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.

Bird’s Nest – So Obvious; So Right

Whenever guests come to visit my apartment, I struggle about whether I should leave my New Yorker magazines in plain site on the top of the toilet. Visiting ladies, upon using the facilities, could either 1. be impressed by my well-read urbanity or 2. be disgusted by the implied duration of my BMs such that I would have the time to go through 10 dense pages on the emergence of blue grass folk singers in the Ukrainian industrial section.

This is how I feel as I write this review of Bird’s Nest (2500 N Southport). On first glance, it lacks GCL telltales such as location in either a hipster or ethnic neighborhood, non-traditional world cuisine, or gesture-driven ordering interactions with limited-English wait staff.

Lincoln Park is an anathema to some of my closest gastro-chums, noticeably Chlodnik, who requires of her bars and neighborhoods a high ratio of emotionally troubled yet strategically disheveled young men whose heroin addictions serve the functional purpose of helping them squeeze into their skinny jeans [1]. Sorry, Chlodnik, I will stop pigeonholing you as “my artist friend that lives in Logan Square” as soon as it stops being helpful for people to make accurate generalizations about you.
The fare is unapologetically bar food done greasy. They have the best wings in the city, with each of the five sauces equally good on different planes to lead to paralysis by analysis. I favor them in combination with the garlic fries and whichever their cheapest pitcher is for the moment (usually MHL).

As for the wait staff, they are by far the nicest hot waitresses I have ever encountered in any bar. And notice that I said nicest hot and not the other way around, a subtle yet significant distinction. Bird’s Nest made a friend for life when they put the Laker game on at my request in the back room. Sure, it was in the middle of a Sunday afternoon on a slow Chicago sports day, but I have been rebuffed enough times at other locations for similar requests that game must recognize game. Much of the credit goes to Kip the proprietor. He makes a conscious decision to make a locals-friendly environment. On any given night you can see people enjoying a drink while their dog naps at their feet. And no matter how crowded, the girls behind the bar flash you that special smile that makes you feel as special as your mom always told you you are (warning: you will experience pangs of jealousy when you see them do it to another table).

Of course, my love for Bird’s Nest is as much convenience as anything else. Within walking distance of my apartment, their bloody marys have been morning-after salves to a debauched Chittlins on more than one occasion. Bird’s Nest has been the background to many fond memories like the drunken shouting match with a bunch of douchey Midwestern puds for talking too loudly during their trivia night or the drunken shouting match with my douchey Midwestern puddy roommate [2] over objectivity in mainstream media (the only thing more idiotic than our argument was that we gave each other the silent treatment for a month afterwards).

This summer I can’t imagine anything more pleasant than knocking down a couple cold ones watching the World Cup. I’m still not sure whether you can truly review unabashed bar food. No culinary frontiers are pushed. No effort is made to pander towards either the Affliction or the American Apparel crowd [3]. Bird’s Nest: is comfortable with itself, but then again, why shouldn’t it be?

[1] This picture accompanies an article forwarded to me by Chlodnik about how Sizzlenutz and I are to her what PBR and blow are to hipsters. For chuckles I recommend reading the article
[2] Usually on GCL I work to come up with clever nicknames for the friends that make appearances. Samir is such a worthless piece of crap that I can’t even come up with a nickname that encompasses his entire douchebaggery.
[3] People in the know will point out that American Apparel already crested and could probably name more representative brands. That said, for metonymical purposes, it serves.

Tam Popo - Measured Disappointment

As past entries have demonstrated, I take ramen seriously. My girlfriend is right: I do have an Asian fetish… only the playful Oriental minx I crave is soaking in a complex broth, with a dash of bamboo shoots, green onions, bean sprouts and thinly sliced seasoned pork – and for once that’s not an innuendo. If ramen were a person, ramen would have a restraining order against me. I would follow ramen at night from a discrete distance in my tinted Aerostar van. I would read ramen’s mail and hack ramen’s Friendster (look, the ramen I know doesn’t abandon the original social networking tool just because everyone else jumped ship). And if I hurt ramen, it’s only because I love ramen so much, right?

