doesn’t have anyone next to it. Apparently, this girl is tired, because she sits right next to me. I do not miss White Lightning anymore. I immediately turn my attention out the window. I feel like Orpheus at the moment. As soon as I direct any of my gaze toward her general area she will vanish forever or turn into a whirlwind of sand like the bad guy in The Mummy. She is too perfect to be sitting next to me on the CTA.

            Eventually, the bus drops me off at the corner of Belmont and California[2]. My trip is still not done. After another few blocks of walking I am finally at my Mecca, Hot Doug’s Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. I am not the only one that decided to make this pilgrimage today. The line outside lives up to the legend of Hot Doug’s. This is my first time eating at Hot Doug’s but this will be the second time I’ve stood in the line. I once tried to eat here last May but forgot to bring cash. It was the most heartbreaking food moment in my life[3]. Now, I have returned, with a wallet full of cash, enough warm clothing to bear the line and a mission. I will finally eat here.

            15 minutes in line is all it takes for me to realize that I have not brought enough warm clothing to bear the line. I am already feeling the bitter Chicago wind in my core. The Loyola students in front of me brought two hand warmers and have been pressing them against various parts of their body. It is a sight that makes the spread of swine flu make a little more sense.

            30 minutes in line and I am full shivers. My gloves aren’t doing shit and my jeans are proving thinner than originally thought. I am near the door though. I am finally standing on the corner of Roscoe and California. This is the first milestone in the line. I can smell meats grilling and, more importantly, I can smell duck fat fries. I’m pretty sure that making people Stand in this cold and smell the warm, salty treats inside is banned by the Geneva Convention but Hot Doug’s apparently has as much regard for that as it did for the Foie Gras Ban.

            At around 35 minutes I finally make it into the first doorway, milestone number 2. I am warm and pressed up against the Loyola students with the hand warmer. I can now smell duck fat fries and, the worst torture of all, I can see people eating perfectly cooked hot dogs and eating the beautiful dark golden shoestring beauties that I’ve been craving[4].

            At 55 minutes I am in the second doorway, milestone number three. This is a good spot because I can snag a copy of The Onion and try and pass the time reading the faux-news. But I cannot focus on any of the words. I am starving and I am so close. Luckily, it is only another 5 minutes before I am inside the actual restaurant. This is the final milestone of the line. The bright red and yellow color scheme welcome me in it’s open arms. The walls covered in hot dog memorabilia. I am home.

The group in front of me orders and I find myself face to face with Hot Doug Sohn himself. He is a big, bespectacled man, completely devoid of pretention. His smile alone is enough to warm me from the cold wait. I find myself stumbling over my order of a Foie Gras Dog, an order of Duck Fat Fries and a drink. He takes my order, old-school, on a pad. I pay, get my drink and take a seat at the counter, facing the line. The line never gets any shorter or longer. It is always the same length. It moves but people keep adding on to the end.

It is only a few minutes before a tray is placed in front of me containing what may be the best looking lunch I have ever seen. A Sauternes-infused duck sausage covered in truffle mustard, foie gras mousse and sea salt. At one point the epitome of culinary defiance. Next to it, a pile of French fries, fried in the nectar of the gods, pure rendered duck fat.

So far I have taken a train, a bus and walked to wait in a line for over an hour in the cold. So, when this beautiful meal is placed in front of me, I am still skeptical. I am certain that I am going to be let down. I then take a bite of the beautiful, gourmet sausage in front of me. All of the flavors blend perfectly. The duck fat fries taste like normal French fries but their texture is like nothing I have ever eaten before. Crispy on the outside and creamy soft on the inside. I am experiencing a level of decadence that is usually reserved for the likes of Caligula or Nero or some other late empire ruler. It is on a level with bathing the beautiful woman from the bus in caramel and licking it off every inch of her. It is one of the few times in my life where a meal has given me full, strong, powerful erection. This is why people wait in this line for hours in the cold. This is why Doug Sohn can get away with only working 10:30-4, while being closed on Sunday and taking off every discernable holiday. This is why the health inspector didn’t care about Doug’s defiance of the Foie Gras Ban. This is heaven on earth. This is Sparta. This is Hot Doug’s.

I sit for about as long as I waited in line and then waddled out, stuffed to the brim with good food. After a bus trip, a train trip and a little walking, I am back in my dorm and pass out for the most earned food coma ever.

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[1] My recent dry spell has left me painfully aware of this.

[2] At one point passing a children’s yoga studio. What will those crazy yuppies think of next?

[3] Third most heartbreaking overall and also winner of most heartbreaking moment not involving a girl.

[4] Again we are in violation of the Geneva Convention.