When analogies must where subsitutes can't

I've never understood any of the women I've dated.

However, after gorging on sublime pastor tacos from a cutty street corner in Zapopan, Jalisco, I can, if not exactly comprehend then at least empathize . I imagine that settling on American pastor places so soon after taxing Zapopan street corner pastor is analogous to dating someone else after sampling the Chittlins platter*.

To carry this analogy further: I am a complex layering of flavors - just like street pastor; I am deceptively simple - just like street pastor; and you can pick me up at Jalisco street corners for seven pesos - yep, just like street pastor.

From Yucatan to Sonora, the Gulf of Mexico to the Sea of Cortez, the regional variety in culinary styles within Mexico is matched only by India's. Let's suppose I took a "Motorcycle Diaries"-type journey through Mexico. Instead of becoming a communist guerrilla as result of my interaction with impoverished indigenous people, most likely my reflection would not progress beyond, "oh wow, these poor people make some really amazing food! I need to photograph them and their cute children in tattered clothes from my patronizing, semi-colonial perspective."

Back in the cobblestone streets of Zapopan, several incongruous elements combined to heighten my gastro-experience: looping trance/house music with no lyrics other than a distant, robotic male voice chanting, "Barbara Streisand" emanating from blown-out speakers; my cousin's husband shouting "SPRING BREAKERRRR!!", in English, at the pocho cousin; police helicopters circling overhead in reaction to the recent spate of narcobloqueos and narcomantas that had occurred in the greater Guadalajara metro area.

Conventional American food safety regulations were maybe less than punctiliously observed, which perhaps is for the best. We cannot hope to sanitize these experiences, preserving the exotic in ether, to be admired from a safe distance. I'm not sure love is worth risking it all, but for transcendent pastor, ¿what's a few tapeworms?

*Was that vain? I mean, can you say, "wow, what a vain asshole. Chittlins thinks he's so amazing that he is comparing himself to Mexican street corner pastor"?

The Poor Man's GCL ...

Link to Timeout Chicago's Cheap Eats List:

http://chicago.timeout.com/search/restaurants/page=1&property=288&date=DEFAULT&section=388

El Chato - is this performance art?

This morning I stepped out to my scion to find a hawk tearing apart a pigeon on my car roof. Was this an omen? Was I the hawk and this is a favorable sign of the strength of my house and line? Or rather am I the hapless prey whose feather and guts had to be hosed off from my roof? Or maybe it is not an omen at all, but rather a reminder about the violent, random temporal nature of life.

Personally I find more meaning in my quest for sublime pastor. Leaving Chicago and returning to my beloved Southern California has been a mixed bag of emotions, but certainly the knowledge that superior Mexican food awaited me at every corner assuaged in part the sense of loss for that left behind. El Chato food truck (corner of Olympic and La Brea) has served late-night mid-city denizens for years, but with the recent blossoming of food truck culture with LA as its epicenter, even the humblest of roach coaches has developed an online following.

After an evening supporting the performing arts, Aphorism King and I needed instant pastor gratification, his earlier well seasoned steaks already a distant, digested memory. At $1 a piece, these small handfuls of grease and spice served their purpose.

Korean dudes next to baller, late-model German automobiles; banda members in matching performance outfits walking from one of the nearby Hispanic night clubs; a hipster with aggro calf tattoos riding a precariously high, self-made bicycle: It would be an interested first-year photography student project to document the eclectic clientèle that steps up to El Chato's 2'x 2' ordering window. I realized that I was much further from Lincoln Park's Mid West white frat culture than geographical distance implied. Bittersweet, like the pineapple finish to Big Star's pastor tacos.

< Aphorism King attempting to reenact his wide-eyed wonder at the bicycle guy mounting a seat that was a full 5 feet above street-level.

I took an operations class in business school, and even though I hated it, I couldn't help but recall several process flow concepts as I watched the efficient cooks quickly dispose of our order.

The center cannot hold

I have been told that I am "funnier in writing than in person" and also "not funny at all." And this is on dates with women who at some point found me palatable enough to agree on at least two hours of close proximity, one-on-one interaction. But they are wrong; I am very funny, even in person. Like the time I tried to ply a stubborn date with the classic "c'mooooooon. I paid for dinner!" Most of my dates end with me apologizing profusely, but I never really mean it because in my head I am already thinking, "I can't wait to tell the guys about this bon mot!" (yes, I drop French phrases like a pretentious asshole even in my own head)

The problem, of course, is the audience. If only my bros were around, I could get the immediate positive reinforcement I crave rather than having to wait until after I drop off the unappreciative lady at her place.

