Big Star: A litte bit of Austin in Chicago

Sizzlenuts here, happy to be a contributor to the GCL, and especially to write about such a fine establishment as Big Star (1531 N Damen Ave). I recently moved to Chicago from Austin, TX. The ATX is a great place, and I miss it. I miss the Mexican food; I miss Country music; and I miss Lone Star beer.[1] However, The Big Star goes a long way towards filling all three of those holes in my heart.

This place pretty much has it all, for realzies. While it’s a chic-hip type bar in design, it’s full of casual, scruffy, friendly, attractive people.[2] A nice contrast to the trendy-type lighting fixtures, on all the tables and bars are the remaining cardboard packs from sixers of Lone Star, with the tubes of salsa in the bottle slots. To top it off, the stereo was playing the sweet sounds of classic Country music at an appropriate volume. It’s like they had me in mind, those charmers.

It is run very efficiently. If you have a party of 4 or more, you can sit at a table. If not, find a spot against which to stand or lean, or pull up a stool to the bar or a counter. You order food from a belle of a bartender, tell her where you are situated, and the food is brought to you. Speaking of the bar, the drink menu has sufficient high-end nice beers and liqs, but also, they offer Platz for 2 bucks and, of course, Lonies for 3 (so we didn’t sample the good stuff).

Of course, all of this would have been nice, but eventually unimportant if the food did not live up. However, given that this place is run by the guy behind The Publican, Avec and Blackbird, I had little doubt that it would. The menu is simple and short. The first half is tacos, a list of about 5. The second half was other stuff; I wasn’t really attending. There were three of us eating: Sizzlenuts, Chittlins and Crooklyn Himself. We ordered a round of tacos. Crooklyn Himself is a vegetarian, and so there was only one option amongst the 5, the poblano. I ordered a braised lamb, and a pastor. Chittlins ordered a pastor and a pork belly. Unfortunately, because at the time I was unaware that we were going to be doing an entry about the place, I took no pics, nor remember all the fixin’s in each taco, but I remember enough to recommend them all.

The taco’s are 2 or 3 dollars. Given the setting, and the renownness of the chef, the quality of the ingredients, that’s exemplary. The tacos came out, and there were small, explaining the price a bit. But, eating four would be a full meal, and you’re still not looking at much money. [3] Chittlins and Crooklyn Himself raved about their tacos. Mine were also excellent. The lamb came out with braising juices in a cup, in which to dip. The lamb was shredded, flavorful, and tender, competitive with the birria plate from Borrego de Oro (my favorite dish at my favorite Mexican place in Austin). In the end, I might score Borrego a notch ahead, but sentimentality might be clouding my judgment. The pastor, however, was better than any in Austin. This sounds like more of a compliment than it is, as Austin’s biggest Mexican weakness is the consistently schlubby pastor. But, Chittlins is from LA, which probably has the world’s best Pastor, and he says that this was just as good. That’s an endorsement.

We left for a bit, going to another bar in search of something that was unclear to me.[4] 90 minutes or so later we came back to the Big Star for more. I ordered a poblano and a pork belly. The poblano was as good as the meats. Basically, it is a wave of sensual, silky creaminess that turns into a burning spice. It is quite hot, but the heat does not take away from the flavor. The pork belly was fatty and good, but you know, it’s pork belly; pork belly is fatty and good. The tacos needed no salsas, so to finish of the evenings consuming,we ordered some chips to act as salsa vessels. The salsas were universally liked.

We left The Big Star for a second time with nothing but positive things to say. Crooklyn Himself was satisfied, knowing that his weekend visit to a flyover state was not in vain. Chittlins felt good about himself, which was good to see given his recent bouts with social-anxiety and depression. And I left feeling a little less homesick.[5]

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[1] The first two are objective; The Mexican and Country is good in Texas. Missing Lone Star beer is purely sentimental; High Life, PBR, etc are all essentially equivalent.

[2] The trim isn’t Austin-grade, but that’s one area that will always be missed.

[3] I fear that such low prices won’t last long. It just opened. The cheap prices will get everyone going there, but maybe 6 months from now, everything goes up a dollar or two. You say “it’s so good, and it’s still pretty cheap.” That’s how they get you. (it should be mentioned I’m cheap, paranoid, and a Jew).

[4] Ok, that’s a lie. Chittlins was on poon patrol.

[5] Of course, live Texas Swing, and attractive girls willing to talk to me would go even further (no one makes ‘em sexier and friendlier than Austin).

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ManDate gets so real at Joy's

I think it was Harper’s Magazine that originally coined the term gastroporn. They were referring to the thin line the Food Network was treading between ‘food as basic necessity’ and ‘food as sensual necessity’. Where do Chittlins and I stand? We’ve pitched our 2-man tent with the latter; all we need now is some peanut sauce and cherries.

