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.