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.

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[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.

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[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.

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[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.