On Wednesday, Chittlin’s, myself, Charades, Ms. Piggy, Principal Blackman, four gay friends and Fedora, all met up at Joy’s Noodle & Rice (3257 N. Broadway, BYOB). With all the new faces, the Principal suggested a name game. Unfortunately, this proved too high a hurdle for the group to complete. We got through three whereupon our food arrived and everyone I didn’t know became a blank “Hello my name is …” sticker.

We started off with fried tofu and spring rolls. The cream cheese in the spring roll crept up on me like, well, like cream cheese would in a spring roll. The spring roll was much better off with the sweet & sour peanut sauce we got with the fried tofu than it was with the tamarind sauce in which it was drenched. Regardless, passed around the table, neither plate made it back.

Pair your dish with the libation of your choice. For my neighbor, who’s name now escapes me, real or otherwise, that meant two Miller Lite 40s. I didn’t know Thai food to complement 80 ounces of beer but I sat corrected. He and I both ordered the Penang Curry. I topped mine with vegetables and tofu. The crispy wide rice noodles on which the dish sits (foundationally and formulaically) balanced the dish’s softer tones. Like my Goose Island Mild Winter Ale, the dish ages well. The noodles soak up the curry releasing bursts of cayenne pepper and sweet coconut milk. (hint: gastroporn). Seated to my right, Chittlins was disappointed by both his dish (Green Curry with Chicken and a side of noodles) in relation to mine, and the fact that he was stuck at the end of the table. His noodles were flaccid and the curry looked flat, combining the two he got a disappointing puddle. The curry may have been salvaged with a side of rice, but there’s only so much you can do.

As rest of the party moved on to bigger and better things, Chittlins and I took the long way home to make the night last a little bit longer. My next post will come to you from Stockholm. Table for one.

My final recommendation, at $8 a plate, skip your usual fare and try something new. Joy's is a sensual as it is necessary.

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Cemitas Puebla - A dry, artisinal run

How much weight do you attach to the culinary pronouncements of a grown man dressed like a suburban 12-year old circa 1998? You would think being a 30-something year old decked out in cargo shorts, wrap-around Oakleys, a flaming dice shirt, and platinum bleached locks aggressively spiked for a DragonBallZ convention would disqualify your judgment across a slew of categories.

Well, when you're Mumbles my former roommate, you take a certain amount of pride in your populism. You see, his antagonism towards "the elites" predates Palin, when in the early aughts he felt no one gave him enough credit for wearing faded, form-fitting shirts before the Strokes or American Apparel stormed anti-popular aesthetics.

Incidentally, the Gentile perfection of Mumbles and his partner DiaBetty threw Sizzlenuts for a goyem curve, but he recovered in fine form. One can only imagine how Sizzlenuts would just clean house on J-Date were he ever to concentrate his charm on fellow tribeswomen. Although I will miss ToucanSam during his winter in Sweden, Sizzlenuts brings a similar joie de vivre coupled with a certain Les extrêmes se touchent about him.

The eponymous dish at Cemitas (3619 W North Ave) is your standard torta, only with sesame seed bread encapsulating the avocado, meat, adobo chipotle peppers, fresh Oaxacan cheese and papalo filler. Yelp, the staff, Mr. Fieri; they all recommend the cemita atomica or the cemita milanesa. The atomica has three kinds of pork – milanesa, carne enchilada, and jamón. I feel guilty now for ordering the atomica, a full $3 more than any of the mono-carnal alternatives. Mumbles had to pay for my dinner since he had been foolish enough to make a bench press-related wager with me.

Visually the atomica was pleasing, but in combination the three meats muted each other out. Mumbles’s pastor cemita was far more rollicking while the carne enchilada apart from the cemita had a certain artisanal complexity. Like the 2004 Lakers, the cemita atomica whole was less than the sum of its parts. Looking through the Cemitas Puebla menu, I see several other dishes that fly under the radar, like the chalupas (not like Taco Bell chalupas) or the cecina tacos (don’t buy into the tacos arabes parade, btw).

On the drive back, as I smothered my farts into the seat to avoid rolling down the windows on a chilly December night, I realized I was the richest man of all…just as long as we avoid measures of money, power, and prestige.

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St. Louis - Give me MO'

Back when I was sowing wild oats as a foreign student in Japan, one of our assignments was to write a descriptive essay about American food. My friend chose to write about fresh Krispey Kreme doughnuts. He asked his roommate, a native Japanesian named Kio, how to say “orgasmic” in Japanese, to which Kio suggested “すごいです　ね！ ”, which is the equivalent of, “jeepers, that was awful swell!”

