Intersection: Taylor, between Ashland and Laflin
Rating: 4/5
January 27th, 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 16th 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…”
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