Against this background, you can appreciate the anticipation as I joined super friends and fellow ramen obsessors Sizzlenutz and Chlodnik at Tam Popo (5665 N Lincoln Ave). LTHForum had titillated us with the possibility of great ramen without a drive to the suburbs. I’ve been called an elitist several times, but it’s not a character defect in me that people enjoy flavorless derivative mush like Avatar (and yes, I saw Avatar in 3-D. Shitty character and plot development set to bad acting does not get better just because the moron spectacle-o-meter is set to 11).

What is my point? Despite the wisdom of the crowds, perhaps there is room for elite opinion. I can appreciate Yelp and LTHForum as platforms for democratic opinion exchange. But at GCL there is no deluge of contradicting pronouncements. Once our readers sift through the self loathing and tangential asides that saturate our entries, they’ll see we are purposeful on which restaurants we choose to praise and not praise. It takes more than social inadequacy combined with the annoyingly self-aware diction of a New Yorker subscriber to become a GCL contributor. It requires a spirit of gastro adventurism to enter establishments with less than stellar health ratings in the hopes of a new taste experience.

Tam Popo had so many things going for it – friendly staff with limited command of English, intimate location in a food district known for its East Asian population, high praise from food message boards. Still, other than interesting, almost dessert-like scallop sakura appetizer,
the tanmen and shoyu ramen left these gastronomes less than fulfilled. There was nothing particularly wrong with our ramen, but it lacked the full gusto character we had expected. There was a collective shrug, as when Chlodnik meets my b-friends and says, “they’re just so…nice” in a manner that makes it clear normalcy is a pejorative term in her schema.

Fortunately our solipsistic triangle remained as satisfying as ever. This past winter in Chicago felt just a little bit warmer due in no small part to their company (and also because it actually was warmer, scientifically speaking). Food critiquing is hard…friendship even harder…but making Sizzlenutz giggle while Chlodnik sighs, well that’s just the piano to my Mozart.

But yeah, now that I have a girlfriend I don't really need them that much anymore. Amirite?

Food vs Friends: The Battle that Rages within Sizzlenuts

I, Sizzlenuts, am approaching a crossroads in life. I am a proud resident of Andersonville, and I would argue that the ‘ville is the most prime real estate for comestible consumption in this city. The drag on Clark from a few blocks below Foster to a few blocks above Bryn Mawr has plenty of nice options, including the very reasonably priced fine dining spots Anteprima and Cere’s Table,[1] and the incomparable Pasticceria Natalina.[2] But, that is not what I am talking about.

I am talking about what’s in the immediate surroundings. While it is very easy walking distance to Little Vietnam, it is just a quick bike ride to so much more (including many that have been that favorites of this blog): the Korean of Albany Park, the Thai of Lincoln Square, the Indian & Pakistani of Devon; The Ethiopian of Edgewater. My love for Chicago between 4000 and 6400 North, from the Lake to about Kimball East to West is constantly reaching new heights. My newest love is of the West African food in Uptown. There are a number of places around Broadway between about Montrose and Lawrence. I recently tried two.

The first is BQ Afro Root cuisine, serving up Nigerian fare. The first time I went, I went alone,[3] having just stopped by neighboring Uptown Bikes. I got the yam porridge. This was a delicious, hearty and spicy. They call it “yam” but it is not the same root vegetable we gringos think of. I got a side of spinach that, while nicely spiced, tasted like it was made from frozen. Entrees come with a variety of meats. I got the chicken, goat and fish. All 3 were richly flavored, but tough. One would expect these to be more tender, given the appearance of slow cooking.

Excited about this find, I brought back Chittlins, Chlodnik and Toupee. They were less impressed. And it is true, the meat isn’t great. But, the pattern has been that I am the most critical one, and I was heartened to see that trend reversed.[4]

Of the dishes we got the second trip, there is really only one I’d recommend highly. The egusi with fufu is delicious. Fufu is this pounded yam thing that you tear apart and dip in soups/stews. Egusi is a soup/stew. I don’t really know what’s in it, but I like it. The other dishes were not great. The whole tilapia was pretty good, but not special. The spinach was not nearly as good as the version that I ordered as a side dish the trip before. Flavored very differently, and much more clearly from frozen or canned.