I think about that incident now as I try to translate into words the intense physiological reaction to the half rack at Pappy’s Smokehouse (3106 Olive Street). There’s a reason why this place appeared in Man vs. Food. I could attempt to describe the delicate interplay between the perfectly smoked ribs and 3 different kinds of sauces, and yet words appeal to reason when the appropriate reaction should be something much more guttural:

U-City Grill (6696 Enright Ave) has won local accolades as “St. Louis’s best Korean food,” which is damning with faint praise as much as anything else. Its bulgogi lacked the playfulness of Crisp’s. Still, if you find yourself a long-term resident of STL, and you have to choose between U-City or Qdobo Grill, the bibimbap will satisfy certain East Asian cravings, though probably not the ones that matter most. And on another level, I really enjoyed having a proprietor that makes it clear that our patronage of his establishment is interrupting his TV watching in the back room.

However, not all Asian food in STL needs be qualified as “great…for STL.” Banh Miso #1 (4071 S Grand Blvd), Vietnamese for ‘#1 Sandwich’, would be a gem in any city (if only Banh Miso #1 had been located in LA rather than STL, I can just imagine skinny-jean-clad voyeurs flocking in droves after a canonization from St. Jonathon Gold). The Bun Bo Buong Cha Gio and Salmon Chien alone would make Charley leave his foxhole for the carpet bombing your taste buds will receive (too soon?). Even a week eating every meal there would not suffice to exhaust the treasures at this establishment. And while there, why not take a picture standing next to the picture of the MO governor standing in front of the restaurant?

St. Louis: high crime rate, but a higher taste rate. No. Never mind. That crime rate is pretty high.

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Chicago gets Cole-d, so head to Jimmy's and Nuevo Leon

This week our readers get two reviews for the price of one. Our story starts on Wednesday. After an effervescing Wine Club event at the HPC, the recently engaged couple StarLight and StarBright, WD-40 the social lubricant, and I, all walked over to the Woodlawn Tap (aka Jimmy’s, 1172 E 55th St). There we were joined by Chittlins; he had just completed the Nautilus circuit and was still glossy with sweat. (A word of caution to all our single Catholic women readers that may have a Pavalovian response to any mention of sweat and Chittlins; I’m told the image in your induced hallucination is called a Chittlins-Chalupa. I have no first hand knowledge but I’m fairly certain state laws are broken and it may also involve fantasy characters from the Redwall series – yes, those are warrior mice).

Jimmy’s is your standard neighborhood bar, and by standard I mean awesome. I don’t remember the exact price breakdown, but for $30 (including tip) we picked up a pitcher, a grilled cheese sandwich, large fries, two burgers and an unidentifiable meat sandwich. Our discourse that evening may not have been as erudite as Jimmy’s patrons past (Saul Bellow and Dylan Thomas apparently) or present (current UofC undergrads and neighborhood theologians), but we managed to cover topics such as your standard ‘remake vs. sequel’ debate and the futility of being a Buffalo Bills fan this decade. Neither of which reached a satisfactory conclusion.

Alternatively, if company bores you, pick up a copy of your favorite Bellow bildrungsroman, for me it is The Adventures of Augie March, that great Jewish counterpart to the gentile/atheist Catcher in the Rye, and grab a seat at the bar. You would not be the first, and you will not be alone. Order a Leinenkugel to go with that grilled cheese sandwich and then I dare you to tell me that doesn’t taste great.

If Jimmy’s is the place to go for cheap booze and cheaper food, head to Nuevo Leon (1515 W 18th St) for brilliant Mexican done the way your grandmother might cook it. That is if your grandmother works in a kitchen in Pilsen that primarily serves food tourists and discerning locals. Nuevo Leon is loud, the waiters are unfriendly and broad shouldered, there seems to be an ever-present take-away line that snakes around most of the restaurant, and the neighborhood is slightly out of the way from your average El-rider. But the food, and the three salsas that come with it, makes up for all the inconveniences.

Our companions that evening were the stuffy (nose) Huggy Bear and his counterpoint (and my favorite piece of apparel), Hole-in-my-Sock. The focus was firmly on the food. Upon seating, you are served the house starter (some combination of tortilla, meat and sauce, and looked like a taco) and nachos. I compare Mexican restaurants by the quality of salsa, and Nuevo Leon finishes near the top. I ordered the Tostadas, Hole-in-my-Sock had the Tacos, Huggy Bear the Fajitas Norteñas [Chittlins interjection: the steak fajitas were fit for a fiesta...a Donner fiesta. The meat strips were thick, flavorless chords of flesh], and Chittlins the Milanesa de Res; no one tried the tripe soup.

I can’t speak for the rest, but I knew the tostadas were great when I woke up the next morning and could still taste them lingering somewhere between my taste buds and good memories.