I bring this up because I am right in the long run, but I don't get the credit I deserve until much later if ever. Example: ToucanSam calls me up while stuck in rush hour traffic. He complains about the lone freeway from north suburbs into the city. I remind him that he spent two years audibly sighing, rolling his eyes, and saying "not this again" when I would complain about Chicago's piss-poor driving infrastructure as he sat in the passenger seat of MY car. Yes, ToucanSam, the view is different from the passenger seat than the driver's seat. Now apologize and mean it.

Or most recently with my OC dawgz when they suggested we try that new burger joint that just opened that's drawing so much attention: Five Guys. I told them that I had tried Five Guys while in Chicago and that it was nowhere near as good as our local In-N-Out, both for taste and for value. Compare the mental notes from recent GCL outtings:



Uru-Swati (2629 W Devon Ave)
- pani puri (hollow balls filled with spicy liquid; complex aftertaste)
- bhel (salad made out of interesting Indian shit)
- papdi chaat (Indian nachos made with slightly different Indian shit, or possibly the same Indian shit prepared differently. I honestly can't tell)
- vada pav (complex potato dumpling in unassuming hamburger guise. The evening's winner)

Sabri Nehari (2502 W. Devon Ave)
- Goat stew (complex broth, good if sparse meat on bones)
- Beef stew (beef falls apart in your fork: good sign. table competes to get the last meat scraps. everyone of course except for Chlodnik, who's pescotarianism continues to be a source of buzzkill in otherwise pleasant dinners)
- some paneer dish in yellow/red curry sauce and chickpeas (this was bomb. ordered extra naan just to sop up last remnants of sauce)

Now here are my mental notes for Five Guys.
- mediocre burger (shrug)
- peanut oil-cooked fries (ehhhh, okay)
- costs twice as much as In-N-Out

OC Dawgz, apology accepted. Especially you, Sunny Hills Homecoming Queen 2000. I'm not like your one year old infant you and hubby so cavalierly leave at home ("uhhh, he's asleep or something.").

Now here's a pan-regional bros on ManDates photo gallery, pictures ordered in an escalating scale of bro-ness.


The Sabri proprietor claimed the wait was only 15 minutes. 20 minutes later we asked someone else and they said it was only going to be 20 minutes. The trio of GCL contributors decided to take our business to Uru.

My OC Dawgz are my consumate bros. I do a lot of things with them that later on with my more "sophisticated" friends I disparage ironically. Will this innate contradiction within Chittlins destroy him? Probably.

Special thanks to Ms. I Am the Law for taking this pic and to her gentleman suitor, Guy I Fell in Love With After He Posted Mid-90s Lakers Highlights on My Wall, for driving me to airport.

Will I continue posting from OC? Possibly. I've been meaning to try an Indian Chinese cuisine place a few blocks from me, and at the Orange International Street Fair I was blown away by my first experience with loukoumades, those Greek honey dipped puffs. Will I find an OC-based adventurous gastronome partner in the mold of ToucanSam or Sizzlenutz? Maybe though they're irreplaceable. Will I find love? Not while the gene that codes for "female" also codes for "no sense of humor."

Piece - Towards Making It Whole

During this period of involuntary extended "vacation" and singlehood, I have found a source of richness that I had been ignoring for a while, mostly because this is not richness in the conventional sense of actually being worth something. I'm talking about friendship. ToucanSam along with life companion Superfrau and a German co-national of hers met me at Piece (1927 W North Ave). Piece has been gravel in my shoes for the last two years, its thin crust pizza and relaxed Bucktown ambiance spoken of in almost reverential tones by pizza cognoscenti as an antidote to the bloated, overly-cheesed Chicago-style. With my time in Chi winding down it was time to pick the gravel out of my shoe (in this case I've been wearing the same pair of canvas boater shoes sans socks for most of summer. Through the power of my Mexican thugness, I have transformed it from WASP to cholo).

The vegetarian pair ordered jalapeño, garlic and artichoke while German co-national and I shared bacon and Italian sausage. Verdict: the pizza definitely contributed to a socially binding evening, but it fell short of expectations. The grease pooling atop the cheese overwhelmed the nicely-executed crust and subtle sauce situation. I will remember the dinner less for the pizza however than for the the lawyer girl hectoring ToucanSam and me to attend a benefit for blind kids at a bar I particularly humbug. She said, "these kids truly have a light that we can't see" to which I said, "yeah, like sonar." Look, I was really proud of my timing...I mean, I came up with that right on the spot. I am my own greatest fan and critic. Wait, that's not true. HR interviewers are my greatest critics.


My opinion for the best pizza in Chicago in the GCL price-range: Cafe Nordstrom (520 N Michigan Ave). The nice decor belies the reasonable value. The coal fired pizzas have superior texture; the crust, sauce, toppings and cheese working in perfect coordination like UCLA Koreans on Modern Warfare 2.