The next restaurant is Grace African, dishing out food from Ghana. Reggae Law Firm has lived in Ghana, knows a lot of the African community in Chicago through the Reggae side of his identify, and highly recommended Grace. RLF, San Antonio Brown and I went there for a very pleasant Sunday lunch. This place is much better than BQ, all around. I had goat meat in peanut butter soup. This was phenomenal. The meat fell apart in your hands, which, are used to eat it. This came with banku, which is very similar to fufu, but more fermented. San Antonio Brown got the “red red,” a platter of delicious fried plantains and bean stew. Reggae Law Firm got tilapia with kenkey. Kenkey is the driest and most fermented of the fufu, banku, and kenkey family. This dish comes with two chutney like sides, one spicy, one primarily fresh chopped tomatoes. Rave reviews all around. This dish is also hand-eaten. You tear a piece of kenkey, fish off the bone, and some of the two chutneys, and you get a mouth full of satisfied desires. I have since gone back with Gregalo; I wanted to get the kenkey for myself, and he got the red red.

Now back to the quandary at hand: my residence in the ‘ville. I love it here. But, as for my social life, this isn’t really where it’s at. Chlodnik, Mixed Signals, Lady Vol, Husband Crispin

Glover[5] and a slew of other friendly art enthusiasts live down in Logan Square. Toupee and I Am The Law live in neighboring Wicker Park. In addition to the source of the crucial-to-my-

sanity-friend-time,[6] Logies and WP is where I actually have, in theory, a chance of finding a mate. Let’s just say in the ‘ville, my Subaru Forrester, and Toucan Sam’s Outback wagon fit

right in. [7] Chlodnik is buying a house, most likely in Logies. I am quite honored to be invited

to be her resident. However, Logies food, outside of a couple of nice places, is all Mexican, and, lesser Mexican to my hometown of Austin, TX (as far as I can tell). So, what do I do: do I choose food or friends?

Luckilly, I’ll have plenty of time to ponder this because (sing along now):

I went downtown to see milady, she stood me up and I stood there waiting.

But it’ll be alright, When The Morning Comes. [8]

---

[1] Cere’s Table is 1 for 1 for taking a girl there and then bedding her. Which is more than I can say for The Bristol in Bucktown.

[2] I don’t want to say too much, but just that this place has also brought me some, even if temporary, success. I won’t say more because I actually want to see this girl again, and if I do, who knows? She might even read this. (who am I kidding? She's never going to read this).

[3] Have I mentioned that I’m a miserable lonely wretch recently? I’m really losing it. I track my mental health by what songs I find myself indentifying with. This week I can’t stop listening to side 1 of the 1973 Hall & Oates LP “Abandoned Luncheonette.” That I think “When the morning comes” is about me, is clearly a new low.

[4] Chittlins claims I only like it out of white guilt.

[5] I don’t think he looks like his namesake at all. Our guy is much better looking. I think he should have been named after James Franco.

[6] Have you ever lived alone in a city where you have very few friends older than 6 months? I’ve done much more exploring of my psyche in the 7 months of living here than with the three dozen or so mushroom and acid trips of my youth.

[7] A few things to note here: 1. I love living near older gay couples. Seeing gay couples on the street makes me happy for some reason. 2. Logies trim is fucking wells grade. Really disappointing. The top-shelf aesthetics of Lady Vol, Chlodnik and Mixed Signals really do not generalize to their local sisters. 3. Luckily, WP is a source of top-shelf trim, as discussed in my review of Big Star, which is still my favorite bar in Chi-town, in case anyone is keeping track.

[8] If you haven't been reading the footnotes, then this part doesn't make any sense. Also, you probably haven't laughed at all.