As an homage to Malcolm Gladwell’s critically denounced new book, let me try to connect all the dots into a easily digestible lesson. Righty-tighty, Lefty-loosey. Duh.

Sabai-Dee: changing leaves /changing plans

For Sabai-Dee (5359 N Broadway) I will break the ManDate's format of complaining about my first-world problems before writing about third-world food. Simply put: the Tom Yum Pho is possibly America’s most articulate pho expression (full disclosure: after the server suggested it, I punned “it’s got to be good – it has yum in the name!”). The broth was ambitious, flavorful, and tangy; without the oily aftertaste that typically accompanies pho at such a reasonable price. I usually reserve “ambitious” as one of my many terms for empty wine critiquing (see also my use of “complex”, “earthy”, and basically anything I ever say about wine); today I use it for a dish that fulfilled the exotic mystery of the orient for under $10.

I filed the steamed Lemongrass tilapia under “A” for Ape shit, as in where your taste buds will go once you douse it in the special sauce (I have a complicated archiving system). The pork sausage and veggie dumpling appetizers had an earthy complexity with a clean, almost nutty finish, but the mussels with the house fish sauce created a new touchstone in taste, as well as an interesting segue for Sizzlenuts to explore the divine. The tofu and curry dishes didn’t disappoint but neither did they alter my fundamental conception of humanity’s place in the cosmos.

Judging by the number of antique shops in the Edgewater neighborhood, it could be either the most gay or senior friendly neighborhood in Chicago. I like to think this is where mature gay couples go to raise their non-traditional families and decorate their tastefully arranged converted lofts.

Toupee and Sizzlnuts represented the Chosen Tribe for a second week in a row. We also had the pleasure of the two loveliest flowers in the Northwestern graduate cog-sci department meadow - Chłodnik Litewski (or Chłodnik for short) and Pointers. Certainly there’s a certain amount of how-you-say… “longing” for the intimacy of ManDates past when it was strictly a table for two. Still, ToucanSam has heard enough of me complaining about Chicago infrastructure, the uneven growth rate of fingernails, and how I didn’t want to work at company X anyways for him to feel more than a vague sense of ennui at the prospect of another evening listening to the same.

Is Sabai-Dee truly Laotian or rather a Thai/Vietnamese/Chinese fusion? A mute argument after a mouthful of good pho.

Sultan's Market - does that look red to you?

When life hands you Sizzlenuts and Toupee, go to Sultan’s Market (2057 W North Ave). That’s what Chittlins and I did last night and your favorite gastronomes could not be more pleased. I always know we’re starting off on the right foot when the evening begins with Chittlins wondering whether he has come down with yet another STD. (If there was a conclusion to this line of self-reflection I am unaware). The evening may not have filled my heart like last week but at least this time it filled my belly.

Last night we were joined by two of Chittlins’ friends, both with obscure connections to our host. The plot of our evening was quite simple, two friends are joined by other friends, have food, have drinks, talk about women that exist, talk about women that don’t exist, part ways. To my surprise, those are all the ingredients you need for endless Boston-accent jokes and a realization that Boston-accent jokes never get old.

I’m sure there are a lot of other really good things on the menu but there is really very little reason to stray from the falafel sandwich as your choice of main. Their tag line, not mine, “If its not our falafel, is freakin’ awful”. Fortunately, they are much better at frying chickpeas than they are at rhyming.

For appetizers, the four of us split some spinach pies, baba ghanooj, and zatter bread; one of two reasons to bring friends along to Sultan’s, the other being you’ll need someone to get up and refill the yogurt dip and hot sauce. Baba ghanooj tasted better when it was spelled babaganoush. This one was a bit too creamy and made you forget that it was made of eggplant. Pureed eggplant should taste like pureed eggplant, and that’s not a matter of opinion. Also, I can forgive the lackluster taste of the actual pita since I’m only paying $3.25 for the meal, but I cannot forgive the user-unfriendly trash bins that force me to shove garbage through a pinhole, let alone a restaurant that makes me clean up after myself. This germaphobe was not pleased.

The best part of the food is also the worst part. I ate my falafel sandwich so fast I skipped the climax altogether, going straight from ordering to denouement to clean up. Somewhere in between I remember trying desperately to keep everything together lest it breakapart. The sog spread too quickly.

We couldn’t just let the evening come to end there. The three of us followed Toupee to Rodan (1530 N Milwaukee Ave); the blue mood lighting and low-profile cubist couches had me reaching for my wallet but I was pleasantly surprised to see PBR on the menu. My favorite part of Rodan (really my favorite part of any lounge) was the Windows Media Player-like Visualization projected onto a giant screen. Its sort of like you’re at a rave, but wait, then you realize you can order a maki roll and get a half priced bottle of sake (Wednesday night special). Rave Sushi. I wish I had thought of that. I better watch myself here or this will turn into a lounge review.

