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.