Udupi Palace - Requiem for our two-year holiday

Did you know commencement is synonymous with beginning? Who was the clown that thought graduation signified a new beginning? Graduation is an event that for all intents and purposes signifies the end to what has been a two-year unpaid vacation, albeit in a city that refuses to acknowledge the arrival of spring. Graduation is a requiem; it is why we wear black and sit through elegiac laments of days past. On June 12th, I for one will be wearing dark sunglasses to hide the tears, and those will not be tears of joy. My sole consolation will not be some certificate signifying a degree completed but an unemployed Chittlins sleeping on my couch.

Our more dedicated readers may have begun to notice the slower pace at Good, Clean Licks this quarter. I would like to blame the health care legislation or even the illegal immigrants in Arizona, but the truth is, Chittlins has a girlfriend. The noose (also know as Coolwhip) hangs heavy. Casually meeting up somewhere for a quick bite now requires advanced scheduling; I suppose I could join them for movie night tonight, but you know what they say, Mexican tamales don’t mix well with Indian chutney.

Speaking of Indian chutney, the GCL entourage descended upon Udupi Palace (2543 W Devon Ave) this week for an evening of South Indian gastro enlightenment. South India is known for its religious tolerance, beautiful geography and India’s Silicon Valley; a visit to Bangalore, the region’s unofficial capital, promises slumdogs, millionaires, and lots of spontaneous Bollywood dancing. At Udipi Palace, expect suburban Indian families and the adventurous gringo. As for the Bollywood dancing, well, no one is going to stop you.

This week was the first time I was able to roll up to a GCL event in my own transportation. That’s right, ToucanSam bought the lesbian favorite, granola guzzling Subaru Impreza Outback Sport. Of course, due to a Chittlins’ scheduling error, 55% Blame and I showed up half an hour before anyone else. We kept ourselves busy chatting over some Dahi Vada and continued ordering appetizers as everyone showed up. The sampler plate itself might as well have been fried along with the random assortment of vegetables it came with. Only the samosa is worth mentioning. Of the other starters, the papdi chaat and dahi vada are well worth ordering; similar in nature, each delivers the yogurt and tamarind sauce combo with panache, one with crispy dough biscuits and the other over a black lentil donut.

Our other guest that evening were Miss Piggy, Uninvited 1st Year, and The Bania of Shaitan. As is customary at Indian restaurants, the Indians ordered for the table. We selected a tasting of South Indian specialties: three dosais, an utthapum, and two rice dishes. The favorites were the special rawa dosai and the besibele bath. The rawa dosai was crispy and paired very well with the coconut chutney. The besibele rice dish on the other hand is a rice daal mixture with peas, carrots, peppers and potatoes resembling a rice stew.

For dessert we were served tales of how The Bania and Miss Piggy met their respective partners. Sweet never tasted so cute. It seems the combination of misdirection and nonchalance is the foundation on which to build today’s successful relationship. Note to Coolwhip: if Chittlins starts to act like he isn’t interested, you’re so in.

From SoKo to LatAm, a GCL forged in fire

Now that I am in possession of a girlfriend, many have wondered whether a food blog conceived of subliminated sexual frustration can survive a fulfilling relationship (note: probs not that fulfilling on her end). Yes, as enjoyable as it is to have ToucanSam berate me while we sit in traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway (btw, a significant achievement in horrible urban planning and asinine civil engineering), GCL might never have happened if I had been able to choose between time with ToucanSam or a special lady. Still, the fuel that drives GCL was never loneliness in and of itself, but rather a larger sense of frustration and helplessness. As a result, with impending graduation and no concrete job prospects, my impotence before the world promises transcendent food blogging.

This week I met up with cognitive science powerhouses Sizzlenutz and Chlodnik to sample the vaunted ramen at Tanpopo. Unfortunately Sizzlenutz did some amateur hour leg work and didn’t bother to check hours of operation – real bush league, amirite? Walking around the Far North Side, Chlodnik pointed out the intriguingly named restaurant, The Money Shot. Needless to say, we knocked that setup out of the park. We decided to try Woo Chon Restaurant (5744 N California Ave) solely on the basis of its strategic location behind a shlubby Korean video store; however, finding a spot with real dolsot bi-bim-bop (hot stone pot-style Korean fried rice) mitigated the anguish of not supping on good ramen in the Chicago city limits. If you’re into K-food, consider yourself duly K-aware. This hidden gem provides genuine Korean cuisine at reasonable lunch prices.