As the holidays quickly approach, make Sultan’s Market a priority destination. Nothing says Christmas like Tabboule and Jerusalem Salad.

Isla Pilipina - yes, there's meat in that too

Somewhere between watching a small Filipina girl consume a deep fried pig knuckle the size of her head, and squeezing into Q-size women’s stockings (a not wholly unpleasant experience), I realized ManDates had careened beyond either mine or ToucanSam’s control. What had begun as a straightforward plan to sample Chicago’s Filipino cuisine with a pair of actual Filipinos snowballed into a logistical and scheduling task worthy of our nation’s finest autistics.

But it is only when meals move beyond the purely functional that the power of food to create a socially unifying sensorial experience becomes apparent (holy shit, that would have just won a 7th grade essay contest). Nine people of varying familiarity gathered together at a non-descript strip mall in Lincoln Square; two and a half hours later, a group of friends dispersed, bellies full and the pleasant sensation of an evening well spent.

Isla Pilipina (2501 W Lawrence) is far from the culinary center of the city, but the joy of GoodCleanLicks comes from exploring different areas, expanding our gastronomic chops, and talking shit about other people in classic tribal-binding behavior.

The décor is simple yet intimate, belying the fairly-priced menu. Stop by the adjacent liquor store or bring your own spirits to this BYOB venue.

It is a testament to the generous portions that in a family-style sharing situation; this writer could not muster enough space for the Kare-Kare (ox tail, tripe and green beans in peanut sauce) or the Tortang Talong (eggplant omelet) despite their obvious cultural cache. A fair warning: in a group of well-traveled eaters, only Argentine food was considered less vegetarian friendly. Even the ostensibly vegetarian Pancit Palabok (noodles in tofu sauce made with garlic, egg and onion) contain fish. This set off what I thought was a clever play on pesco-pollo-tarian by saying that I only eat vegetables and Presbyterians (a Presbyterian-tarian). Fortunately Principal Blackman’s humor hurdle rate remains easy to clear.

The Lumpia Shanghai are a generally agreeable if safe appetizer. The Crispy Pata (deep fried pork knuckle) is as much a visual as a gustatory. In my limited Adobo experience, Isla Pilipina’s award for its chicken Adobo is justly deserved. The genuine Filipinos seemed happy with the Dinuguan (chunks of pork served in a blood-based gravy) and the Bicol Express had an aroma and complexity reminiscent of Thai curry.

The Gulaman Sago was outdone only by the sweetness of my dinner companions: Kermit and Miss Piggy shared the deets of their upcoming nuptials; Charades – understated and enjoyable as ever; Uninvited 1st Year a credit to her people; Mr. and Mrs. Pink a pleasant new addition; and Principal Blackman a source of quiet cool.

And of course my partner ToucanSam absorbed the scene, providing running commentary, chuckling in that Bill Cosby-like manner unique to him and Bill Cosby.

The kind people of Isla Pilipina allowed the whole scene to unfold, not pushing us out when the post-dinner conversation stretched past closing hours, or badly time silences coincided with my saying something wholly inappropriate for mixed company. All ManDates have been memorable, but this one had the distinct feeling of a pleasant buzz from good wine. Our earlier foray with Hole-in-My-Sock and Huggy Bear unlocked the possibilities of stepping-out of the pair ManDate format: Isla Pilipina brought it to fruition.

All in all, good food, better company…which says a lot about the company.

Je ne sais Duke's

I like to consider myself an astute observer of the present; as a result, I tend to quickly forget the past. So when I was yelling at Chittlins for his inadequacies at dinner last night, I had already forgotten all the little moments that had led up to my unasked-for intervention. Here’s a guy that waited outside the bar for me while I finished my most recent faceplant off the wagon. He picks me up, boosts my self-esteem, and even laughs at my jokes.

This begs the question, how can I be so insensitive to Chittlins’ uniqueness? Our relationship is complicated. For the reader that needs a visual representation, imaging a tree, one “which moves some to tears of joy [and yet] is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.” In this tree is a nest, and in the nest is an egg. This egg is the consummation of our friendship. So basically, our friendship went out back and had an egg together. Do you see now? So is all forgiven? (Maybe we should make another egg? – A Makeup Egg)

Speaking of egg, Chittlins and I met up with Huggy Bear and Hole-in-my-Sock for dinner at Duke’s (2616 N Clark St) last night. We hadn’t doubled before, but as Chittlins likes to say to his first dates, “if it hurts, just bite down on this pencil” (is that too obscene?). Fortunately, we didn’t need any pencils, besides my obnoxicity, the evening was generally mirthful. If I were to measure the dinner’s success by the number of tater tots my partner picked off my plate as we ate, last night was a resounding hit. For vegetarians, the menu is exhausting, especially if you’re used to only one or two options. Whatever you order, make sure you get it with a side of tater tots. It took some self-control to not dip them in ketchup and throw them across the restaurant. (Middle school hurt, and I have closure issues.)

