Restaurant: The Fast Track
Intersection: Lake and DesPlaines
Rating: 4/5
February 3rd, 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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