Wednesday the original GCL duo along with Cambridge powerhouse Principal Blackman headed to South Loop in anticipation of a game night at Charades apartment. I have often dismissed the South Loop as a culinary wasteland – high rents and new construction favor mid-brow chain eateries rather than the sort of mom-and-pop independent spots that excite the gastro-venturer. Cafecito (26 E Congress Parkway) goes a long way towards not exactly redeeming but at least assuaging South Loop’s mediocrity. The chimichurri sauce in my choripan could have been a little more playful, but it packed enough zest to maintain my interest. ToucanSam spoke well of the sharpness in his provoletta, and Principal Blackman’s palomilla knocked some of the starch out his stuffy Ivy League cummerbund.

There is something poetic about Chicago institution the Tamale Man – a wandering Johnny Appleseed, only it’s more of a Juan Maiz, if you know what I mean. He might be a marketing genius. His brand would get lost in Pilsen; probably barred from North Side or Wrigleyville; but in frequenting the transitional (read: hipster) neighborhoods of western Chicago such as Logies or Ukrainian Village, he, like a maseca Goldilocks, found the white people niche that was just right to create a new media sensation. I heard about him often enough that when he and his tamale laden cooler were discretely leaving Happy Village (1059 N Wolcott Ave) I knew it was my GCL duty to drop my $5 for his namesake specialty. I can say that like a Mesoamerican Bill Cosby, the proof was indeed in the pork tamale pudding.

I hope that GCL is granted another year to continue its unique brand of food blogging without a safety net. If I put as much effort into my career development as I do into these entries, I would feel like less of a crumbum around my successful and motivated MBA classmates. If I could somehow convince the head of programming for the new, youth-focused Cooking Channel to make a show revolving around GCL, well, that would combine my twin passions for 1) exploring Chicago’s cheap food scene and 2) not holding a real job. I say the only way to atone for the woeful underrepresentation of brown people in broadcast television is to give ToucanSam and me our own show. I can probably scrounge up some vatos locos to march in front of corporate headquarters; ToucanSam’s entourage is like 1.1 billion strong and growing; and Sizzlenutz, well he can probably pull some Hollywood strings at his next Shabbat (wow, was that too Mel Gibson?).

Follow us on our food map

Valois - good for mandates and girlfriend. Or both at the same time

There were no third wheels on this tricycle. On Saturday, Chittlins, Coolwhip and I went to Valois (1518 E 53rd St) for a post-bacchanal pre-mass brunch. Fortunately the venue provides some anonymity making it the perfect place for a morning-after brunch. Also, let’s face it, its in Hyde Park. Who are you going to run into there? Not that anyone in our threesome had anything to hide. (Although the coats and sweaters on Chittlin’s bed might have a different story to tell.)

Before I get to the food, let me back up for a minute. Two weeks ago, Chittlins marked my triumphant return to Chicago by picking me up in his ride and taking Sizzelnuts and I out for a walk on the beach. If we were in a romantic comedy, we would have taken off our sandals, sat on the pier and made fun of people with metal detectors rummaging in the sand. Wait, that’s exactly what we did. We also tossed around the ‘what does it all mean’ discussion and finished off with berating Chittlins for parking the Scion 2 miles from the beach. The rest of the afternoon was lost in a haze of Chittlins one-liners and Lakers basketball.

Back to the food. Valois claims they should be patronized because only there, can you ‘see your food’. Presumably they are referring to the customer’s ability to watch their food being prepared by the 3 short-order chefs. Unfortunately, their intentions here are better than the resulting effect. ‘Seeing your food’ at Valois should be left to those with a stronger stomach than this patron. I don’t mind the occasional misplaced hair or stray eyelash in my food; I just don’t want to see the Eastern European cook from whence it came.