Hole-in-my-Sock, my vegetarian counterpart, ordered the veggie chili to start followed with a Wahoo Burger. I ordered a PBR to start with a Garbage Burger chaser. I recommend either combination. Huggy Bear and Chittlins went halvesies on their burgers, Breakfast (egg, bacon, je ne sais quois) and Baha. Every burger combo could be made vegetarian (Boca, Mushroom), or you could get it with Beef, Chicken, Pulled Pork and/or something else.

The evening concluded on Huggy Bear’s couch with whiskey and football. When I finally left to go home it was 9pm, all the drinks caught up to me on the bus and I slept from 11th Street all the way to Hyde Park. I will leave you with a final thought, this time from Hayden Carruth (studied at UofC).

“Scrambled eggs and whiskey in the false-dawn light. Chicago, a sweet town, bleak, God knows, but sweet. Sometimes. And weren’t we fine tonight?“

Rajun Cajun – Curry and apology

A California-raised Mexican and an East Coast-raised Indian make strange bedfellows (note: not literally bedfellows), but I think the rapport between ToucanSam and I stems in part from our mutual estrangement to our respective cultures. A light-skinned surfer playing waterpolo in Orange County does not traditionally connote Latino. Similarly Vanderbilt undergrad, albeit in computer science, does not, to use the parlance of Hollywood, “read” Gujarati to me.

Of course, in the testosterone-driven environment of business school, neither of us can display unqualified vulnerability. Case in point: this email reply I received from ToucanSam regarding some editing suggestions I had sent to him earlier:

"I’m not going to read this shit.. Too many words. I love you. I hope it is published. Did I just say I love you? I’m not sure I meant it."

In any case, we settle into a friendship based on, from what I can tell, complaining about people and things - mostly people (sample conversation, “How did ____ land an offer from [prestigious, big name firm]? The guy’s a dumbass! I have lost all respect for [aforementioned prestigious firm]”).

In that spirit, the autumn drizzle set the subdued tone for Thursday evening’s ManDate to Rajun Cajun (1459 E 53rd St). The soft, yellow glow permeating the interior diffused a general sense of wellbeing that made me feel in a “safe space”. I could have curled up on the floor in the fetal position and imagined myself back in the womb. And I did.

I usually avoid food that’s been lying out under heat lamps, but a healthy turnover at Rajun Cajun prevents the unappetizing congealment of foods. ToucanSam opted for the vegetarian platter of dal, saag paneer, samosa and paratha (basically an Indian tortilla, because when all you have is a hammer everything starts to look like a nail). I opted for the butter chicken curry with a side of baigan aloo, samosa and paratha. Both of us got a free snicker bars because it was the eve of some Hindu holiday. The evening almost took an ugly turn when I tried ToucanSam’s saag paneer re-using the same spork from my butter chicken curry (now that’s what I call the omnivore’s dilemma). Fortunately ToucanSam let bygones be bygones in the sense that he still brings it up and will probably continue to do so for the rest of our natural lives.

All in all, as a genuine Indian, ToucanSam gave Rajun Cajun the thumbs up. Last March I traveled to India but since I studiously avoided eating what real Indians eat, I did not earn the requisite cultural cache to make definitive pronouncements.
The food was good given the healthy portions, relatively low price for Indian fare and especially the fact that this as a fusion Indian/American soul food establishment. I was more than satisfied with my meal though ToucanSam’s saag paneer (a spinach and mustard leaf based curry) won this reviewer’s award for the evening. The real saucy dishes at Rajun Cajun however are the proprietors – ah, the joys of interacting with small business owners that don’t bother to learn occidental notions of customer service. I want to emphasize that this is actually a plus on the Rajun Cajun column.

Friendship, like food, comes in different varieties for different tastes. If you are like me, you choose the spice over the bland and accept the risk of being singed.

Life, Love and Happiness

There was a little too much goodness in the air last night. The bite had left Chittlins’ tongue and I’m not quite sure what caused it. For now I’ll blame the weather, I’m afraid of what I might find if I dig too deep. We set the mood for the evening by watching the last hour of Amadeus. You might think seeing Wolfie succumb to consumption would dampen our spirits but there’s just something about Queen of the Night that makes you want to eat Afghan food.

