Intersection: Lincoln and Irving Park
Rating: 3.5/5
January 21st, 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.
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.
[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.
[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.
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