The whole experience starts with the ordering and finishes 10 feet away at the cash register. Between trying to ‘see your food’, navigating the line and answering the 43 questions (“hash browns? toast? brown/white? keep moving, OJ? coffee? butter? sugar?...” ) seeing the cash register is a relief. After that, the Valois experience becomes a Burger King or Arby’s experience. There’s nothing unique about it.

I ordered the Vegetable Omelet with cheese, hash browns, brown toast, an orange juice and a coffee. All under $8. Good, Clean Licks came under budget for once. The hash browns carried the dish; they were pan fried and left a little raw. The cheese tasted like it was in liquid form before it even got to the omelet, that’s an extra that should be avoided. Overall though, there was satisfaction all around. Coolwhip had the pancakes and Chittlins ordered the French toast. And outside, the Hyde Park Coffee Angels were bringing hot Dunkin Donuts coffee to the homeless. It warmed the heart.

Salam - a hummusy bridge to the heart

For our dedicated readers, consisting entirely of people who write this blog and people who appear on this blog, the new installment of GCL has been a long time coming. In my defense I had finals for which I didn’t particularly study for and dates with women that didn’t particularly like me. Procrastination and frustrated courtship are time consuming activities that leave little for self-involved food blogging.


At Chlodnik favorite Salam (4636 N Kedzie Ave) in the heart of Albany Park's Middle Eastern community, the vegetarian selections so overpowered the meat choices that it was criminal…were that disparity personified in a troubled and misunderstood jazz great, it would go by Felonious Monk. The Halal meat dishes were satisfactory; neither breaking new ground nor resetting the scale for Middle Eastern fare. Still the labna, fried cheese, and lentil soup earned a GCL first – a golden marker denoting a Chittlins fave on the GCL food map - solely on the strength of the vegetarian menu. This is of particular accomplishment considering that they neither serve nor allow booze on the premises.

The flavors were layered, though not nearly as complex as our diners’ personal lives, which if they were a food, could only exist as dishes in the nightmare kitchen of depraved, manic genius Thai chef. In her GCL debut, I Am The Law shared a her man troubles in a story that managed to make the emotionally retarded child that resides in the husk of this humble food voyeur seem like a positively well-adjusted understander of women. Any breakup email that starts with, “How was your trip to X? I hope you found the man of your dreams while there!” promises off-the-chart scores on Wow-Even-An-Emotionally-Retarded-Child-Like-Chittlins-Knows-Not-To-Do-That scale. This is of particular accomplishment considering that there has never been a woman that I’ve had a relationship with that hasn’t deserved an apology (“relationship” here defined as anything from a romantic liaison on through sharing an elevator).

Polish night - we're three-dimensional people

The idea for a Polish-themed outing was partially conceived by Sizzlenutz’s proposal to explore something uniquely Chicagoan; and then fully impregnated by Chlodnik’s links to “Pretty Women Contests” at Polish night clubs. GCL newcomers Mixed Signals, Lady Vol, and husband Crispin Glover complemented regulars Sizzlenutz, Chlodnik and Toupee on an evening that promised much and delivered more.

Staropolska Restauracja (3028 N. Milwaukee) in Avondale has recently been refurbished to a castle theme, though there was nothing medieval about the strikingly beautiful émigré waitress who parted the Iron Curtain to my heart. Oh sweet, darling Sylwia…how can I make you understand what you made me feel? Will we enter a Warsaw Pact after someone translates the long, drunken prose preceding my phone number that I scrawled on the napkin? How can I communicate that marrying me will not only provide American papers but also the income potential of a UChicago MBA? Are there any words in any language that could communicate such beautiful convenience?

The second hottest dish after the waiting staff was the actual food. Staropolska’s specials fulfilled the spirit and the law of the GCL mission – the best food in Chicago for under $10. I had expected the drabness of soviet-era architecture bleeding into the food of Central Europe based on my solitary Polish experience at Santa Monica’s moderately well-regarded Warszawa. But the skillful, elegant execution of straight-forward peasant fare with quality ingredients produced a hearty though not bloating meal that ranks high on the all-time GCL list. Staropolska is must-go food destination in Chicago.