Despite the fact that Masouleh (6653 N Clark) is due north of Chittlins’ place I experienced moments of passenger uncertainty. It could have had to do with the fact that somehow Ashland crossed Ashland and we were not supposed to be on either or we were just entranced by the sheer gall of the guy in front of us and forgot where we were (notice the brake light, it says ‘THE CHIEF’). I’m not sure what made me more upset, that someone would buy that thing or that I was sitting in a car that didn’t have one.

Masouleh is distinct in its innocuousness. And the fact that Chittlins tried to make everything he ordered into some sort of sandwich. The fetish must have some origin but it was left unstated. I had the Mirza Ghasemi (eggplant and egg curry with rice) and my date ordered the Masouleh Kabob (beef and rice). The side of pickled cucumbers added some zest but it wasn’t needed, I had Chittlins. We both got lentil soup starters and Persian tea to finish. I like to think we look like two students just sharing a meal but the jealousy I see in many a passing eye makes me think otherwise. It may be self-serving but I prefer to stare back.

If I had to count, I might have experienced 23 of the 30 or so flavors Chittlins has determined each dish must have; he on the other hand only made it to 15. To conclude, would I recommend it? Would I recommend disco bowling? Do it because it makes you a better person and not because you woke up this morning next to the person you know you’ve become and not the person you hope to be.

Maravillas - the reconquista meets its Alamo

As I write this, I am watching Hitman, a warmed over rehash of convoluted cliches - an apt parallel for Mexican food in Chicago. Growing up in California, mexican food is taken for granted. Though it falls short of the source material, the underlying essence, or what the french dubbed, "l'essence" remains. LA's taco trucks alone caused a legal and regulatory raucous due to their criminal deliciousness (sidenote: if I were a 15-yr old teeny bopper sensation a la Miley Cyrus, my first album would be called Criminal Deliciousness and I would be on the cover in a skimpy sailor suit and pigtails).

This week ToucanSam suggested Maravillas Restaurant in Hyde Park (5506 S. Lake Park Ave), less so for the food than the opportunity to rape the language of Cervantes and Octavio Paz with his gabacho pronunciation.

I have to compliment Maravillas on service. Friendly waiters refilled our water promptly, we got extra chips on demand, and the server was a sport about posing for pictures.



Unfortunately the colorful ambiance could not seep into the bland food. I ordered carne asada and chorizo sopes, ToucanSam got vegetarian tostadas; other than the consistency of the corn-based carb, I would venture that there was little difference between our gustatory experiences: same heat-lamp congealed refried beans, overly generous portion of lettuce, and a smattering of tasteless white cheese (generic mozzarella instead of crumbly queso fresco?) topped with sour cream (note: I had specifically ordered sour cream on the side). A heapin' of sour cream is a giveaway that the kitchen does not have confidence in the dish and hopes the eater will accept an abundance of toppings for a dearth of spice. I couldn't tell you which was chorizo or carne asada by taste. All in all, I was overwhelmed by the mediocrity of my food.

Unlike the meal however, the conversation was complex and ambitious, switching from a discussion of Paul Krugman's New York Magazine article on efficient market theory, to my colorful and delightful impressions (ToucanSam's response: "you sound like a raspy, throaty geisha"), to ToucanSam's passionate insistence that we watch 500 Days of Summer on our next ManDate. If we were a reality show, Toucan and I most resemble The Hills with our breezy chats, who's-with-whom drama gossip, and our trend-setting fashion forward sense of style.


Conclusion: an acceptable choice for the untrained palates of the Midwest, taking no chances and asking for none. Inarguably low prices, adequate quantities, friendly staff, and comfortable setting.
For the more demanding, Pilsen neighborhood supposedly more 'authentic', but my experience has not borne this out. The search for interesting Mexican food in Chicago continues. Suggestions?

Friday night at Crisp

If you are given the choice between staying home to watch the Numb3rs season premier or grabbing a beefed up bimbimbop at Crisp – I would recommended putting on your best regular-guy polo shirt along with your Air Jordan Pumps (retro is back) and heading over to Crisp (2940 N Broadway) .

Lincoln Park, especially North Broadway demands a little more and a little less at the same time. For that evening I chose a chipper ‘Summer’s Over’ attitude that had been serving me well for the past few days but I came across an ‘Angry Man – old lady just ran over my foot with her tricycle’ attitude that I might want to try out next time. It turns out cursing at old people in foreign languages is far more satisfying.

Chittlins showed up late so I had to improvise when I got there. I wanted to take my critique seriously so I started testing out the confortability of some of the wooden benches when I began to get looks. Crisp went with the communal sitting concept, which is great except its communal. If you’re lucky you’ll get the bench partners we did and they will spend the entire time it takes you to eat to decide what they want to order. They will look at your food and point commenting on how they think they may like your order but without the carrots because carrots are for rabbits and they would add more egg and tofu because they need the protein, they’ve been working out recently and need to double their daily intake and … f’ing Lincoln Park.