Everytime visitors come to town, there is the imperative to take them to Chicago-style deep dish. Pequod's (2207 N Clybourn Ave) is as good as it gets, which is decent, but still, real thin crust pizza with good sauce and good cheese wins every day, twice a day, like a celebrity in court. Eating Chicago-style has become such a cultural experience however than what I consider the higher-order taste experience has been subsumed to the whims of tourism. Is there a life lesson in that? Probably but the really heavy piano music that I'm listening to as I write this make me only think of depressing ones.

Mariscos Fabulosos - it's not all sunshine and unicorns, but it mostly is

We all need a boost. Sometimes, unemployed and with nothing productive to contribute to society, we route our shirtless jogs through Boystown in the hopes of scoring some catcalls (hey, a compliment of my bod is still a compliment...ask Sizzlenutz how a former collegiate basketball player's appreciation for my weight lifting made my month).

Other times you are trying to build the American dream by coming to the land of opportunity and starting a restaurant catering to the Mexican diaspora. Mariscos Fabulosos (4318 W Fullerton) is located balls-deep in Logan Square, like way past the gentrification frontier. Specializing in sea food cuisine from the coastal Mexican state of Nayarit, Mariscos Fab opened its door in January by a family of native Nayarinos (actually, I have no idea how to refer to the inhabitants of Nayarit). They are trying to build up the buzz of their new enterprise and I'm glad to use this forum to get the word out.


They start you off with a complimentary swordfish ceviche tostada appetizer. It was a competent ceviche (once you've tasted Mo-Chica, all other cevies are categorized as either competent or non-competent), however I failed to translate the proprietress's warning about the accompanying salsa such that poor Chlodnik was reduced to tears by the generous dollop she dropped on her tostada. Even the king-size horchata goblet couldn't put out that fire. I thought that my innate Mexicanhood would protect me from the scorch but my lips burned for the rest of the evening after I Polished off Chlodnik's tostada (that's a pun because Chlodnik is Polish).

I ordered the langostinos (prawns) a la Nayarit while Chlodnik chose the halibut (I forget which style). They were both interesting gasto experiences, with Chlodnik's fillet the winner by far for its complex layering of pre-Colombian taste wisdom.


Of a definitely post-Mayan era was Chlodnik's custom unicorn and rainbow shirt. I suspect that despite her love for independent rock, art openings in transitional neighborhoods, and tortured pale males, Chlodnik's enjoyment of her shirt was non-ironical. At least my enjoyment of it wasn't.

90 Miles Cuban Café – Comparing Oranges to Grapefruits

Fat people leisurely jaywalking really rubs my goat (note: is that a real saying?). I would more readily accept genetic explanations for obesity if only they put a little hustle towards burning off that second Whopper. All I’m saying is your flower-pattern summer muumuu and crocs give you the mobility to hit a brisk trot on the crosswalk so the flow of traffic can continue.

So too with 90 Miles Cuban Café (2540 W Armitage Ave). No, actually that has nothing to do with 90 Miles. I’ve just been testy recently and goober Chicago drivers/pedestrians’ amateur antics have always been a rich source for Chittlins harangues.

90 Miles almost didn’t happen – the décor was too clean and the clientele too bourgeois for Sizzlenutz’s self-satisfaction (read: cultural masturbation). On his way towards 90 Miles he spotted a pair of Cuban places that from street level appeared to have more street credibility. However, since I had just finished my chest wailing bench press sesh with Mumbles, and my protein window was closing fast, we agreed to just sit down.

I ordered the Ropa Vieja sandwich with an empanada de chicharon, while Sizzlenutz settled on the classic Cubano. The meal itself was unremarkable. The place is BYOB and has nice ambiance, so it could be a sugar on the game location to impress an undemanding date. However the prices in person were about $2 higher than online. Big deal? Sorta. Maybe we had okay $6 sandwiches but subpar $9 ones. On the bright side, we ended up walking to those other Cuban places and they ended up being even shlubbier than our choice. I have to believe all things work out for the best.

In any case, the company was more than delightfully complex enough to make up for the food. The differences between men and women makes up the whole of the Western comedy canon, still, Sizzlenutz finds a way to rehash old material into something refreshing. He is very much like a tubby person that gets to the crosswalk, sees that the countdown for the light to change has begun, and, doing a mental calculation, realizes that he won’t make it to the other side at a comfortable waddle without inconveniencing the motorists waiting for him to cross. Like a decent, socially responsible citizen, he therefore waits for the next one. It’s a fine point, to be sure, but one worth noting.