Sylwia recommended the Polish Plate –sausage on a bed of sauerkraut, potato pancake with cream, stuffed cabbage, Polish gnocci and a whole bunch of shit I can’t remember but that needless to say makes no accommodation for the starch and carb-averse; Lady Vol ordered the tender, well-seasoned pork chops (if I were to write a blog about Brazilian bikini contests, it would be called “Well Seasoned Chops”); Sizzlenutz’s beef stew in a crepe-like wrapping allowed the natural flavors of the ingredients to mesh without losing their distinction. However, the vegetarians in the group had a much more limited range of choice, but it is their own fault for denying the natural order. This was unapologetically Polish fare for Polish people by Polish people. We accompanied our meal with $4 Zywiec beers, and $3 Polish vodka shots (Zubrowka Bison Grass) that prove vodka can be robust and masculine without the flavor profile of paint thinner. Anyone who orders a mixed drink with decent vodka deserves to be cold cocked by a Stasi spy-catcher (okay, that’s East Germany but no one would have recognized a Bezpieka reference).



After dinner, we rushed to reach our next destination before they started charging cover. Imagine that a 1980s Cuban drug lord was asked to design the interior of a night club for Central Europeans expats. Now take that image and add more mirrored walls, disco balls, laser lights, and fog. Welcome to Jedynka (5616 W Diversey) in Belmont Central. There are many things that can and should be said about Jedynka, but the best testimonial I can provide is that there is now a picture floating around the web that would harpoon any political aspirations I might have….and I consider myself the victim.


The $4 martini specials won us no heteronormative accolades, but they provided enough liquid courage for me to approach three polski princesses at the bar. It being Lent, (or “Post” as they call it), they could neither drink alcohol nor dance with a Latino (that seems awfully specific, right?). In any case, I ordered a round of grapefruit juices and engaged in a broken English conversation about Facebook (drunken scrawl on a napkin: check), the merits of Mexican versus Polish Catholicism, and the Polish affinity for pleather (okay, that last one was made up).


In an evening where we discovered that the guy who would start meditating mid-conversation on a blind date with Mixed Signals was the same alleged sex-offender joining Sizzlenutz and Chlodnik’s lab; when of all the controversial things I say (defending Kobe Bryant is equated with defending rape outside of LA), the one that turned the women folk against me was about how a woman’s fantasy involves a guy listening to her complain about the people at her job; it was driving a drunk Sizzlenutz at 3am that Sizzlenutz encapsulated Polish night better than I ever could: “Look, I’ll say it…we’re three-dimensional fucking people”.


Follow us on our food map

Primo Ciao Ciao - a Södermalm afternoon

I’ve already apologized once (to my diary) so this seems a bit redundant, but here goes – “I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while”. Alright, now for what you’ve all been waiting for, a bonafide ToucanSam GCL post…

Today it was sunny in Stockholm. Since this only happens about once every other week, I try to go outside and generate as much Vitamin D as my sun-deprived body can manage. I decided to pair this experience with a walk through Stockholm's Södermalm neighborhood. Lonely Planet describes it as “Stockholm’s coolest ‘hood, jammed with up-and-coming boutiques … it melds indie cool with old-school Söder shab”. Its as if Stockholm heard ToucanSam was coming and decided to he needed a place to ‘roost’. (that’s the last one, I promise)

My first stop after getting off the T was 6/5/4 (Nytorgsgatan 27), one of the many aforementioned ‘up-and-coming boutiques’. This one attempted to combine a surf shop with designer clothes (think Penguin and Red Collar Project) and a café. Of course I felt a little out of place because my jeans looked more like jeans rather than male leggings but the concept works. If I’m ever in the need of stripped Waldo socks, a longboard and Italian coffee, I know exactly where to go. And now, so do you.

Just down the street from 6/5/4 is Primo Ciao Ciao (Bondegatan 44). Its chalkboard listing the day’s lunch specials included the Bagarens (Baker's) Special vegetarian pizza for 80SEK (~$11.20) with unlimited side salad and bread piqued this food critic’s interest. Apologies for the more than usual number of photos but the restaurant is worth seeing.