Sorry, got carried away. Chittlins finally rocked up in what I gathered was a new O’neill hoodie; it still had that pre-wash sheen. It’s the type of anonymous apparel you see guys wearing when they walk out of the theater after watching Julia & Julia on their own. I never did get a reason for his tardiness. [NOTE FROM CHITTLINS: I HAVE THE TEXT FROM TOUCANSAM THAT HE WOULD BE THERE AT 7pm...HE ARRIVED AT 6:45pm. I ARRIVED AT 7:05pm. IT IS DIFFICULT TO SEE WHICH WAY THE BLAME ARROW POINTS IN THIS CASE] We ordered. I got the Original Bad Boy Buddha with Organic Brown Rice and Tofu. It came back all covered in Sesame seeds. I hate Sesame seeds. Why don’t people put that on the menu? Sesame seeds are like Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons, tasteless.

I’ve always had bimbimbop that is served unreasonably hot, this one is served cold, as if it is a brown rice salad. Despite my complaints, it’s a solid vegetarian option. The debate however continues, do you mix a bimbimbop or eat it by vegetable? Chittlins ordered the Seoul Sensation burrito and a side of Myon’s Kimchi. The burrito was had without too much comment so I’ll take that as a recommendation. It was also not the first time Chittlins had been to Crisp and had the Korean burrito. As for the Kimchi, it is apparently good enough you’d want to eat it off the sidewalk. Walking home Chittlins tripped over a leaf and dropped his plastic container of homemade Kimchi on the sidewalk. After having to pull out and throw away at least one piece of cabbage that leaked out, my friend couldn’t bring himself to throwing out more. So it ended up where so many other rotten cabbages have…

Jibarito - Puerto Rican for "Is that deep fried plantain for bread?"

Driving down Division Ave in Chicago's Humboldt Park neighborhood, you make a special detour from America to If-Lou-Dobbs-Saw-This-His-Pumpkin-Head-Would-Explode-ville.


Many things have been said about Puerto Ricans, but never 'understated.'
The jibarito is a Chicago specialty imported by the Borinquen Restaurant from Puerto Rico in the 1990s. The main ingredients are deep fried plantains, garlic, meat, garlic, lettuce, garlic, garlic mayonnaise, garlic, some sort of meat, garlic, and also an understated hint of garlic to bring out the subtle dashes of garlic.
Needless to say, this is a date meal, or better yet, a pre-date meal.

ToucanSam and I went to the original Borinquen Restaurant on California Blvd. If I recall the way I got us lost on that trip was taking the 90/94 Dan Ryan heading East instead of West, because clearly a freeway going North/South should be labeled as East/West. And also, as points of reference it should use states no one goes to (to go get to Division, should we head East on the Dan Ryan towards Indiana, or West towards Wisconsin?).

In any case, the fried plantains are a telenovela in your mouth. Talk about garlic infused: garlic took these plantains out back, got them pregnant, married them to save face in a small town, and now they live in the basement of garlic’s parents’ house to save money until garlic’s band takes off.

The classic steak filler left this reviewer cold, however. For $6, I guess I wasn’t expecting beer-fed and massaged kobe beef pounded to tender perfection, but, crap on bicycle, how about using the cows that can make the walk up the plank to the slaughterhouse?

Doing more research I came upon Papa’s Cache Sabroso. The first time we tried to get to Papa’s it was closed. Sullen, we ended up at some bourgeoisie nightclub that served an overpriced jibaritos platter that was awful. Jibaritos are like Mexican food: if you pay more than $8, it’s not going to be good (incidentally, the same cannot be said for peep shows down Khaosan Road in Bangkok).

The day we finally tasted Papa's, some kid was blasting Sponge Bob Squarepants full volume in the corner television right above our heads. If we had had something to talk about this might have been an inconvenience. Traditionally, a jibarito is made with steak, but at Papa’s, the slow-roasted chicken took my taste buds, slapped them across the face, twisted their arm till they called 'uncle', took their milk money, and sent them home a disheveled mess. In a good way. You’ll have to take my word about the chicken since ToucanSam is a vegetarian; his jibarito was a bit more passive. The garlic and plantains started off strong, but the finish was all lettuce. Its always a bit disappointing when you go in expecting a Menage a trois but end up instead with a greasy garlic sandwich. At some point, the owners, presumably the grandparents, asked the kid to turn down the TV. For some reason, at that moment everything just felt right.

Conclusion: pay your respects to the originator at the Borinquen, but go to Papa’s for the fillings. And the side rice will not be good at either place so just go for the white rice with beans.