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.