I was starting to figure out what made Södermalm different; like 6/5/4, Primo Ciao Ciao was not just a restaurant. It was a mini Italian grocery store that managed to squeeze a deli and the obligatory Italian-made espresso machine all into in a very small area. Your favorite demanding Swedish customer was beginning to get the picture, he needed to start drinking way more expensive Italian coffee.

I sat at the window at the seats meant for parties of one. The pizza arrived just as I was finishing the side salad (in this case side salad is misleading, it was basically cabbage pickled in vinegar and salt). Let me take a moment here and try to describe this pizza in all its pfefferoni (banana pepper) glory. Sure this is no Sarpino’s (627 West Lake Street) or even Piece with their sublime, some might even say pugnacious, hot banana peppers; but I will argue this Bagarens Special should be proud to stand up and announce itself. The rödlök (red onions) combined with artistic splotches of grön pesto (green pesto) and the whole, unadulterated, yet still somehow de-juiced banana peppers made the pizza bold and irresistible.

The whole experience only lasted about 30 minutes because, let’s face it, without a newspaper or book for companionship, sitting at the window ledge can get boring fairly quickly. Plus, there were more combination boutiques to discover…

Hoanh Long will our love last?

I, Sizzlenuts, was under the impression that this blog was a way for Chittlins to capture his co-bloggers hearts. I know I will always play second fiddle to ToucanSam, but still, for these past couple of months I thought this was about us. The way Chittlins would email me to say "we managed to get reservations," when really, he managed to get reservations, made me think of us as a couple. After one outing, we went to Home Depot so we could shop for "our shower-head." It was all so intoxicating. Sure, creating a blog as an excuse to schedule regular dates is finding a cheap loophole in the legalese of dating procedure,[1] but still, that Chittlins did it for me was so charming.

However, as in all my other romances, I have learned it wasn’t about me at all. For you see, as you all surely know, it turns out that this blog is also published in the U 0f C GSB paper. I am quite happy to be read, but I’d be lying if I said my tears weren’t a mix of joy and sadness. I just have to hold my head up and move on.

For this outing, we went to Hoanh Long (6144 N Lincoln Ave), a Vietnamese restaurant claimed to top all my local Argyle favorites. [2] The reliable Chlodnik was of course in attendance. However, we were also joined with the home-wrecking foursome of Teuton, Jewxican, 55% Blame, and MILS.[3] Though, it is hard for me to stay mad at them because they are all so pleasant and nice.

We got a variety of outstanding food. It’s gotten to the point where when I go to a Vietnamese place, I no longer taste a flavor I have never tasted before, but more, find gradations of quality of familiar flavors.[4] And these dishes were some very fine gradations.[5] MILS ordered the pho. I had a little sample of the broth. It is at the very least tied with 888 for my favorite pho broth in town (very nice nutmeg flavor). We ordered some Banh Xeo (a fried crepe filled with shrimp, pork beansprouts). One wraps this up in lettuce and covers it with fish sauce. This was an excellent Banh Xeo. We also got the lemon beef salad. It’s exactly what you would want out of a lemon beef salad.

For the main course, the table shared this tropical flavored fish hot pot, lemongrass chicken, squid sautéed with house special sauce, and a beef dish with I think a different house special sauce. Every dish was exemplary. All balanced the heat with other flavors,
such as the pineapple sweetness of the hot pot, quite well.

I recommend this place highly. I would say that it is my favorite Vietnamese in town simply because we ordered a lot, and all of it was great. It does not seem to be a place where you have to say “oh, get this, but not this.” It’s a rare pleasure to have such free reign.

When it was time to part, Chittlins left with his fellow U of C GSB’ers to enjoy a pleasant night of playing taboo, and breaking my heart.

---

[1] This is similar to that guy on Seinfeld who would purposely lose "loser buys the winner dinner" bets with women. Remember that one?

[2] See the “Whacky Adventures of Sizzlenuts post”

[3] This is an abbreviation for “Miss I love Sharing”

[4] Of course, I’m sure if I went to Vietnam, or found the right place in the states, I could find a completely novel sensory experience

[5] That was a pun, get it?